Fic: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show
Happy Birthday, Bilbo and Frodo!
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Third - Late Afternoon (23/?)
Summary: In which the Show winds toward its inevitable end but Sam's thoughts tend more to a beginning
Rating: A (for Anticipatory; and Again. But the Schmoop starts in the next - I promise!)
A/N: For those who also read S/E, chapter 28 of The Heart of Ciara was also a Birthday post: The Duel
And, yes - in Poultry Showing circles, there really is a class - and therefore the possibility of a trophy - as noted
The Presentation table was laden and waiting already on the far side of the Show-ring - several tables together, in fact, since GAFFS was almost excessively endowed with trophies to bestow upon its most successful competitors. The nearer longside of the ring was well-lined already with hobbits awaiting the spectacle, every seating bale laden to the full. Along the two shorter edges they were rapidly filling, though the trek to reach the far side meant there were plenty of seats for those with the energy to reach them. Sam set off at an amble, purposeful but unhurried, exchanging a word here and there with hobbits he knew that were already seated. By the time he staked a dual claim on a bale right by the tables, the judges had arrived in a group to take the proper seats provided for them - Mr Bilbo with his fellows but Frodo electing, as promised, to sit with Sam.
The exhibits and their owners had obviously been ready and waiting for some time - a confused mêlée of hobbits and animals, all milling and fidgeting with boredom just beyond the entrance. No sooner were the judges seated, the last word of the Show Secretary’s welcome still echoing in her megaphone, than the first of them spilled forward - only to withdraw again, being temporarily out of their proper order. All controllable livestock was paraded by kind - driven, led or ridden; all sporting their rosettes of red or blue, yellow or green on bridle, harness or whatever vantage point was both convenient and safe; rosettes being often, if mistakenly, believed to be tasty, particularly by the caprine contingent.
The display was always led by the cattle section; for the most part, the beasts processed majestically, taking little notice of the bustle around them; only the calves seemed to show much interest in the noisy crowd and the unaccustomed smell of animals strange to them. The goats that followed them were often quite skittish on their leads - a few of the kids positively acrobatic. All were pleased to be out of their confining pens and hoping to find more interesting food if possible; however juicy cut grass may be, it lacked the variety of browsing they craved. Small groups of sheep trotted dimly along, held in expert check by self-important dogs whose tongues lolled a laugh at their silly charges. Behind them ponies of all the different Shire types and breeds walked in an elegantly well-schooled manner that proved their training. Many of them made it abundantly clear - in a toss of the head or a swish of tail - that this snail’s pace was beneath their abilities; just give them an open road or a spacious heath, their fidgets seemed to say, and they would be away with the wind.
It was not thought wise to parade the pigs - pigs having minds of their own and a stubborn porker more than able to out-balk even the most contrary of hobbits. Besides which, piglets were born possessed of scattering abilities that had to be seen to be believed - and preferably not experienced. No-one wanted to get that hot and bothered on this last afternoon, what with the feast and the dancing to come. The pig-herders paraded in a group, however, wearing the appropriate rosettes, for there were still trophies to be received, albeit that the true winners remained comfortably ensconced in their beds of deep straw.
Exhibitors and exhibits circled the perimeter of the ring until they came up to the tables, pausing there for the winners to receive from their section judges one - or sometimes more - of the wide and glittering array of GAFFS’ Perpetual Trophies. Beyond the honouring superior examples within each individual breed type, there were many more specific awards for each category, from Best Sow with Litter (thankfully absent from proceedings, as noted), through Most Promising Colt, to Champion Steer; from Goat with the Highest Milk Yield to Plough-Hobbit of the Year, from Most Attractive Tradeshobbit’s Turnout to Best Hard Feather Cock. There were few excellences involving livestock, farming and the land that were not recognised here in tangible - if purely annual - form.
There were always… incidents, of course - as unlooked for as unplanned, but often adding pleasantly to the spectacle and sometimes enlivening proceedings quite considerably (if perhaps not altogether desirably at times). The innocent provider this year was Norden Haslow, a smallholder who hadn’t but the one cow that he tethered along the lanes and on the local common. She produced milk and butter to spare, that could be sold to neighbours and at market, too, alongside the fruits and vegetables Norden grew. Molly’s contribution to the budget of a growing family was inestimable, and she was pampered and cared for as one with them. Unfortunately, being an only cow, she was granted just a single, almost annual, close acquaintance with the male of her species; an appointment that was due very soon, but that she had brought forward, it seemed, under the influence of at least one of the several splendid specimens present today.
As Norden led her into the ring - a green, fourth prize rosette proudly displayed on her bridle - it was unfortunate also that she came within sight and scent of Humph, the Oldacres’ Darkster bull. He was instantly smitten - his entry into the ring being a good deal faster and considerably less controlled than any. Wil Baffin - spouse to Aster Oldacre-as-was - clung valiantly to the lead clipped onto his nose-ring, but that discomfort seemed completely irrelevant to the normally tractable bull as he advanced upon Molly, his equipment fully in evidence and quite obviously at the ready. She was equally smitten by his charms, and more than receptive to his attentions; matters were swiftly concluded - most satisfactorily, it seemed, upon either part.
Reactions varied amongst the watching crowd. Older hobbits tutted, that the beast should not have been kept under better control, though tween lads merely laughed aloud, cheering on Humph’s efforts. Very young hobbits asked awkward questions of their parents, whilst unmarried lasses blushed becomingly and turned aside from the shocking sight. Several of the less worldly maiden aunts fainted clean away, and had to be revived with smelling salts (or tots of brandy, sent for from the beer tent), according to their constitutions). And Sam’s face weren’t the only place he could feel a spreading warmth neither, though he only cleared his throat and made sure not to look at Frodo, at least until the act was concluded and the participants separated - Humph to resume his proper place in the now somewhat straggled line of cattle, Molly being withdrawn in order to recover from her experience (and also to avoid her attractions inflaming the passions of any other of the bulls in the Parade).
Not looking at Frodo, though, was even more of a problem than usual just now, even before Humph’s rousing assault upon Molly’s virtue; from the very minute, in fact, that he approached the bale where Sam was saving a space for him. Sam’s breath had caught and his mouth fell open - for Mr Bilbo had brought the blue velvet coat that featured in so many of Sam’s fantasies; that became Frodo like no other. And Frodo had washed more than just his hands while he was away. Tendrils of hair still clung darkly to his face and neck - sleek and wet and black; wisps whose touch Sam had learned already, these past days. A touch that was no touch at all shivered through him then, hope and anticipation in one.
Since he must wear a jacket, Frodo had abandoned as too warm the waistcoat he’d worn each day - matching Sam in style if Sam could never match him in quality; and he’d put on a clean shirt - one so fine and light it was tinted into warmth by the creamy pale of Frodo’s skin beneath. Sam only came back to the proprieties of time and place when Frodo reached out a finger - gently but discreetly, to say how fast the bales around them were filling with spectators of everything that transpired - pushing up his chin to close his mouth. And he smiled at Sam, almost shyly, as he settled beside him on their bale.
Sam was very aware of Frodo’s warmth at his side, and of the way, whenever his eyes strayed from events within the ring, the light seemed to ripple shadows across the velvet with each slightest move that Frodo made, with every breath he took. But bales were being shared (quite cosily, in places) all around the ring, and other eyes must also stray at times; it really was nobody else’s business what effect sharing this one with Frodo Baggins may have upon Samwise Gamgee, and so Sam fixed his mind with renewed determination upon the passing cavalcade.
He applauded with the crowd as a now positively mellow Humph led the Darkster contingent to the table. If Wil’s clutch upon the lead rope still looked a trifle strained, it was only to be expected; but he was quite able to spare a hand for the trophy that the tweens, at least, seemed to consider - and vociferously - the bull had earned in more ways than one.
By the looks of it, Netherfold Farm was as well represented here as ever, with the Oldacre family stretched to its limits across the Show-ring, their stock having taken rosettes in all of the categories and most of the classes in which they were entered. They’d needed to call upon a number of friends and relatives to help display the evidence of just how successful they had been. A ripple of laughter was passed along the bales at sight of young Eskey Baffin - Wil and Aster’s eldest, though still not yet ten years old. Chest puffed out bravely, he headed the parade of pig-herders, showing off the tricoloured rosette that announced him - or Biddy, at least - to be adjudged Best Darkshire Sow. Til was in the ring, of course, but marching far back in line, with Meg amidst the other finalists of the Sheepdog Trials; ready to cheer as loudly as the rest when Shepherd Tidmarsh and Bob stepped up to receive the huge and gleaming Champion’s trophy. He’d had to forego showing off Dol in her third prize rosette; Sam was both surprised and pleased to realise the hobbit to whom the task had fallen was Rafe Boswell; he and old Bill must have made short work of closing up the stall satisfactorily. More composed now, he nudged Frodo in case he should not have noticed; he had, of course, and answered with a nod and a pleased grin.
When the contingent of goatkeepers and their charges approached the tables, Bilbo rose and nodded to Frodo, who turned to Sam with a grimace that was half a smile. It said quite clearly (to Sam, at least) Duty calls - but I'll be back as soon as ever I can! Disposal of the many trophies quickly took up a smoothly efficient rhythm. The secretary employed her megaphone to announce the award and the name of the winner, as she pointed out the correct one to Frodo. He brought it to his uncle’s side just as the ritual handshake began, and Bilbo made the actual presentation to each delighted exhibitor.
One of the very last to be presented was the friendly little golden lass Sam had met and fallen for. Amidst the trophies for Champions of each breed, for milk yields, for the best in each category and in the entire goat show, was one that allowed for a more personal selection. The Goat the Judge Would Most Like to Take Home may not be one of the more prestigious awards in the opinion of the goat-keeping fraternity at large, but to Sam it was the most desirable accolade any goat could win. He wondered if it had been Mr Bilbo’s choice alone, or if Frodo had had a say - and if so, whether his own little conversation with the blonde beauty may have influenced his opinion. It was Frodo who presented the award to her delighted owner, so perhaps it had, and Frodo’s grin - when, task completed, he returned to his seat - simply confirmed Sam’s guess.
Settling back into place once more, Frodo slid his left hand down in the small space between them, as if to curl his fingers over the edge of the bale. Without turning his head, Sam peered sideways at him, only to find Frodo peering back at him - a glance that was just as sidelong but with a wholly different smile now curving discreetly at the corner of his mouth. Sam edged his right hand carefully down to where Frodo’s waited, as much relieved as elated, when it turned upward to meet his, threading their fingers together. Watching was so much more enjoyable this way, with Sam’s thumb gently caressing the back of Frodo’s hand; and, after all, not every hobbit spectator clapped as the parade passed by.
This was more than the holding of Frodo’s hand in the shadowy reaches of a tent to watch the Little Show, more even than sitting so close by him at the furthest and least regarded end of the fringe of spectators at the Sheepdog final. This was sitting by the Show-ring at the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show with half the hobbits in the Shire keenly watching every single thing that happened here today, and most especially what occurred at or near the Trophy table - right next to which, he and Frodo were sitting. They weren’t on the side where they’d be shielded from the general view by a constant jostle of exhibitors impatiently awaiting their dues, neither, for Sam had chosen the other, knowing from experience they’d see a deal more from there. Moreover, Mr Bilbo was sitting just in front of them, barely an ell away, and it weren’t easy to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that he’d eyes in the back of his head. Sam could dare no more than handholding, with that piercing (if imaginary) gaze upon him. He thought it lucky, now, that Frodo had taken his nap earlier - nestled cosily against Sam’s thigh as he’d been.
Following the individual livestock awards came the tradeshobbits in their vehicles. Strictly speaking, most of them had little connection with livestock, beyond their use of ponies, but their inclusion added spectacle and variety to the proceedings - and (mostly) generous donations to the GAFFS funding. Almost every business that owned a conveyance worth the looking at was entered at the Show, and even those who had won not a thing found it expedient to extend the spectacle on this last afternoon, bringing his or her emporium or service to the attention of a captive audience.
Both the first and second prize-winning turnouts were drawn by black ponies, but there the similarity ended. The pair that pulled the funeral carriage was finely matched, all dished faces, neat flanks and slender legs. The gloss of sunshine on their coats was rivalled in the lustre of silver on well-polished harness, and every inch of the carriage itself was burnished to a gleam. Art Goodbody catered to deceased gentlehobbits of the West Farthing, and brought an imposing presence to the proceedings both there and here; coat as black and linens as white, reins primly held in black-gloved hands, all was fully as solemn as if he really were conducting one of the departed to his or her last resting place. But Deelan, both son and apprentice, was barely out of his tweens; in the absence of a corpse he was quite prepared to forget his funeral face and wave happily to the friends and neighbours who watched the stately procession.
The coffin rest, that might have been thought to put something of a damper on the afternoon, was topped now with huge and riotously colourful flowers, fashioned from crepe paper. Such deliberate gaiety contrived to counter any such gloomy reminder upon so joyful an occasion. The overall effect was of a person, dour and unyielding, who had decided on a whim to attempt the notion of fun; finding it sufficiently acceptable for the moment, though determined upon a return to normal as soon as circumstance should allow. But Mr Goodbody’s impressive ensemble fully deserved the second place it had won, and he wore the blue rosette upon his coat with much satisfaction.
First prize, the red rosette and a truly imposing trophy had, however, been awarded to a far less splendid, far more homely effort. The team of ponies that drew the heavy coal wagon were of a sturdier make - all strong shoulders and glossy, well-rounded rumps - their shaggy legs washed and combed out to the same nicety as their masters’ feet could show today.
Many a householder barely recognised the sturdy coal-heaver he or she must have met with regularity through the winter. Each face was scrubbed to a veritable shine, each body clad in the wearer’s best, but sporting also his - equally well-scrubbed - apron and cap; the latter’s protective drape now keeping sun rather than coal dust from the back of his neck. The wagon was quite clearly newly painted, a practical black for the most part, but with the wheels picked out in red and cream for the occasion. The team’s harness bore plumes and plaited ribbons today, their colours echoed in the brightly ubiquitous crepe paper flowers - smaller, here, but equally effective in bringing a festive air to a working conveyance. Even the chunks of dwarf-bought coal that peeped from the tops of brand new canvas sacks - even they were washed and polished till they reflected sunlight like some darkly exotic, precious stone. Sam and Frodo were not the only hobbits to approve the judges’ recognition of the extent of care and effort here, set into the transformation of an everyday sight to a thing of beauty that was worth the looking at. Most of the audience showed their appreciation in the clapping of their own hands together, of course, rather than a silent squeeze of one to another, and a quietly shared smile.
In third place rode Tilsom Oldacre senior, best coat much in evidence - not least from the aroma of mothball it diffused so generously; his workaday breeches being conveniently concealed from view since he sat to drive. The same grey mare had drawn that same milk float around Hobbiton and Bywater for more years than Sam could remember. Bluebell knew each stop and start as well as or better than her master, her pace notably quicker on the way to those homes where the mistress or her offspring might be relied upon to offer such small treats as a hard-working pony would most appreciate. Old Til had been heard to claim - after the rare indulgence of a gill or two at the Ivy Bush - that if only she’d grow hands, he could leave the milk round to Bluebell each morning, and maybe lie abed longer than a farmer could otherwise afford. He derived considerably less satisfaction from the customary replacement, during her periodic absences from duty in pursuit of maternal engagement elsewhere; the bay gelding was somewhat less intelligent, and altogether less cooperative. Bluebell’s bridle sported the yellow, third rosette - on the side the crowd would see, of course - its colour rivalled by the warmer gleam of brass banding the great wooden churns that brought milk daily to the doorsteps of local homes.
Many another trap, cart or wagon followed the prize winners, bearing clear evidence of the love and care that had gone into their cleaning and sometimes quite fanciful decoration. The Sandyman wagon was by comparison a slovenly affair, the miller’s white apron put to shame by the colour of the finest flour ground from the generous sheaves with which the wagon was mostly draped - sheaves bein’ lighter to shift than full sacks, Sam thought, when it’d be Ted as had the carryin’ of them. He was considering whether he may be just a trifle biased in the matter when a nudge of arm and the doubting twist of Frodo’s mouth said that, if so, he was not the only one.
The ring began at last to empty of animals and vehicles of all kinds, and the hobbit with the truly impressive vocal capacity came forward and roared, ‘AND FINALLY…’ into the Secretary’s megaphone.
The crowd seemed to thicken on the instant, as hobbits young and old appeared from every corner of the Showground - Rides, stalls and even refreshments all forgotten for the moment. Not every hobbit had a friend or relative who tended livestock, and many lacked sufficient interest to sit through what admittedly became a long-drawn ceremony; but almost all had a youngster or ten within their extended family who had competed in the Show this year.
The timing of the Junior Parade and Prize-giving was deliberate; it assembled the stray offspring who had disappeared during the course of the afternoon, so they might be fed and watered and suitably disposed before the evening’s festivities began. Also, it helped ensure the rosettes given out so generously here might survive long enough to be shown off, and thus to be taken home, either tonight or tomorrow. With families as big as they so often were, there were classes at the show for hobbits of all ages, many of the junior categories being the same as those in which their parents also competed. But there had been races organised for them too, on this last day, so those with few skills in the kitchen or at handicrafts as yet, might have the chance to show off their prowess in running or leaping, or the balance needed to race within a sack, or with one leg tied to a friend’s.
All but the very youngest took part in a class of one kind or another, as clearly evidenced by the white rosettes - announcing Competitor 1400 in bold black letters - worn so proudly on small chests everywhere. The accolade of a coloured, prize-winning rosette may elude most of them, but a competitor’s rosette was earned by the entering of a class, and that also was a matter for pride; a truly industrious lad or lass might seem to wear a waistcoat of them. Cups and trophies, of course, could be only for the few, but every single entrant had this chance to march proudly around the Show-ring, smiling and waving to the parents, friends and relatives who cheered them on.
The final presentations of the afternoon were received by the entrants in the Junior Fancy Dress Competition. Having failed to discover Bilbo in time, Mistress Broadbottom had clearly inveigled Mr Roderic Underwood into that office instead, for he was to present the trophies. Sam was expecting the squeeze of hand from Frodo and returned it with a broad grin. Neither of them took his eyes from events in the ring, but the words just retribution hovered unspoken in the air between them.
Within the ranks of the more prosaically fashioned junior Quick Post runners, milkmaids, and shirriffs on display, walked more fanciful creations: clowns - the notion borrowed, but creatively embroidered, from the Little Show; princesses and worryingly-masked goblins; the odd wizard in his father’s grey dressing gown and bearing at least a passing resemblance to Gandalf. There were animals, too, often requiring the cooperation of more than a single hobbit. One little lad bore on his head a mask that rose into a truly impressive rack of antlers, painstakingly constructed of strips of old copies of the Hobbiton Advertiser & Bywater Times flour-and-water-glued in layers, braced upward by small but well-shaped branches. His body was swathed in the brown blanket stretched to also cover the mostly invisible friend or brother who supplied the nether half of the deer. Another pair emulated a white-spotted bull in similar fashion; Sam couldn’t help but hope their mother had agreed to that amount of whitewash on one of her good blankets. Clearly, going by the grumbles and squabbles escaping from mask and cover, playing the back half of anything was far less fun than the front; and all the poking and squirming quite disrupted the illusion.
Sam hoped most sincerely that he would never have the judging of so disparate a collection of costumes - worse even than the setting of one real animal’s good points against another’s; with the livestock, at least, there would be fewer hurt feelings amongst the vanquished - and fewer relatives in attendance to take umbrage at imagined slight.
Having afforded the audience time to register, in time-honoured if somewhat raucous fashion, their approval of the variety of beings and occupations paraded before them, the three winners of the different age levels were summoned before the table, where Mr Underwood awaited them. The trophies were bestowed at last upon a diminutive duckling, almost riotously yellow in a fuzz of crepe paper (no older but somewhat less prone to ‘accident’ than Master Pippin, Sam noted); a prettily gracious princess; and a highly padded and naughtily accurate replica of His Worship the Mayor.
Then, with a huge grin of appreciation, Will Whitfoot himself rose up to declare the end of the afternoon’s ceremonies. He thanked the participants old and young, whatever their contribution to the afternoon’s spectacle; bestowed compliments generously - and most particularly upon those whose hard work behind the scenes made such spectacle possible; and chucked young Mel under what chin he could find, beneath all the padding, to show there were no hard feelings. Moving swiftly to more pressing matters, he pointed out (rather redundantly) that it was teatime already. He was not the only hobbit whose eyes were glistening - and stomach rumbling - at the aroma of roast pig now beginning to permeate the entire Showground; a pair of porkers being destined to form the centrepiece of the evening’s feast. Anticipation must be satisfied for the time being with a pot of tea, a selection of sandwiches and the odd bun or three - after which, the Mayor reminded them now, there was still much to be done before the final stages of proceedings. With a final hope that everyone would join in and help wherever they could - so no hobbit need miss a single minute more than necessary of the evening’s pleasures - he bowed and made off through the smattering of applause at as fast a toddle as he could manage, to where he knew his own tea awaited him already; there were, after all, some privileges attached to the mayoralty.
Of course, he hadn’t actually got very far into his little speech at all, before individual hobbits were creeping away from the ring already, to get to the refreshment tent in advance of the serious queues that would soon form. Families and groups began rising from their seats, adjusting bonnets and straw hats, and assembling baskets, parcels, string bags and children for properly concerted forays in that direction.
Bilbo had turned to Frodo with a discreet jerk of his head - a reminder of the task he’d usually fulfil at this point: the swift fetching of a well-filled tea tray to the judges’ small tent; the latter being closer at hand and a pleasanter venue in every respect for a comfortable afternoon repast than the always polite but somewhat heated scrimmage that would occur before the general hobbit appetite for refreshment could be met.
Normally speaking, of course, Sam simply would have seen that nod from across the ring; normally, he’d not have spent the best part of the past hour or so holding - discreetly caressing - Frodo’s hand. In previous years, he was unlikely to have been beside Frodo at all - he’d have watched the Grand Parade alongside whatever family or friends he happened to be with at the time. He’d be ready now to make a start on loading the straw bales, tables and chairs onto a couple of carts to shift them to where they were needed next - around the evening’s ‘dance floor’. (The reward for such altruism being as big a tea as they could eat, so the task was quite popular with teen and tween lads, except those whose bellies were too sharp set already.)
What he’d definitely not have been doing was wondering what came next twixt him and Frodo, and whether the loss of Frodo’s fingers laced through his would be a longer parting than he’d like - maybe even till the dance began. He’d hopes already for the dancing. P’raps not so much under the lights, where they’d likely draw attention Mr Bilbo may not like to see, but in the shadows…
The lingering squeeze to his fingers said he was maybe not the only one with such plans in mind, though. The whisper of, ‘I’ll bring tea for the three of us, Sam - don’t go far!’ was close enough against his cheek for warm breath to count almost as a kiss, and then Frodo was up and away. Sam was left to wonder if Mr Bilbo had seen that, and also what he might say to such an invitation without so much as a by-your-leave.
For Bilbo was beckoning to Sam now to help the Secretary collect up the last of her paperwork. ‘By the time the carts are loaded, Frodo will be back with our tea,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late!’ and he set off for the small tent at a leisurely pace.
~~~~\~~~/~~~~
Chapter 24: Show Day the Third - Early Evening
Chapter 22 was here and the story began with The Prologue
~~~~\~~~/~~~~
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the Third - Late Afternoon (23/?)
Summary: In which the Show winds toward its inevitable end but Sam's thoughts tend more to a beginning
Rating: A (for Anticipatory; and Again. But the Schmoop starts in the next - I promise!)
A/N: For those who also read S/E, chapter 28 of The Heart of Ciara was also a Birthday post: The Duel
And, yes - in Poultry Showing circles, there really is a class - and therefore the possibility of a trophy - as noted
The Presentation table was laden and waiting already on the far side of the Show-ring - several tables together, in fact, since GAFFS was almost excessively endowed with trophies to bestow upon its most successful competitors. The nearer longside of the ring was well-lined already with hobbits awaiting the spectacle, every seating bale laden to the full. Along the two shorter edges they were rapidly filling, though the trek to reach the far side meant there were plenty of seats for those with the energy to reach them. Sam set off at an amble, purposeful but unhurried, exchanging a word here and there with hobbits he knew that were already seated. By the time he staked a dual claim on a bale right by the tables, the judges had arrived in a group to take the proper seats provided for them - Mr Bilbo with his fellows but Frodo electing, as promised, to sit with Sam.
The exhibits and their owners had obviously been ready and waiting for some time - a confused mêlée of hobbits and animals, all milling and fidgeting with boredom just beyond the entrance. No sooner were the judges seated, the last word of the Show Secretary’s welcome still echoing in her megaphone, than the first of them spilled forward - only to withdraw again, being temporarily out of their proper order. All controllable livestock was paraded by kind - driven, led or ridden; all sporting their rosettes of red or blue, yellow or green on bridle, harness or whatever vantage point was both convenient and safe; rosettes being often, if mistakenly, believed to be tasty, particularly by the caprine contingent.
The display was always led by the cattle section; for the most part, the beasts processed majestically, taking little notice of the bustle around them; only the calves seemed to show much interest in the noisy crowd and the unaccustomed smell of animals strange to them. The goats that followed them were often quite skittish on their leads - a few of the kids positively acrobatic. All were pleased to be out of their confining pens and hoping to find more interesting food if possible; however juicy cut grass may be, it lacked the variety of browsing they craved. Small groups of sheep trotted dimly along, held in expert check by self-important dogs whose tongues lolled a laugh at their silly charges. Behind them ponies of all the different Shire types and breeds walked in an elegantly well-schooled manner that proved their training. Many of them made it abundantly clear - in a toss of the head or a swish of tail - that this snail’s pace was beneath their abilities; just give them an open road or a spacious heath, their fidgets seemed to say, and they would be away with the wind.
It was not thought wise to parade the pigs - pigs having minds of their own and a stubborn porker more than able to out-balk even the most contrary of hobbits. Besides which, piglets were born possessed of scattering abilities that had to be seen to be believed - and preferably not experienced. No-one wanted to get that hot and bothered on this last afternoon, what with the feast and the dancing to come. The pig-herders paraded in a group, however, wearing the appropriate rosettes, for there were still trophies to be received, albeit that the true winners remained comfortably ensconced in their beds of deep straw.
Exhibitors and exhibits circled the perimeter of the ring until they came up to the tables, pausing there for the winners to receive from their section judges one - or sometimes more - of the wide and glittering array of GAFFS’ Perpetual Trophies. Beyond the honouring superior examples within each individual breed type, there were many more specific awards for each category, from Best Sow with Litter (thankfully absent from proceedings, as noted), through Most Promising Colt, to Champion Steer; from Goat with the Highest Milk Yield to Plough-Hobbit of the Year, from Most Attractive Tradeshobbit’s Turnout to Best Hard Feather Cock. There were few excellences involving livestock, farming and the land that were not recognised here in tangible - if purely annual - form.
There were always… incidents, of course - as unlooked for as unplanned, but often adding pleasantly to the spectacle and sometimes enlivening proceedings quite considerably (if perhaps not altogether desirably at times). The innocent provider this year was Norden Haslow, a smallholder who hadn’t but the one cow that he tethered along the lanes and on the local common. She produced milk and butter to spare, that could be sold to neighbours and at market, too, alongside the fruits and vegetables Norden grew. Molly’s contribution to the budget of a growing family was inestimable, and she was pampered and cared for as one with them. Unfortunately, being an only cow, she was granted just a single, almost annual, close acquaintance with the male of her species; an appointment that was due very soon, but that she had brought forward, it seemed, under the influence of at least one of the several splendid specimens present today.
As Norden led her into the ring - a green, fourth prize rosette proudly displayed on her bridle - it was unfortunate also that she came within sight and scent of Humph, the Oldacres’ Darkster bull. He was instantly smitten - his entry into the ring being a good deal faster and considerably less controlled than any. Wil Baffin - spouse to Aster Oldacre-as-was - clung valiantly to the lead clipped onto his nose-ring, but that discomfort seemed completely irrelevant to the normally tractable bull as he advanced upon Molly, his equipment fully in evidence and quite obviously at the ready. She was equally smitten by his charms, and more than receptive to his attentions; matters were swiftly concluded - most satisfactorily, it seemed, upon either part.
Reactions varied amongst the watching crowd. Older hobbits tutted, that the beast should not have been kept under better control, though tween lads merely laughed aloud, cheering on Humph’s efforts. Very young hobbits asked awkward questions of their parents, whilst unmarried lasses blushed becomingly and turned aside from the shocking sight. Several of the less worldly maiden aunts fainted clean away, and had to be revived with smelling salts (or tots of brandy, sent for from the beer tent), according to their constitutions). And Sam’s face weren’t the only place he could feel a spreading warmth neither, though he only cleared his throat and made sure not to look at Frodo, at least until the act was concluded and the participants separated - Humph to resume his proper place in the now somewhat straggled line of cattle, Molly being withdrawn in order to recover from her experience (and also to avoid her attractions inflaming the passions of any other of the bulls in the Parade).
Not looking at Frodo, though, was even more of a problem than usual just now, even before Humph’s rousing assault upon Molly’s virtue; from the very minute, in fact, that he approached the bale where Sam was saving a space for him. Sam’s breath had caught and his mouth fell open - for Mr Bilbo had brought the blue velvet coat that featured in so many of Sam’s fantasies; that became Frodo like no other. And Frodo had washed more than just his hands while he was away. Tendrils of hair still clung darkly to his face and neck - sleek and wet and black; wisps whose touch Sam had learned already, these past days. A touch that was no touch at all shivered through him then, hope and anticipation in one.
Since he must wear a jacket, Frodo had abandoned as too warm the waistcoat he’d worn each day - matching Sam in style if Sam could never match him in quality; and he’d put on a clean shirt - one so fine and light it was tinted into warmth by the creamy pale of Frodo’s skin beneath. Sam only came back to the proprieties of time and place when Frodo reached out a finger - gently but discreetly, to say how fast the bales around them were filling with spectators of everything that transpired - pushing up his chin to close his mouth. And he smiled at Sam, almost shyly, as he settled beside him on their bale.
Sam was very aware of Frodo’s warmth at his side, and of the way, whenever his eyes strayed from events within the ring, the light seemed to ripple shadows across the velvet with each slightest move that Frodo made, with every breath he took. But bales were being shared (quite cosily, in places) all around the ring, and other eyes must also stray at times; it really was nobody else’s business what effect sharing this one with Frodo Baggins may have upon Samwise Gamgee, and so Sam fixed his mind with renewed determination upon the passing cavalcade.
He applauded with the crowd as a now positively mellow Humph led the Darkster contingent to the table. If Wil’s clutch upon the lead rope still looked a trifle strained, it was only to be expected; but he was quite able to spare a hand for the trophy that the tweens, at least, seemed to consider - and vociferously - the bull had earned in more ways than one.
By the looks of it, Netherfold Farm was as well represented here as ever, with the Oldacre family stretched to its limits across the Show-ring, their stock having taken rosettes in all of the categories and most of the classes in which they were entered. They’d needed to call upon a number of friends and relatives to help display the evidence of just how successful they had been. A ripple of laughter was passed along the bales at sight of young Eskey Baffin - Wil and Aster’s eldest, though still not yet ten years old. Chest puffed out bravely, he headed the parade of pig-herders, showing off the tricoloured rosette that announced him - or Biddy, at least - to be adjudged Best Darkshire Sow. Til was in the ring, of course, but marching far back in line, with Meg amidst the other finalists of the Sheepdog Trials; ready to cheer as loudly as the rest when Shepherd Tidmarsh and Bob stepped up to receive the huge and gleaming Champion’s trophy. He’d had to forego showing off Dol in her third prize rosette; Sam was both surprised and pleased to realise the hobbit to whom the task had fallen was Rafe Boswell; he and old Bill must have made short work of closing up the stall satisfactorily. More composed now, he nudged Frodo in case he should not have noticed; he had, of course, and answered with a nod and a pleased grin.
When the contingent of goatkeepers and their charges approached the tables, Bilbo rose and nodded to Frodo, who turned to Sam with a grimace that was half a smile. It said quite clearly (to Sam, at least) Duty calls - but I'll be back as soon as ever I can! Disposal of the many trophies quickly took up a smoothly efficient rhythm. The secretary employed her megaphone to announce the award and the name of the winner, as she pointed out the correct one to Frodo. He brought it to his uncle’s side just as the ritual handshake began, and Bilbo made the actual presentation to each delighted exhibitor.
One of the very last to be presented was the friendly little golden lass Sam had met and fallen for. Amidst the trophies for Champions of each breed, for milk yields, for the best in each category and in the entire goat show, was one that allowed for a more personal selection. The Goat the Judge Would Most Like to Take Home may not be one of the more prestigious awards in the opinion of the goat-keeping fraternity at large, but to Sam it was the most desirable accolade any goat could win. He wondered if it had been Mr Bilbo’s choice alone, or if Frodo had had a say - and if so, whether his own little conversation with the blonde beauty may have influenced his opinion. It was Frodo who presented the award to her delighted owner, so perhaps it had, and Frodo’s grin - when, task completed, he returned to his seat - simply confirmed Sam’s guess.
Settling back into place once more, Frodo slid his left hand down in the small space between them, as if to curl his fingers over the edge of the bale. Without turning his head, Sam peered sideways at him, only to find Frodo peering back at him - a glance that was just as sidelong but with a wholly different smile now curving discreetly at the corner of his mouth. Sam edged his right hand carefully down to where Frodo’s waited, as much relieved as elated, when it turned upward to meet his, threading their fingers together. Watching was so much more enjoyable this way, with Sam’s thumb gently caressing the back of Frodo’s hand; and, after all, not every hobbit spectator clapped as the parade passed by.
This was more than the holding of Frodo’s hand in the shadowy reaches of a tent to watch the Little Show, more even than sitting so close by him at the furthest and least regarded end of the fringe of spectators at the Sheepdog final. This was sitting by the Show-ring at the Grand Annual Four Farthings Show with half the hobbits in the Shire keenly watching every single thing that happened here today, and most especially what occurred at or near the Trophy table - right next to which, he and Frodo were sitting. They weren’t on the side where they’d be shielded from the general view by a constant jostle of exhibitors impatiently awaiting their dues, neither, for Sam had chosen the other, knowing from experience they’d see a deal more from there. Moreover, Mr Bilbo was sitting just in front of them, barely an ell away, and it weren’t easy to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that he’d eyes in the back of his head. Sam could dare no more than handholding, with that piercing (if imaginary) gaze upon him. He thought it lucky, now, that Frodo had taken his nap earlier - nestled cosily against Sam’s thigh as he’d been.
Following the individual livestock awards came the tradeshobbits in their vehicles. Strictly speaking, most of them had little connection with livestock, beyond their use of ponies, but their inclusion added spectacle and variety to the proceedings - and (mostly) generous donations to the GAFFS funding. Almost every business that owned a conveyance worth the looking at was entered at the Show, and even those who had won not a thing found it expedient to extend the spectacle on this last afternoon, bringing his or her emporium or service to the attention of a captive audience.
Both the first and second prize-winning turnouts were drawn by black ponies, but there the similarity ended. The pair that pulled the funeral carriage was finely matched, all dished faces, neat flanks and slender legs. The gloss of sunshine on their coats was rivalled in the lustre of silver on well-polished harness, and every inch of the carriage itself was burnished to a gleam. Art Goodbody catered to deceased gentlehobbits of the West Farthing, and brought an imposing presence to the proceedings both there and here; coat as black and linens as white, reins primly held in black-gloved hands, all was fully as solemn as if he really were conducting one of the departed to his or her last resting place. But Deelan, both son and apprentice, was barely out of his tweens; in the absence of a corpse he was quite prepared to forget his funeral face and wave happily to the friends and neighbours who watched the stately procession.
The coffin rest, that might have been thought to put something of a damper on the afternoon, was topped now with huge and riotously colourful flowers, fashioned from crepe paper. Such deliberate gaiety contrived to counter any such gloomy reminder upon so joyful an occasion. The overall effect was of a person, dour and unyielding, who had decided on a whim to attempt the notion of fun; finding it sufficiently acceptable for the moment, though determined upon a return to normal as soon as circumstance should allow. But Mr Goodbody’s impressive ensemble fully deserved the second place it had won, and he wore the blue rosette upon his coat with much satisfaction.
First prize, the red rosette and a truly imposing trophy had, however, been awarded to a far less splendid, far more homely effort. The team of ponies that drew the heavy coal wagon were of a sturdier make - all strong shoulders and glossy, well-rounded rumps - their shaggy legs washed and combed out to the same nicety as their masters’ feet could show today.
Many a householder barely recognised the sturdy coal-heaver he or she must have met with regularity through the winter. Each face was scrubbed to a veritable shine, each body clad in the wearer’s best, but sporting also his - equally well-scrubbed - apron and cap; the latter’s protective drape now keeping sun rather than coal dust from the back of his neck. The wagon was quite clearly newly painted, a practical black for the most part, but with the wheels picked out in red and cream for the occasion. The team’s harness bore plumes and plaited ribbons today, their colours echoed in the brightly ubiquitous crepe paper flowers - smaller, here, but equally effective in bringing a festive air to a working conveyance. Even the chunks of dwarf-bought coal that peeped from the tops of brand new canvas sacks - even they were washed and polished till they reflected sunlight like some darkly exotic, precious stone. Sam and Frodo were not the only hobbits to approve the judges’ recognition of the extent of care and effort here, set into the transformation of an everyday sight to a thing of beauty that was worth the looking at. Most of the audience showed their appreciation in the clapping of their own hands together, of course, rather than a silent squeeze of one to another, and a quietly shared smile.
In third place rode Tilsom Oldacre senior, best coat much in evidence - not least from the aroma of mothball it diffused so generously; his workaday breeches being conveniently concealed from view since he sat to drive. The same grey mare had drawn that same milk float around Hobbiton and Bywater for more years than Sam could remember. Bluebell knew each stop and start as well as or better than her master, her pace notably quicker on the way to those homes where the mistress or her offspring might be relied upon to offer such small treats as a hard-working pony would most appreciate. Old Til had been heard to claim - after the rare indulgence of a gill or two at the Ivy Bush - that if only she’d grow hands, he could leave the milk round to Bluebell each morning, and maybe lie abed longer than a farmer could otherwise afford. He derived considerably less satisfaction from the customary replacement, during her periodic absences from duty in pursuit of maternal engagement elsewhere; the bay gelding was somewhat less intelligent, and altogether less cooperative. Bluebell’s bridle sported the yellow, third rosette - on the side the crowd would see, of course - its colour rivalled by the warmer gleam of brass banding the great wooden churns that brought milk daily to the doorsteps of local homes.
Many another trap, cart or wagon followed the prize winners, bearing clear evidence of the love and care that had gone into their cleaning and sometimes quite fanciful decoration. The Sandyman wagon was by comparison a slovenly affair, the miller’s white apron put to shame by the colour of the finest flour ground from the generous sheaves with which the wagon was mostly draped - sheaves bein’ lighter to shift than full sacks, Sam thought, when it’d be Ted as had the carryin’ of them. He was considering whether he may be just a trifle biased in the matter when a nudge of arm and the doubting twist of Frodo’s mouth said that, if so, he was not the only one.
The ring began at last to empty of animals and vehicles of all kinds, and the hobbit with the truly impressive vocal capacity came forward and roared, ‘AND FINALLY…’ into the Secretary’s megaphone.
The crowd seemed to thicken on the instant, as hobbits young and old appeared from every corner of the Showground - Rides, stalls and even refreshments all forgotten for the moment. Not every hobbit had a friend or relative who tended livestock, and many lacked sufficient interest to sit through what admittedly became a long-drawn ceremony; but almost all had a youngster or ten within their extended family who had competed in the Show this year.
The timing of the Junior Parade and Prize-giving was deliberate; it assembled the stray offspring who had disappeared during the course of the afternoon, so they might be fed and watered and suitably disposed before the evening’s festivities began. Also, it helped ensure the rosettes given out so generously here might survive long enough to be shown off, and thus to be taken home, either tonight or tomorrow. With families as big as they so often were, there were classes at the show for hobbits of all ages, many of the junior categories being the same as those in which their parents also competed. But there had been races organised for them too, on this last day, so those with few skills in the kitchen or at handicrafts as yet, might have the chance to show off their prowess in running or leaping, or the balance needed to race within a sack, or with one leg tied to a friend’s.
All but the very youngest took part in a class of one kind or another, as clearly evidenced by the white rosettes - announcing Competitor 1400 in bold black letters - worn so proudly on small chests everywhere. The accolade of a coloured, prize-winning rosette may elude most of them, but a competitor’s rosette was earned by the entering of a class, and that also was a matter for pride; a truly industrious lad or lass might seem to wear a waistcoat of them. Cups and trophies, of course, could be only for the few, but every single entrant had this chance to march proudly around the Show-ring, smiling and waving to the parents, friends and relatives who cheered them on.
The final presentations of the afternoon were received by the entrants in the Junior Fancy Dress Competition. Having failed to discover Bilbo in time, Mistress Broadbottom had clearly inveigled Mr Roderic Underwood into that office instead, for he was to present the trophies. Sam was expecting the squeeze of hand from Frodo and returned it with a broad grin. Neither of them took his eyes from events in the ring, but the words just retribution hovered unspoken in the air between them.
Within the ranks of the more prosaically fashioned junior Quick Post runners, milkmaids, and shirriffs on display, walked more fanciful creations: clowns - the notion borrowed, but creatively embroidered, from the Little Show; princesses and worryingly-masked goblins; the odd wizard in his father’s grey dressing gown and bearing at least a passing resemblance to Gandalf. There were animals, too, often requiring the cooperation of more than a single hobbit. One little lad bore on his head a mask that rose into a truly impressive rack of antlers, painstakingly constructed of strips of old copies of the Hobbiton Advertiser & Bywater Times flour-and-water-glued in layers, braced upward by small but well-shaped branches. His body was swathed in the brown blanket stretched to also cover the mostly invisible friend or brother who supplied the nether half of the deer. Another pair emulated a white-spotted bull in similar fashion; Sam couldn’t help but hope their mother had agreed to that amount of whitewash on one of her good blankets. Clearly, going by the grumbles and squabbles escaping from mask and cover, playing the back half of anything was far less fun than the front; and all the poking and squirming quite disrupted the illusion.
Sam hoped most sincerely that he would never have the judging of so disparate a collection of costumes - worse even than the setting of one real animal’s good points against another’s; with the livestock, at least, there would be fewer hurt feelings amongst the vanquished - and fewer relatives in attendance to take umbrage at imagined slight.
Having afforded the audience time to register, in time-honoured if somewhat raucous fashion, their approval of the variety of beings and occupations paraded before them, the three winners of the different age levels were summoned before the table, where Mr Underwood awaited them. The trophies were bestowed at last upon a diminutive duckling, almost riotously yellow in a fuzz of crepe paper (no older but somewhat less prone to ‘accident’ than Master Pippin, Sam noted); a prettily gracious princess; and a highly padded and naughtily accurate replica of His Worship the Mayor.
Then, with a huge grin of appreciation, Will Whitfoot himself rose up to declare the end of the afternoon’s ceremonies. He thanked the participants old and young, whatever their contribution to the afternoon’s spectacle; bestowed compliments generously - and most particularly upon those whose hard work behind the scenes made such spectacle possible; and chucked young Mel under what chin he could find, beneath all the padding, to show there were no hard feelings. Moving swiftly to more pressing matters, he pointed out (rather redundantly) that it was teatime already. He was not the only hobbit whose eyes were glistening - and stomach rumbling - at the aroma of roast pig now beginning to permeate the entire Showground; a pair of porkers being destined to form the centrepiece of the evening’s feast. Anticipation must be satisfied for the time being with a pot of tea, a selection of sandwiches and the odd bun or three - after which, the Mayor reminded them now, there was still much to be done before the final stages of proceedings. With a final hope that everyone would join in and help wherever they could - so no hobbit need miss a single minute more than necessary of the evening’s pleasures - he bowed and made off through the smattering of applause at as fast a toddle as he could manage, to where he knew his own tea awaited him already; there were, after all, some privileges attached to the mayoralty.
Of course, he hadn’t actually got very far into his little speech at all, before individual hobbits were creeping away from the ring already, to get to the refreshment tent in advance of the serious queues that would soon form. Families and groups began rising from their seats, adjusting bonnets and straw hats, and assembling baskets, parcels, string bags and children for properly concerted forays in that direction.
Bilbo had turned to Frodo with a discreet jerk of his head - a reminder of the task he’d usually fulfil at this point: the swift fetching of a well-filled tea tray to the judges’ small tent; the latter being closer at hand and a pleasanter venue in every respect for a comfortable afternoon repast than the always polite but somewhat heated scrimmage that would occur before the general hobbit appetite for refreshment could be met.
Normally speaking, of course, Sam simply would have seen that nod from across the ring; normally, he’d not have spent the best part of the past hour or so holding - discreetly caressing - Frodo’s hand. In previous years, he was unlikely to have been beside Frodo at all - he’d have watched the Grand Parade alongside whatever family or friends he happened to be with at the time. He’d be ready now to make a start on loading the straw bales, tables and chairs onto a couple of carts to shift them to where they were needed next - around the evening’s ‘dance floor’. (The reward for such altruism being as big a tea as they could eat, so the task was quite popular with teen and tween lads, except those whose bellies were too sharp set already.)
What he’d definitely not have been doing was wondering what came next twixt him and Frodo, and whether the loss of Frodo’s fingers laced through his would be a longer parting than he’d like - maybe even till the dance began. He’d hopes already for the dancing. P’raps not so much under the lights, where they’d likely draw attention Mr Bilbo may not like to see, but in the shadows…
The lingering squeeze to his fingers said he was maybe not the only one with such plans in mind, though. The whisper of, ‘I’ll bring tea for the three of us, Sam - don’t go far!’ was close enough against his cheek for warm breath to count almost as a kiss, and then Frodo was up and away. Sam was left to wonder if Mr Bilbo had seen that, and also what he might say to such an invitation without so much as a by-your-leave.
For Bilbo was beckoning to Sam now to help the Secretary collect up the last of her paperwork. ‘By the time the carts are loaded, Frodo will be back with our tea,’ he said. ‘Don’t be late!’ and he set off for the small tent at a leisurely pace.
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Chapter 24: Show Day the Third - Early Evening
Chapter 22 was here and the story began with The Prologue
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