FIC: The Grand Annual Four Farthings Show - G to NC17 2/?
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Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the First. Early (2/?)
Summary: In which dawn is savoured, entries are organised and Sam is more than a trifle discomposed
Rating: still boringly G (with perhaps a tiny frisson)
Extra A/N: (for enquiring minds that need to know)
Hunting with ferrets is still legal in England (though for how long…)
For the 'geranium' dear to Marigold's heart, in this instance, please understand Pelargonium
This is the plant which, like Daisy, does not
Frodo's Rose has a great deal in common with LD Braithwaite, though its size, of course, would be more akin to that of Cecile Brunner.
Pasco’s Crisscross fern is here
Hens that lay blue eggs really do exist
In England, a jumper is a knitted woollen garment, possibly known elsewhere as a sweater or jersey, also guernsey - corrupted in places into the dialect gansey - a long way down the spectrum from a wedding ring shawl. For Shire lace-makers it was a hobby, not drudgery; and the smocking was also done with love.
Silhouettes by another name make an enjoyable pastime for my hobbits...
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Each Show day began before the sun, with the stars still visible and the moon fading insubstantial into the paling sky. It began with the sharp smell of smoked bacon, savoury on the air and piled thick into bread rolls, washed down with mugs of hot tea on the quick ride to the cutting field. Even as the light grew, hobbits were already scything down the damp, heavy grass, others pitching it high to overflowing on the fodder carts.
With livestock on site for days on end, arrangements had always to be made for their feeding. The hay made when the show fields were mown early was mostly sold for the Funds, with some kept back in case of wet weather and dire need at the Show, stored under weatherproofed sheeting in readiness. The second cut, to clear the fields for use, was fed fresh, as the animals arrived; thereafter, grass was cut each day, each Farthing having its appointed fodderer with responsibility for seeing the job done. This year, Sam’s position on the West Farthing’s behalf would be official, the previous holder having handed on the post; so that Sam would now receive the small stipend, instead of the ritual pat on the head with the promise of a toffee apple (which, to be fair, always did turn up) in exchange for his informal assistance. There was always sure to be such a tumble of excited lads, awake and eager to help with the scything and carrying - lads who should have been helping their fathers but were instead offering it elsewhere, no matter the task, simply to be out from under the parental eye - as he’d have done himself, not that many years back.
When they walked back behind the carts, the fragrance now was thick and fresh and sweet. ’Twere always worth it, Sam reckoned - setting aside payment of any kind - for the clean anticipation of the morning, and the novel sharing of each breathless dawn with companions he knew scarcely if at all. He had done this every year since Gaffer had allowed, and Mr Bilbo sanctioned, that he would be of use if he stayed over despite being only a teen. He had enjoyed it most, though, for the eager excitement of the stock. Beds presentable for visitors once more, crisp straw replenished, each animal smelled the advent of the grass; their moos and bleats and whinnies were eager. And there was really nothing quite like sitting with a fresh mug of tea, to watch the fodder fast disappearing from the racks as each beast chewed its share contentedly.
He discovered this year that there was something far better.
Although Sam had risen and dressed as silently as the other gatherers, Frodo also arose, unwinding drowsily from his blanketed cocoon, and electing unspoken to join them. He was never normally at his best before second breakfast, Sam knew, but you’d not have told it from this early rising. True, his skills were a mite rusty, to begin with, but he’d kept mastery of the exact flick that meant the fork pitched far and true with least effort; he must have learned that helping with harvest as a teen at Brandy Hall, Sam realised, whilst he himself was first learning his plants from Gaffer.
Frodo was quiet, sleep-tousled and flushed from the unaccustomed early exercise, right through the tea and the contemplation, to the wash and brush up for the day, when drowse was finally banished in the splash and shiver of cold water at the washing benches. And for Sam, the sharing of this dawn was suddenly an experience taken out of time, warm and separate, and he thought that this would be the memory of the show that he would keep closest, through all the days that followed.
They spoke only necessary words, punctuated by Frodo’s smothered yawns, until work clothes were exchanged for clean shirts and respectable trousers - until Sam tried a small joke about patting this helper on the head, and faltered at the promise, the toffee apple melted into nothingness by the sudden spark in Frodo’s eyes.
Though the sun had risen now, under canvas the light was still dim, coloured cream and somehow slow; and Sam’s heart was hammering as it never had before, as he struggled to finish his offer. ‘Reckon-’ he swallowed, hoping to strengthen his voice, but it didn’t help much, ‘-reckon I'd best think of summat else, bein’ as you’re a mite old for such treats, sir.'
If he had believed that Frodo might help him out with a quick claim to a mug of ale, he had been wrong. The fingers buttoning the fine linen shirt halted, and his eyes rose to meet Sam’s, dark and deep. And the waiting silence stretched beyond contented sharing into something new. Sam’s thoughts tangled helplessly-Why-? Should I-? Does he-?-all questing incomplete around a fragile hope he couldn’t yet name for fear it should be lost to him.
A pair of lads bumbled past noisily to reclaim some mislaid object from their belongings, and the moment was broken.
‘I’ll think of something,’ Sam managed.
They finished dressing hurriedly, and shook out their blankets to the accompaniment of several more teens, all scattering bedding and arguing as to whose fault their terrible loss might be; but it wasn’t until the first cup of tea of second breakfast that Sam’s skin settled once more. Frodo had simply been tired and slow to answer, he convinced himself, and that weren’t no reason to go building smials in the air.
They had only begun to tuck into the food, when two more parties of hobbits returned from their morning tasks. Some carried wide baskets, trailing the earthy scent of mushrooms. Of the others, a goodly number bore small, hasped boxes, or sacks which seemed to move of themselves, and many balanced sticks over their shoulders from which dangled pairs of rabbits, already paunched and hung by their feet in the country way.
Frodo raised his eyebrows, not really at the mushrooms, Sam knew. There were few really useful mushrooming spots within the environs of Hobbiton (and a fair bit beyond) that Frodo wasn’t on at least a nodding acquaintance with, but happen he’d never seen a ferreting close up.
‘The mushroom and ferreting groups, sir - we feed the livestock, they feed us all. Pegg’s warren’s nobbut three or four fields to the south of here - over that rise,’ Sam gestured loosely with the chunk of potato-cake, thickly smeared with deep golden egg yolk, that was currently impaled upon his fork. ‘By summer’s end, see, the coneys are fat and even a bit too plentiful, and can do with a good thinning out. Too many and too close underground all winter, and they’re like to get that nasty sickness as wipes out the half of them and leaves but a poor stock to start the new year. This way, there’s a quick, clean cull, Pegg has help with the job, the rabbits are the better for it in the long run and we all get a tasty meal or two out of it!’
‘That seems a most sensible arrangement, Sam, though I doubt that the coneys would agree!’ Frodo, too, was discovering that early exercise in the open air gave a fierce edge to hunger; his empty plate earned him a smile and another helping from the serving hobbit.
‘The ferreters make a bit of a contest of it, so I’m told, sir, though I’ve not seen it, being as I’ve always helped with the stock-feeding. They can’t use their dogs, o’course - too many together - so they keep the hobs for later and just hunt the jills.’ Sam felt the question coming, and added, ‘The hob is bigger, sir, and you don’t want to risk him fouling up your catch net, when you ain’t got a dog alongside and you’re like to lose your rabbit. Yes,’ he mused, in the tone of one who would never quite understand it, ‘they get very fond of their ferrets, some hobbits do, so I‘ve heard. In fact, some of the boxes we saw on the wagons coming in will have been hutches for the ferrets, brought along in more comfort than the family! They can be a bit too keen for me, though, especially when you think-’
But Frodo was not destined to discover the cause of Sam’s sudden pause and shudder, for they were joined by some of the latecomers sitting down with their own breakfasts, each loudly proclaiming his beast’s prowess; and the conversation turned all on the morning’s successful hunt.
When at last unable to eat another rasher or safely face another cup of tea, the two rose from the table and made for the gate. It was thronged already with the bustle of early arrivals - a rush of day folk, all eager to register for the classes they’d set their sights on. Many would have travelled an hour or three already, and Sam knew that the refreshment tent would shortly be doing a roaring trade as second breakfast ran on into elevenses with lunch not far behind. Most of the proceeds of the Show were laid out for cooks and provisions; it being a truism that there was nothing quite like a day out to sharpen the appetite.
The day’s first bell echoed importantly over the Show-field; eight in the morning signalled different things on different days. This first day - having warned as always that animal pens and stock-lines should by now be tidy and all feeding equipment put away, fit to be visited - it told of the imminent start to the in-hand pony classes in the main ring; it advised that those wishing to enter the heats for the sheepdog trials should take their dogs to the second field over, and those for the ploughing competition should make for the fourth. It reminded each hobbit of what was afoot and where he should be to best advantage.
But for today’s majority, this bell meant that they had but an hour left to ready their entries before the Produce and Handicrafts tent was closed up and the judges began their deliberations. It was in the interest of these sections, of course, that their judging must be on this first day, whilst all was at its fresh-cut, fresh-gathered, fresh-baked best. Jam and Ingenuity Day, said the irreverent, and it was a fact that long, clever hobbit fingers rarely tired of finding new occupation after a day of work - cosily by fire and lamplight in the long dark nights, or on endless summer evenings before the doorway of many a cottage or smial.
There was no sign as yet of Gaffer and Mr Bilbo, who ought surely to have been here before now, and sound of the bell brought Sam’s quiet concern to an openly worried pacing.
‘Stop it, Sam. They’ll be here!’ Frodo grinned at him, and Sam almost lost hold entirely on the anxiety he’d thought he was hiding. ‘It will simply be the head-on clash between Gaffer’s slow-but-sure and Bilbo’s get-it-done-yesterday - you know that!’
‘Sorry, sir!’ But there were really no telling what might have happened, with neither him nor Mr Frodo there to intercede-
Then a smart bay pony trotted through the gateway at a brisk pace, and the grin became pardonably smug. ‘What did I tell you?’
Sam smiled sheepishly around his sigh of relief at the trap’s arrival, well-laden and with its passengers perched somewhat stiffly amidst a careful arrangement of boxes, baskets and plants. 'Morning, Mr Bilbo, sir! Morning, Dad!’
‘Good morning, both of you! How are you getting on, Frodo? Worn out after yesterday?’
There was a smile to accompany the words, but Sam thought Mr Bilbo had a sharp look for each of them. He stepped forward to catch hold of Beechnut’s bridle and led the way through the press of bodies, leaving Frodo to find out what were up with his uncle, if anything beyond the fact that he’d a hard day’s judging ahead of him.
As a judge, it was possibly questionable whether Mr Bilbo should be fetching other folks’ entries to the show at all, but once the trap halted, and he had extricated himself from the plethora of delicate items, he took charge of a wide, flat basket and made for the Horticulture tables. From the look on Gaffer’s face, Sam thought, it must contain his precious selection of soft fruits and Mr Bilbo might have been a reckless teen swinging it fit to spill the lot. Gaffer himself, freed from his own encumbrances, creaked down from his seat and set off after him a good deal more smartly than might have been expected, a square, velvet-covered tray clamped under one arm and a basket of carefully selected and cleaned vegetables over the other.
Frodo and Sam eyed the still plentiful array of things to be carried in, and then each other. Frodo raised a questioning brow.
‘No idea, sir - apart from the plants, and what's yours or mine - till the girls get here!’ Sam said ruefully.
He might not be privy to which sister owned to which of the various preserves, needlework and baked goods, but he did know that Marigold had entered the junior Flowering Pot Plant class with her favourite vibrant scarlet geranium - the one that obscured the parlour windowsill over winter and hampered their front step all summer; and that Daisy’s was an entry for the senior Non-flowering class: an exuberant Mind-your-own-business that curdled up and over in humps and prosperous bumps, to spill swirls of generously netted green over the warm orange clay. Whilst Sam acknowledged it to be as fine a specimen as ever he had seen, he kept his mouth firmly and prudently shut on the subject of its complete unsuitability to be entered by his eldest sister.
‘If you’ll just pop this one over there, please, sir,’ Sam indicated the relevant section for Daisy’s plant, ‘I’ll nip down to the junior tables with Mari’s.’ It were taking a bit of a liberty, almost ordering Mr Frodo about like that, but time were getting on and he'd a deal to do before chucking out time; and Frodo’s smile showed he understood the haste which was both answer and excuse enough.
He edged his way through the crowds of chattering competitors - there were few who hadn’t an entry or three to their names, and the tent was packed almost to the roof, it seemed, with hobbits all wishing to arrange multiple entries to their best. Though at least half of them, Sam thought in his ever-more-nervous state, had finished fiddling with their own stuff and might have had better things to do than clutter up the aisles criticising other folks’s efforts, in despite of those who’d yet to make a start. He did, however, allow himself just a moment’s satisfaction from the knowledge that he had made it to senior level at last, where the competition would be fierce and worthy of the marvel he was entering this year. If ever he got the time to display it at all.
The thronging was thinner at the junior end, and there, waiting just where Marigold’s plant would need to be set, stood a group of lasses Sam knew by sight - Mari’s particular friends, all: Tansy Potter and her younger sister Sorrel, and the oddly named Missle - short for mistletoe or after the thrush, Sam had never been quite sure. Certainly she were pushy enough for the one and freckled enough for t’other, but he’d likely got it wrong and she were called summat else altogether.
And, of course, there was Rose Cotton. He had nothing against Rose, really. Except…
But all four met him with identically beaming smiles and questions only as to Mari’s whereabouts. And if Rose seemed a little more eager than the other three to help him deposit Mari’s plant on the table, her hand brushing over his in a way he could not think casual no matter her look of unconcern, he could choose to ignore it, and did.
He turned to make his escape, reassuring them that Mari would doubtless be along shortly, since she and Daisy and May had walked from home. He'd scarce finished saying so when there was a call from beyond the tent, and there was Marigold by the trap, arrived at last and waving to them to help her carry in her needlework, baking or whatever else she had a mind to show this year. May and Daisy were fetching stuff out too, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief that he might, at last, be able to get on with what so desperately needed doing.
He reported his name to the scrivener - a hobbit Sam didn’t know by name but tagged for a Took in some degree by the lilt in his voice and the sharpness of his nose - paid his pence, and received class numbers in return. It made sense to go to the crafts section, first; his carving were quick and easy enough to sort. Just needed standing (with due regard for effect) on the blue-grey swirl of watered silk Mr Bilbo had allowed him to borrow it was intended for a waistcoat one of these days, but had looked so perfectly like a shivered pool that Sam had been unable to resist making his request. He fancied he could tell the winner already, and it wouldn’t be him, that were for sure. Still, his entry looked none so bad and he were glad he’d brought it.
He arrived at the horticulture benches to find where his classes might be - at the quiet end of the section, thank goodness. And here already was his tray of flowers and greenery, lovingly covered with damp brown paper, awaiting his attention along with his little box of tools and extras. He felt a sudden flush of warmth, knowing that Frodo had seen his anxiety and tried to help by bringing them in for him. He was nowhere to be seen, for Sam to thank him; he’d be off getting his own entries sorted, of course.
Here was what Sam was really wanting to win: Class 141 - Corsage, not to exceed 3” by 2”. He’d been preparing for this very class for several years, without ever knowing it, at first; ever since he’d first found the sport, on a sharply pink rose in the garden at Bag End, and Mr Bilbo had said that he might graft it for himself. Gaffer had been itching to help, Sam knew, but had left him to deal in his own way, though not without the benefit of support and advice when asked. And from that one stem, so different from its parent, so much more beautiful to his eyes and nose, Sam had grown a sturdy bush that now had offspring of its own, returned in gratitude by Sam to Bag End’s garden.
Two days ago now, he had carefully cottoned all the flower stems and greenery he'd need, for the girls to cut for him in this morning’s cool dawn whilst he was grass-scything and carting. There was plenty of everything to choose from, barring his rose; though more bloom appeared with every season, Sam could tell it for a late maturer as roses went, and its full garden glory must wait to reveal itself for another year or three yet. Still, there were enough for his purpose today and a little over.
All the entries Sam had ever seen for the corsage class had been so obviously aimed at lasses: sickly pinks, faded blues and sad lilacs - no real colour anywhere, and weren’t lads allowed to like flowers? Sam’s rose was an opulent, many-petalled crimson, so deep as to be almost black, with a perfume strong and sweet enough to dizzy your head and nigh on drown you in thoughts of velvet kisses and other things you’d so often to keep clamped firmly down inside your mind.
He’d timed his pruning carefully, and deliberately sown seed of cornflower and of baby’s breath a mite later that spring, so he could be sure, come Wedmath, to have his rose at perfection, with a sharp contrasting blue to hand and those tiny specks of white to spark the whole. ’Twere a real shame no-one would get to wear it, for the central bud hovered on the cusp of full beauty, the next already unfurling its colour, and a third, smaller yet and mostly green, but plump with that same dark promise, peeping from within its mossy calyx.
A corsage to be proud of, Sam knew as he settled each flower in its place, winding tissue thickly about the stems to hold in enough damp; he concealed it with a wrapping of ivy leaves and topped both with a lacing of fine pale blue ribbon (‘But I shall want it back when you’ve done with it, Sam Gamgee, for it’s to thread through them mitts for Sarah’s babe!’) Cutting the ribbon tails to v shapes, he draped them, artfully casual, around his finished entry on its ruffled ground of soft pink satin - which also had another life, as a cushion cover on the best sofa at Bag End (‘Of course, Sam - but what do you need it for?’) He misted the flowers carefully with rainwater from his hand-sprayer, checked that the tissue were plenty wet enough and stood back to look, certain now that he’d done justice to the picture he’d kept in his mind for so long. Though it were a pity that it had to be set here on pink satin, instead of…
No time for dreaming, Sam, just get on with it!
One last glance and he moved on, sliding his tray along the table to where most of the entries in Class 142 (Buttonhole for a Gentlehobbit, single bloom with greenery) were done and dusted already, and the crowd had thinned to naught. Only one other exhibitor was as far behind as Sam, it seemed. Despite his hurry, he paused in fascination as Mr Pasco Meridew bound a very impressive golden rose to its accompanying twist of feather fern, laid it on a square of black velvet, and then carefully allowed just one drop of water to slide down a blade of grass, and rest right in the centre of the largest petal yet unfurled. When he realised Sam was watching, he grinned.
‘Gets the judges every time,’ he said. ‘They like the thought that it’s dew-fresh, even though they know it can’t be! That’s an unusual one you have there,’ he added, gesturing to the carnation that was Sam’s entry, ‘and very nice, too.’ Every bit as dark and glowing as the rose he used in the corsage, but with fine white lines and splashes on every petal that nigh on made it sparkle, Sam’s flower also had the true, rich clove scent.
‘Aye, sir,’ Sam said, almost stuttering his thanks, unable to believe that one of the show’s acknowledged masters when it came to the floral classes (and a gentlehobbit to boot) was not only talking to him, on his first ever foray beyond the junior section, but even complimenting him on his entry, not to mention showing him a tip or two. As he laid his own offering on a ground of pooled white silk (his never-used, kept-for-very-best handkerchief, a gift from Mr Bilbo), Sam was thinking, but didn’t like to say, that the golden rose would be blown and fallen, long before the show was over.
Pasco met his eyes, and nodded agreement to the unspoken remark. ‘So it will,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t win me the class, first, even against that flower of yours!’
‘Now this-’ he lost interest suddenly in their entries, and reached into Sam’s tray to pick up the almost fully open rose that Sam had rejected from his corsage for the same reason he would not have used the beauty that Pasco was showing, ‘-this I like very much. Where in the Shire did you get such a rose?’
Sam recognised the look: honest admiration, puzzlement, and not a little covetousness, and his reply was justifiably if bashfully proud. Within a very few minutes, he found to his astonishment that not only had he been invited to visit Mr Meridew’s garden, glasshouse and nursery beds - with a reciprocal invitation (subject to Mr Bilbo’s permission) to inspect his own achievements at Bag End - but he’d been promised starts of any plant that Pasco had the growing of, not even excluding the magnificent and rather rare crisscross fern, with which he was hoping to win the Non-Flowering Pot Plant class - ‘It’s a root I’m offering, mind, not just spores!’ - in exchange for slips of the carnation and a budded stock of his new rose in the fullness of time.
‘Goodness, Papa, what do you have there? That’s not one of yours!’
A small hand slid under Pasco’s arm, followed in short order by a pretty and very self-possessed hobbitlass whose hair was no froth of unruly curls like her father’s, but a straight and shining fall, the colour of ripening acorns touched by the sun. Its unusual satin swathe was gathered into a filigreed clip at the base of her neck. And very nice it were too, Sam supposed, if you hadn’t more of a mind to a rippling night-dark silk, yourself, no matter that you might never be granted the touching you so desired.
‘Hello, Betony, my dear, all finished? No, definitely not mine - not yet, at least!’ From the indulgent tone, Sam knew at once that this lass were the apple of her father’s eye and could do no wrong therein.
‘May I?’ she asked, but without waiting for permission she took up the rose and sniffed intently. ‘Papa, this is so beautiful! It smells so deep and dark and wonderful, we simply have to have one! And aren’t you going to introduce me to this personable young hobbit?’ She stared frankly at Sam for a bare second or two, and as their glances crossed, he caught sight of a peeping dimple on the left side of her mouth. Then she ducked her head in an exhibition - almost convincing - of maidenly modesty; but he were fairly sure it weren’t his shirt and weskit she were eyeing so closely now - nor his trousers neither, he thought uncomfortably.
‘Sorry, my dear. This is Samwise Gamgee, and he’s Mr Baggins’ gardener, up at Bag End in Hobbiton. Sam, this is my daughter Betony. Sam’s the one who grew this rose up from a sport and he’s going to provide me with a bush just as soon as is possible.’
‘Really?’ Betony dimpled at him fully, this time, and put out her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet so very talented a gardener, I’m sure, Master Samwise!
Sam was startled. She couldn’t really be outright flirting with him, could she, not with her dad stood there and all? He shook hands politely enough but found her clasp to be a bit beyond friendly, and let go as soon as possible.
Pasco looked at him, obviously noting his blush. ‘Don’t worry about it, Sam,’ he said. ‘She’s a spoilt minx, but she’s a good girl really.’
There was a certain light in Miss Meridew’s eye that gave Sam to doubt that. He might not have been a tween for long, and his experience with tweener lasses might be limited, but he did know that parents were seldom fully informed as to their offspring’s sportive tendencies. And this lass were a sight more forward to start with than any other tween he’d met to date.
‘Master Samwise?’ she said, now.
Sam definitely misliked the tone of that. It had too much in common with the wheedling singsong his sisters used when they were about to ask of him something they knew he would be reluctant to grant; the one that meant they got their way, no matter that he might have every reason to refuse.
‘Yes, miss?’
‘Call me Betony, please, Sam. This rose - it’s left over, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not going to be using it, are you? Do you think that I might possibly…?’ She peered at him now from beneath thickly hazel lashes; Sam was convinced that this would be how she got around her dad for whatever she wanted.
What was he to do? He couldn’t really say no, now could he? Not when her dad had been so kind, and all. ‘Of course, miss,’ he said miserably. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Betony, please!’ She smiled her thanks, dimple well in evidence. Taking up a fern frond too, she set it behind the rose and tied them deftly together with some of Sam’s raffia. ‘No pins left!’ she said impatiently, and instead poked both stems through an eyelet in the lace of her collar.
‘My goodness, that looks pretty!’ said Pasco, as he gathered together his clippers and wire, and tidied away the last of his greenery. ‘Pretty flower for a pretty lass, eh, Sam? Well, come along, my dear. I’m all done here, and there’s a second breakfast calling, for first was so many hours ago, I have almost forgotten it! We shall see you anon, Sam.’’
‘Yessir,’ Sam mumbled, as the pair made their way out, Betony turning to give him a very forward smile, he thought.
Well, that were a to-do, and no mistake!
It had been borne in upon Sam several times since Astron that the birthday on which you became a tween was somewhat like the date allowing open season on the wild deer. To be sure, there were teen games to be had before then, but the minute you became a tween, it seemed every second lass wanted her chance to try you out for the future position of husband. You’d to be right careful to make sure she understood that you were not available for any such thing, before proceeding to anything more than a conversation about the weather and how well the garden were looking this year.
But he had never yet been flirted at quite so brazenly, for anyone to see. It had given him a new sympathy for Frodo’s difficulties: constant and deeper, being as he were so much more eligible in every respect.
Sam was distinctly unhappy that the first time his rose would ever be seen in public, aside from what were on the Show benches, it should be at the breast of one whom he scarcely knew, as though she had some right to it - or even to him. But what could he have done? To refuse her request for no reason that he could give, would have been downright ill-mannered. He couldn’t have come out with it and said that there were only one hobbit he’d ever want to see wearing his rose, and he ought to have had first chance, even if he might well have turned it down - now, could he? Thoroughly unsettled, all Sam could think to do was to spray his buttonhole and gather the rest of his bits and pieces onto the tray with the leftover flowers, pushing it under the bench and out of the way.
‘Clear the aisles, now! Five minutes to clear the aisles!’ A shout pierced the clamour, and the general movement towards the exits revealed that even now, there were still a few who were putting the last touches to their entries, and who must needs scurry to be finished in time.
Well, it’d been cutting it a deal finer than Sam liked, had that, but he’d got all done and that were the main thing. He caught sight of Frodo briefly, talking to Mr Bilbo up in the hard crafts area, and his guilt about the rose pushed up again. But Frodo didn’t know that Sam thought of it solely as Frodo’s Rose, did he? So he’d likely think nothing of it when he saw Betony wearing one; but Sam would still have given a great deal for Frodo never to have to see her with it at all. He sighed, and decided he’d best be about dealing with Beechnut, who’d stood so patiently all this while.
As he led the pony away to enjoy a day of rest tethered in an adjoining field, the sides of the tent were pulled back up and hooked into place. The nine o’clock bell rang out, doorways were laced up and the judges gathered clipboards, knives and spoons and a very large box of rosettes, to begin their long and largely thankless task. No matter how impartial they tried to be - not difficult in most cases, since all entries were identifiable only by a number; if a judge recognised a piece of work, a decision on that item was reached by the rest of the panel without him or her; no matter how hard they tried, there would always be some hobbits who would remain convinced that they had been deliberately deprived of their rightful - red - rosette.
Here for their inspection lay much of the very best that Shire industry had to offer. The tables were filled lovingly with eye-catching floral displays, with woven-grass punnets of deliciously ripe fruits, with towers and circles and trays of artfully-arranged vegetables. Bottle after golden bottle of country wines stood proud, alongside jar after jar of richly-coloured jams and jellies, made from fruits single and in combinations sometimes more original than felicitous. Here was honey in the jar and in the comb, there its very opposite - pickles, dark and sharply crunchy or smooth and hot; with extremely assorted chutneys, of inventive and often economical ingredients. Dishes of eggs awaited cracking, to test the excellence hidden within their shells of white or the many shades of brown, the darkly speckled or the unbelievably blue; and ample wheels of cheese - hard, soft or positively runny - gave a distinctively pungent aroma to their particular part of the tent.
But the baking - oh, the baking! From the essential loaf in its very many guises to the fluffiest of jam-and-cream sponges; from spicy curd tarts to butterfly buns, pasties to brandy snaps, tea-breads to fruit cakes richly redolent of brandy - the cooks of the Shire were on their mettle, and the judges might be envied indeed, as they sampled and marked and awarded.
No less care went into the many craft works on display; an entry might be years in the making, though it must have been completed since last Wedmath’s Show to be eligible now. Here were all the patchwork quilts, pieced with such care through many an evening, the pillow lace and fine embroidery that taxed the eyesight if tried too long. Class by class came wedding ring shawls draped cheek by jowl with sturdy knitted jumpers; tatted edgings on tray-cloths and milk jug covers following crocheted doyleys; workaday garments, sharply smocked against the rain and threaded over with love by wife or sweetheart, lay next to exquisite falls of lace, designed to froth at throat or breast of elegant hobbits on very special occasions, and destined to become family heirlooms.
Beyond the plethora of items to enhance the home and person of the industrious hobbit and her family, were classes which did not have their focus on the frills and furbelows of life (as many a hobbit might be heard to comment upon the soft craft entries made by wife or sister; though the betrothed tended to take a more lenient view).
And it was true that, on the whole, the lads made a thinner showing of it; not because their hands were less talented, rather that their works tended to the practical and needful, and were mostly taken into use just as soon as finished. Many a hobbit could and did bake as well as or better than his wife, over and above all his entries in the Horticulture classes, of course; and knitting was a common enough task for shepherd or carter with time to kill between tasks (it was amazing how much a hobbit could get done, given a long journey on quiet lanes behind ponies that knew their job and when any approaching vehicle could be heard a way off).
Carving was much enjoyed, both in itself and for the decoration of the useful; as was the making of models, from the challenge of miniature carriages, to the scaling down of buildings like the Old Grange, the mill or the Mathom-house. There was one entry which claimed to be a copy of one of the three White Towers, visible in the distance from Michel Delving; but since few hobbits had any closer an acquaintance, its accuracy must remain a matter for conjecture until it came under Mr Baggins’ judicious eye.
Smoking accessories were definitely more the province of the lads. Pipes could be tricky to get right, but there were pipe racks aplenty entered, and clever little pocket pipe stands; tobacco containers of wood or fired clay, pouches of precisely tooled leather, and sturdy handles for knives or for the replaceable reamers that were the smaller teasel heads. The decoration of such things - especially when poker-worked - tended to the robust and cheerful rather than the delicate, though there were exceptions. And Sam reckoned that so long as no one let on that some of the sweeping patterns were elf runes, and that the flowing ‘border’ actually told who had made the piece and when, Frodo had a better chance than not of winning a rosette with his tobacco jar. Of finely polished sycamore, painstakingly inlaid with slivers of pearly shell, it showed hobbits dancing in a tree lined dell (the matching piece, its slender elves gracing their moonlit glade far more elegantly, was shrewdly left at home on the mantelshelf). Sam’s lips were sealed, of course, and he knew that Mr Bilbo - excluded from the judging - would smile blandly and shake his head, were his opinion asked.
In the Arts section, competition was probably keenest in the portrait class; there was more than one hobbit who could read little more than his name and the numbers, but would limn a fairer likeness than any whose calligraphy was perfect. Still life entries were popular, their strokes of boldly sweeping colour in complete contrast to the recent trend for the making and decoration of shades. A sizable class of starkly black profiles stared at or turned their backs upon each other, as they awaited judgement; Sam blushed to know his own was amongst them, completely recognisable despite Mr Frodo’s insistence on embellishment more suited to a gentlehobbit. And of course, there were landscapes in watercolour, finely detailed or mistily vague; Sam was counting on at least one rosette for Frodo here, for there were few with his eye for the minutiae of the Shire.
It was indeed a rare hobbit on the Show-ground today that had not brought at least one item - and maybe another for a friend left at home - to represent him or her beneath the measured and careful decisions about to be taken so deliberately within the tent. But for now, there was nothing more to be done towards the winning of a coveted rosette, and every reason to plunge into the delights of the day; time enough, come the four o’clock bell, to worry further over winning or not.
Chapter 3: Show Day the First - Morning.
Chapter 1 was here and the story began with The Prologue
~~~
Title of Part: GAFFS - Show Day the First. Early (2/?)
Summary: In which dawn is savoured, entries are organised and Sam is more than a trifle discomposed
Rating: still boringly G (with perhaps a tiny frisson)
Extra A/N: (for enquiring minds that need to know)
Hunting with ferrets is still legal in England (though for how long…)
For the 'geranium' dear to Marigold's heart, in this instance, please understand Pelargonium
This is the plant which, like Daisy, does not
Frodo's Rose has a great deal in common with LD Braithwaite, though its size, of course, would be more akin to that of Cecile Brunner.
Pasco’s Crisscross fern is here
Hens that lay blue eggs really do exist
In England, a jumper is a knitted woollen garment, possibly known elsewhere as a sweater or jersey, also guernsey - corrupted in places into the dialect gansey - a long way down the spectrum from a wedding ring shawl. For Shire lace-makers it was a hobby, not drudgery; and the smocking was also done with love.
Silhouettes by another name make an enjoyable pastime for my hobbits...
~~~~
Each Show day began before the sun, with the stars still visible and the moon fading insubstantial into the paling sky. It began with the sharp smell of smoked bacon, savoury on the air and piled thick into bread rolls, washed down with mugs of hot tea on the quick ride to the cutting field. Even as the light grew, hobbits were already scything down the damp, heavy grass, others pitching it high to overflowing on the fodder carts.
With livestock on site for days on end, arrangements had always to be made for their feeding. The hay made when the show fields were mown early was mostly sold for the Funds, with some kept back in case of wet weather and dire need at the Show, stored under weatherproofed sheeting in readiness. The second cut, to clear the fields for use, was fed fresh, as the animals arrived; thereafter, grass was cut each day, each Farthing having its appointed fodderer with responsibility for seeing the job done. This year, Sam’s position on the West Farthing’s behalf would be official, the previous holder having handed on the post; so that Sam would now receive the small stipend, instead of the ritual pat on the head with the promise of a toffee apple (which, to be fair, always did turn up) in exchange for his informal assistance. There was always sure to be such a tumble of excited lads, awake and eager to help with the scything and carrying - lads who should have been helping their fathers but were instead offering it elsewhere, no matter the task, simply to be out from under the parental eye - as he’d have done himself, not that many years back.
When they walked back behind the carts, the fragrance now was thick and fresh and sweet. ’Twere always worth it, Sam reckoned - setting aside payment of any kind - for the clean anticipation of the morning, and the novel sharing of each breathless dawn with companions he knew scarcely if at all. He had done this every year since Gaffer had allowed, and Mr Bilbo sanctioned, that he would be of use if he stayed over despite being only a teen. He had enjoyed it most, though, for the eager excitement of the stock. Beds presentable for visitors once more, crisp straw replenished, each animal smelled the advent of the grass; their moos and bleats and whinnies were eager. And there was really nothing quite like sitting with a fresh mug of tea, to watch the fodder fast disappearing from the racks as each beast chewed its share contentedly.
He discovered this year that there was something far better.
Although Sam had risen and dressed as silently as the other gatherers, Frodo also arose, unwinding drowsily from his blanketed cocoon, and electing unspoken to join them. He was never normally at his best before second breakfast, Sam knew, but you’d not have told it from this early rising. True, his skills were a mite rusty, to begin with, but he’d kept mastery of the exact flick that meant the fork pitched far and true with least effort; he must have learned that helping with harvest as a teen at Brandy Hall, Sam realised, whilst he himself was first learning his plants from Gaffer.
Frodo was quiet, sleep-tousled and flushed from the unaccustomed early exercise, right through the tea and the contemplation, to the wash and brush up for the day, when drowse was finally banished in the splash and shiver of cold water at the washing benches. And for Sam, the sharing of this dawn was suddenly an experience taken out of time, warm and separate, and he thought that this would be the memory of the show that he would keep closest, through all the days that followed.
They spoke only necessary words, punctuated by Frodo’s smothered yawns, until work clothes were exchanged for clean shirts and respectable trousers - until Sam tried a small joke about patting this helper on the head, and faltered at the promise, the toffee apple melted into nothingness by the sudden spark in Frodo’s eyes.
Though the sun had risen now, under canvas the light was still dim, coloured cream and somehow slow; and Sam’s heart was hammering as it never had before, as he struggled to finish his offer. ‘Reckon-’ he swallowed, hoping to strengthen his voice, but it didn’t help much, ‘-reckon I'd best think of summat else, bein’ as you’re a mite old for such treats, sir.'
If he had believed that Frodo might help him out with a quick claim to a mug of ale, he had been wrong. The fingers buttoning the fine linen shirt halted, and his eyes rose to meet Sam’s, dark and deep. And the waiting silence stretched beyond contented sharing into something new. Sam’s thoughts tangled helplessly-Why-? Should I-? Does he-?-all questing incomplete around a fragile hope he couldn’t yet name for fear it should be lost to him.
A pair of lads bumbled past noisily to reclaim some mislaid object from their belongings, and the moment was broken.
‘I’ll think of something,’ Sam managed.
They finished dressing hurriedly, and shook out their blankets to the accompaniment of several more teens, all scattering bedding and arguing as to whose fault their terrible loss might be; but it wasn’t until the first cup of tea of second breakfast that Sam’s skin settled once more. Frodo had simply been tired and slow to answer, he convinced himself, and that weren’t no reason to go building smials in the air.
They had only begun to tuck into the food, when two more parties of hobbits returned from their morning tasks. Some carried wide baskets, trailing the earthy scent of mushrooms. Of the others, a goodly number bore small, hasped boxes, or sacks which seemed to move of themselves, and many balanced sticks over their shoulders from which dangled pairs of rabbits, already paunched and hung by their feet in the country way.
Frodo raised his eyebrows, not really at the mushrooms, Sam knew. There were few really useful mushrooming spots within the environs of Hobbiton (and a fair bit beyond) that Frodo wasn’t on at least a nodding acquaintance with, but happen he’d never seen a ferreting close up.
‘The mushroom and ferreting groups, sir - we feed the livestock, they feed us all. Pegg’s warren’s nobbut three or four fields to the south of here - over that rise,’ Sam gestured loosely with the chunk of potato-cake, thickly smeared with deep golden egg yolk, that was currently impaled upon his fork. ‘By summer’s end, see, the coneys are fat and even a bit too plentiful, and can do with a good thinning out. Too many and too close underground all winter, and they’re like to get that nasty sickness as wipes out the half of them and leaves but a poor stock to start the new year. This way, there’s a quick, clean cull, Pegg has help with the job, the rabbits are the better for it in the long run and we all get a tasty meal or two out of it!’
‘That seems a most sensible arrangement, Sam, though I doubt that the coneys would agree!’ Frodo, too, was discovering that early exercise in the open air gave a fierce edge to hunger; his empty plate earned him a smile and another helping from the serving hobbit.
‘The ferreters make a bit of a contest of it, so I’m told, sir, though I’ve not seen it, being as I’ve always helped with the stock-feeding. They can’t use their dogs, o’course - too many together - so they keep the hobs for later and just hunt the jills.’ Sam felt the question coming, and added, ‘The hob is bigger, sir, and you don’t want to risk him fouling up your catch net, when you ain’t got a dog alongside and you’re like to lose your rabbit. Yes,’ he mused, in the tone of one who would never quite understand it, ‘they get very fond of their ferrets, some hobbits do, so I‘ve heard. In fact, some of the boxes we saw on the wagons coming in will have been hutches for the ferrets, brought along in more comfort than the family! They can be a bit too keen for me, though, especially when you think-’
But Frodo was not destined to discover the cause of Sam’s sudden pause and shudder, for they were joined by some of the latecomers sitting down with their own breakfasts, each loudly proclaiming his beast’s prowess; and the conversation turned all on the morning’s successful hunt.
When at last unable to eat another rasher or safely face another cup of tea, the two rose from the table and made for the gate. It was thronged already with the bustle of early arrivals - a rush of day folk, all eager to register for the classes they’d set their sights on. Many would have travelled an hour or three already, and Sam knew that the refreshment tent would shortly be doing a roaring trade as second breakfast ran on into elevenses with lunch not far behind. Most of the proceeds of the Show were laid out for cooks and provisions; it being a truism that there was nothing quite like a day out to sharpen the appetite.
The day’s first bell echoed importantly over the Show-field; eight in the morning signalled different things on different days. This first day - having warned as always that animal pens and stock-lines should by now be tidy and all feeding equipment put away, fit to be visited - it told of the imminent start to the in-hand pony classes in the main ring; it advised that those wishing to enter the heats for the sheepdog trials should take their dogs to the second field over, and those for the ploughing competition should make for the fourth. It reminded each hobbit of what was afoot and where he should be to best advantage.
But for today’s majority, this bell meant that they had but an hour left to ready their entries before the Produce and Handicrafts tent was closed up and the judges began their deliberations. It was in the interest of these sections, of course, that their judging must be on this first day, whilst all was at its fresh-cut, fresh-gathered, fresh-baked best. Jam and Ingenuity Day, said the irreverent, and it was a fact that long, clever hobbit fingers rarely tired of finding new occupation after a day of work - cosily by fire and lamplight in the long dark nights, or on endless summer evenings before the doorway of many a cottage or smial.
There was no sign as yet of Gaffer and Mr Bilbo, who ought surely to have been here before now, and sound of the bell brought Sam’s quiet concern to an openly worried pacing.
‘Stop it, Sam. They’ll be here!’ Frodo grinned at him, and Sam almost lost hold entirely on the anxiety he’d thought he was hiding. ‘It will simply be the head-on clash between Gaffer’s slow-but-sure and Bilbo’s get-it-done-yesterday - you know that!’
‘Sorry, sir!’ But there were really no telling what might have happened, with neither him nor Mr Frodo there to intercede-
Then a smart bay pony trotted through the gateway at a brisk pace, and the grin became pardonably smug. ‘What did I tell you?’
Sam smiled sheepishly around his sigh of relief at the trap’s arrival, well-laden and with its passengers perched somewhat stiffly amidst a careful arrangement of boxes, baskets and plants. 'Morning, Mr Bilbo, sir! Morning, Dad!’
‘Good morning, both of you! How are you getting on, Frodo? Worn out after yesterday?’
There was a smile to accompany the words, but Sam thought Mr Bilbo had a sharp look for each of them. He stepped forward to catch hold of Beechnut’s bridle and led the way through the press of bodies, leaving Frodo to find out what were up with his uncle, if anything beyond the fact that he’d a hard day’s judging ahead of him.
As a judge, it was possibly questionable whether Mr Bilbo should be fetching other folks’ entries to the show at all, but once the trap halted, and he had extricated himself from the plethora of delicate items, he took charge of a wide, flat basket and made for the Horticulture tables. From the look on Gaffer’s face, Sam thought, it must contain his precious selection of soft fruits and Mr Bilbo might have been a reckless teen swinging it fit to spill the lot. Gaffer himself, freed from his own encumbrances, creaked down from his seat and set off after him a good deal more smartly than might have been expected, a square, velvet-covered tray clamped under one arm and a basket of carefully selected and cleaned vegetables over the other.
Frodo and Sam eyed the still plentiful array of things to be carried in, and then each other. Frodo raised a questioning brow.
‘No idea, sir - apart from the plants, and what's yours or mine - till the girls get here!’ Sam said ruefully.
He might not be privy to which sister owned to which of the various preserves, needlework and baked goods, but he did know that Marigold had entered the junior Flowering Pot Plant class with her favourite vibrant scarlet geranium - the one that obscured the parlour windowsill over winter and hampered their front step all summer; and that Daisy’s was an entry for the senior Non-flowering class: an exuberant Mind-your-own-business that curdled up and over in humps and prosperous bumps, to spill swirls of generously netted green over the warm orange clay. Whilst Sam acknowledged it to be as fine a specimen as ever he had seen, he kept his mouth firmly and prudently shut on the subject of its complete unsuitability to be entered by his eldest sister.
‘If you’ll just pop this one over there, please, sir,’ Sam indicated the relevant section for Daisy’s plant, ‘I’ll nip down to the junior tables with Mari’s.’ It were taking a bit of a liberty, almost ordering Mr Frodo about like that, but time were getting on and he'd a deal to do before chucking out time; and Frodo’s smile showed he understood the haste which was both answer and excuse enough.
He edged his way through the crowds of chattering competitors - there were few who hadn’t an entry or three to their names, and the tent was packed almost to the roof, it seemed, with hobbits all wishing to arrange multiple entries to their best. Though at least half of them, Sam thought in his ever-more-nervous state, had finished fiddling with their own stuff and might have had better things to do than clutter up the aisles criticising other folks’s efforts, in despite of those who’d yet to make a start. He did, however, allow himself just a moment’s satisfaction from the knowledge that he had made it to senior level at last, where the competition would be fierce and worthy of the marvel he was entering this year. If ever he got the time to display it at all.
The thronging was thinner at the junior end, and there, waiting just where Marigold’s plant would need to be set, stood a group of lasses Sam knew by sight - Mari’s particular friends, all: Tansy Potter and her younger sister Sorrel, and the oddly named Missle - short for mistletoe or after the thrush, Sam had never been quite sure. Certainly she were pushy enough for the one and freckled enough for t’other, but he’d likely got it wrong and she were called summat else altogether.
And, of course, there was Rose Cotton. He had nothing against Rose, really. Except…
But all four met him with identically beaming smiles and questions only as to Mari’s whereabouts. And if Rose seemed a little more eager than the other three to help him deposit Mari’s plant on the table, her hand brushing over his in a way he could not think casual no matter her look of unconcern, he could choose to ignore it, and did.
He turned to make his escape, reassuring them that Mari would doubtless be along shortly, since she and Daisy and May had walked from home. He'd scarce finished saying so when there was a call from beyond the tent, and there was Marigold by the trap, arrived at last and waving to them to help her carry in her needlework, baking or whatever else she had a mind to show this year. May and Daisy were fetching stuff out too, and Sam breathed a sigh of relief that he might, at last, be able to get on with what so desperately needed doing.
He reported his name to the scrivener - a hobbit Sam didn’t know by name but tagged for a Took in some degree by the lilt in his voice and the sharpness of his nose - paid his pence, and received class numbers in return. It made sense to go to the crafts section, first; his carving were quick and easy enough to sort. Just needed standing (with due regard for effect) on the blue-grey swirl of watered silk Mr Bilbo had allowed him to borrow it was intended for a waistcoat one of these days, but had looked so perfectly like a shivered pool that Sam had been unable to resist making his request. He fancied he could tell the winner already, and it wouldn’t be him, that were for sure. Still, his entry looked none so bad and he were glad he’d brought it.
He arrived at the horticulture benches to find where his classes might be - at the quiet end of the section, thank goodness. And here already was his tray of flowers and greenery, lovingly covered with damp brown paper, awaiting his attention along with his little box of tools and extras. He felt a sudden flush of warmth, knowing that Frodo had seen his anxiety and tried to help by bringing them in for him. He was nowhere to be seen, for Sam to thank him; he’d be off getting his own entries sorted, of course.
Here was what Sam was really wanting to win: Class 141 - Corsage, not to exceed 3” by 2”. He’d been preparing for this very class for several years, without ever knowing it, at first; ever since he’d first found the sport, on a sharply pink rose in the garden at Bag End, and Mr Bilbo had said that he might graft it for himself. Gaffer had been itching to help, Sam knew, but had left him to deal in his own way, though not without the benefit of support and advice when asked. And from that one stem, so different from its parent, so much more beautiful to his eyes and nose, Sam had grown a sturdy bush that now had offspring of its own, returned in gratitude by Sam to Bag End’s garden.
Two days ago now, he had carefully cottoned all the flower stems and greenery he'd need, for the girls to cut for him in this morning’s cool dawn whilst he was grass-scything and carting. There was plenty of everything to choose from, barring his rose; though more bloom appeared with every season, Sam could tell it for a late maturer as roses went, and its full garden glory must wait to reveal itself for another year or three yet. Still, there were enough for his purpose today and a little over.
All the entries Sam had ever seen for the corsage class had been so obviously aimed at lasses: sickly pinks, faded blues and sad lilacs - no real colour anywhere, and weren’t lads allowed to like flowers? Sam’s rose was an opulent, many-petalled crimson, so deep as to be almost black, with a perfume strong and sweet enough to dizzy your head and nigh on drown you in thoughts of velvet kisses and other things you’d so often to keep clamped firmly down inside your mind.
He’d timed his pruning carefully, and deliberately sown seed of cornflower and of baby’s breath a mite later that spring, so he could be sure, come Wedmath, to have his rose at perfection, with a sharp contrasting blue to hand and those tiny specks of white to spark the whole. ’Twere a real shame no-one would get to wear it, for the central bud hovered on the cusp of full beauty, the next already unfurling its colour, and a third, smaller yet and mostly green, but plump with that same dark promise, peeping from within its mossy calyx.
A corsage to be proud of, Sam knew as he settled each flower in its place, winding tissue thickly about the stems to hold in enough damp; he concealed it with a wrapping of ivy leaves and topped both with a lacing of fine pale blue ribbon (‘But I shall want it back when you’ve done with it, Sam Gamgee, for it’s to thread through them mitts for Sarah’s babe!’) Cutting the ribbon tails to v shapes, he draped them, artfully casual, around his finished entry on its ruffled ground of soft pink satin - which also had another life, as a cushion cover on the best sofa at Bag End (‘Of course, Sam - but what do you need it for?’) He misted the flowers carefully with rainwater from his hand-sprayer, checked that the tissue were plenty wet enough and stood back to look, certain now that he’d done justice to the picture he’d kept in his mind for so long. Though it were a pity that it had to be set here on pink satin, instead of…
No time for dreaming, Sam, just get on with it!
One last glance and he moved on, sliding his tray along the table to where most of the entries in Class 142 (Buttonhole for a Gentlehobbit, single bloom with greenery) were done and dusted already, and the crowd had thinned to naught. Only one other exhibitor was as far behind as Sam, it seemed. Despite his hurry, he paused in fascination as Mr Pasco Meridew bound a very impressive golden rose to its accompanying twist of feather fern, laid it on a square of black velvet, and then carefully allowed just one drop of water to slide down a blade of grass, and rest right in the centre of the largest petal yet unfurled. When he realised Sam was watching, he grinned.
‘Gets the judges every time,’ he said. ‘They like the thought that it’s dew-fresh, even though they know it can’t be! That’s an unusual one you have there,’ he added, gesturing to the carnation that was Sam’s entry, ‘and very nice, too.’ Every bit as dark and glowing as the rose he used in the corsage, but with fine white lines and splashes on every petal that nigh on made it sparkle, Sam’s flower also had the true, rich clove scent.
‘Aye, sir,’ Sam said, almost stuttering his thanks, unable to believe that one of the show’s acknowledged masters when it came to the floral classes (and a gentlehobbit to boot) was not only talking to him, on his first ever foray beyond the junior section, but even complimenting him on his entry, not to mention showing him a tip or two. As he laid his own offering on a ground of pooled white silk (his never-used, kept-for-very-best handkerchief, a gift from Mr Bilbo), Sam was thinking, but didn’t like to say, that the golden rose would be blown and fallen, long before the show was over.
Pasco met his eyes, and nodded agreement to the unspoken remark. ‘So it will,’ he said, ‘but I’ll be surprised if it doesn’t win me the class, first, even against that flower of yours!’
‘Now this-’ he lost interest suddenly in their entries, and reached into Sam’s tray to pick up the almost fully open rose that Sam had rejected from his corsage for the same reason he would not have used the beauty that Pasco was showing, ‘-this I like very much. Where in the Shire did you get such a rose?’
Sam recognised the look: honest admiration, puzzlement, and not a little covetousness, and his reply was justifiably if bashfully proud. Within a very few minutes, he found to his astonishment that not only had he been invited to visit Mr Meridew’s garden, glasshouse and nursery beds - with a reciprocal invitation (subject to Mr Bilbo’s permission) to inspect his own achievements at Bag End - but he’d been promised starts of any plant that Pasco had the growing of, not even excluding the magnificent and rather rare crisscross fern, with which he was hoping to win the Non-Flowering Pot Plant class - ‘It’s a root I’m offering, mind, not just spores!’ - in exchange for slips of the carnation and a budded stock of his new rose in the fullness of time.
‘Goodness, Papa, what do you have there? That’s not one of yours!’
A small hand slid under Pasco’s arm, followed in short order by a pretty and very self-possessed hobbitlass whose hair was no froth of unruly curls like her father’s, but a straight and shining fall, the colour of ripening acorns touched by the sun. Its unusual satin swathe was gathered into a filigreed clip at the base of her neck. And very nice it were too, Sam supposed, if you hadn’t more of a mind to a rippling night-dark silk, yourself, no matter that you might never be granted the touching you so desired.
‘Hello, Betony, my dear, all finished? No, definitely not mine - not yet, at least!’ From the indulgent tone, Sam knew at once that this lass were the apple of her father’s eye and could do no wrong therein.
‘May I?’ she asked, but without waiting for permission she took up the rose and sniffed intently. ‘Papa, this is so beautiful! It smells so deep and dark and wonderful, we simply have to have one! And aren’t you going to introduce me to this personable young hobbit?’ She stared frankly at Sam for a bare second or two, and as their glances crossed, he caught sight of a peeping dimple on the left side of her mouth. Then she ducked her head in an exhibition - almost convincing - of maidenly modesty; but he were fairly sure it weren’t his shirt and weskit she were eyeing so closely now - nor his trousers neither, he thought uncomfortably.
‘Sorry, my dear. This is Samwise Gamgee, and he’s Mr Baggins’ gardener, up at Bag End in Hobbiton. Sam, this is my daughter Betony. Sam’s the one who grew this rose up from a sport and he’s going to provide me with a bush just as soon as is possible.’
‘Really?’ Betony dimpled at him fully, this time, and put out her hand. ‘Very pleased to meet so very talented a gardener, I’m sure, Master Samwise!
Sam was startled. She couldn’t really be outright flirting with him, could she, not with her dad stood there and all? He shook hands politely enough but found her clasp to be a bit beyond friendly, and let go as soon as possible.
Pasco looked at him, obviously noting his blush. ‘Don’t worry about it, Sam,’ he said. ‘She’s a spoilt minx, but she’s a good girl really.’
There was a certain light in Miss Meridew’s eye that gave Sam to doubt that. He might not have been a tween for long, and his experience with tweener lasses might be limited, but he did know that parents were seldom fully informed as to their offspring’s sportive tendencies. And this lass were a sight more forward to start with than any other tween he’d met to date.
‘Master Samwise?’ she said, now.
Sam definitely misliked the tone of that. It had too much in common with the wheedling singsong his sisters used when they were about to ask of him something they knew he would be reluctant to grant; the one that meant they got their way, no matter that he might have every reason to refuse.
‘Yes, miss?’
‘Call me Betony, please, Sam. This rose - it’s left over, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not going to be using it, are you? Do you think that I might possibly…?’ She peered at him now from beneath thickly hazel lashes; Sam was convinced that this would be how she got around her dad for whatever she wanted.
What was he to do? He couldn’t really say no, now could he? Not when her dad had been so kind, and all. ‘Of course, miss,’ he said miserably. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Betony, please!’ She smiled her thanks, dimple well in evidence. Taking up a fern frond too, she set it behind the rose and tied them deftly together with some of Sam’s raffia. ‘No pins left!’ she said impatiently, and instead poked both stems through an eyelet in the lace of her collar.
‘My goodness, that looks pretty!’ said Pasco, as he gathered together his clippers and wire, and tidied away the last of his greenery. ‘Pretty flower for a pretty lass, eh, Sam? Well, come along, my dear. I’m all done here, and there’s a second breakfast calling, for first was so many hours ago, I have almost forgotten it! We shall see you anon, Sam.’’
‘Yessir,’ Sam mumbled, as the pair made their way out, Betony turning to give him a very forward smile, he thought.
Well, that were a to-do, and no mistake!
It had been borne in upon Sam several times since Astron that the birthday on which you became a tween was somewhat like the date allowing open season on the wild deer. To be sure, there were teen games to be had before then, but the minute you became a tween, it seemed every second lass wanted her chance to try you out for the future position of husband. You’d to be right careful to make sure she understood that you were not available for any such thing, before proceeding to anything more than a conversation about the weather and how well the garden were looking this year.
But he had never yet been flirted at quite so brazenly, for anyone to see. It had given him a new sympathy for Frodo’s difficulties: constant and deeper, being as he were so much more eligible in every respect.
Sam was distinctly unhappy that the first time his rose would ever be seen in public, aside from what were on the Show benches, it should be at the breast of one whom he scarcely knew, as though she had some right to it - or even to him. But what could he have done? To refuse her request for no reason that he could give, would have been downright ill-mannered. He couldn’t have come out with it and said that there were only one hobbit he’d ever want to see wearing his rose, and he ought to have had first chance, even if he might well have turned it down - now, could he? Thoroughly unsettled, all Sam could think to do was to spray his buttonhole and gather the rest of his bits and pieces onto the tray with the leftover flowers, pushing it under the bench and out of the way.
‘Clear the aisles, now! Five minutes to clear the aisles!’ A shout pierced the clamour, and the general movement towards the exits revealed that even now, there were still a few who were putting the last touches to their entries, and who must needs scurry to be finished in time.
Well, it’d been cutting it a deal finer than Sam liked, had that, but he’d got all done and that were the main thing. He caught sight of Frodo briefly, talking to Mr Bilbo up in the hard crafts area, and his guilt about the rose pushed up again. But Frodo didn’t know that Sam thought of it solely as Frodo’s Rose, did he? So he’d likely think nothing of it when he saw Betony wearing one; but Sam would still have given a great deal for Frodo never to have to see her with it at all. He sighed, and decided he’d best be about dealing with Beechnut, who’d stood so patiently all this while.
As he led the pony away to enjoy a day of rest tethered in an adjoining field, the sides of the tent were pulled back up and hooked into place. The nine o’clock bell rang out, doorways were laced up and the judges gathered clipboards, knives and spoons and a very large box of rosettes, to begin their long and largely thankless task. No matter how impartial they tried to be - not difficult in most cases, since all entries were identifiable only by a number; if a judge recognised a piece of work, a decision on that item was reached by the rest of the panel without him or her; no matter how hard they tried, there would always be some hobbits who would remain convinced that they had been deliberately deprived of their rightful - red - rosette.
Here for their inspection lay much of the very best that Shire industry had to offer. The tables were filled lovingly with eye-catching floral displays, with woven-grass punnets of deliciously ripe fruits, with towers and circles and trays of artfully-arranged vegetables. Bottle after golden bottle of country wines stood proud, alongside jar after jar of richly-coloured jams and jellies, made from fruits single and in combinations sometimes more original than felicitous. Here was honey in the jar and in the comb, there its very opposite - pickles, dark and sharply crunchy or smooth and hot; with extremely assorted chutneys, of inventive and often economical ingredients. Dishes of eggs awaited cracking, to test the excellence hidden within their shells of white or the many shades of brown, the darkly speckled or the unbelievably blue; and ample wheels of cheese - hard, soft or positively runny - gave a distinctively pungent aroma to their particular part of the tent.
But the baking - oh, the baking! From the essential loaf in its very many guises to the fluffiest of jam-and-cream sponges; from spicy curd tarts to butterfly buns, pasties to brandy snaps, tea-breads to fruit cakes richly redolent of brandy - the cooks of the Shire were on their mettle, and the judges might be envied indeed, as they sampled and marked and awarded.
No less care went into the many craft works on display; an entry might be years in the making, though it must have been completed since last Wedmath’s Show to be eligible now. Here were all the patchwork quilts, pieced with such care through many an evening, the pillow lace and fine embroidery that taxed the eyesight if tried too long. Class by class came wedding ring shawls draped cheek by jowl with sturdy knitted jumpers; tatted edgings on tray-cloths and milk jug covers following crocheted doyleys; workaday garments, sharply smocked against the rain and threaded over with love by wife or sweetheart, lay next to exquisite falls of lace, designed to froth at throat or breast of elegant hobbits on very special occasions, and destined to become family heirlooms.
Beyond the plethora of items to enhance the home and person of the industrious hobbit and her family, were classes which did not have their focus on the frills and furbelows of life (as many a hobbit might be heard to comment upon the soft craft entries made by wife or sister; though the betrothed tended to take a more lenient view).
And it was true that, on the whole, the lads made a thinner showing of it; not because their hands were less talented, rather that their works tended to the practical and needful, and were mostly taken into use just as soon as finished. Many a hobbit could and did bake as well as or better than his wife, over and above all his entries in the Horticulture classes, of course; and knitting was a common enough task for shepherd or carter with time to kill between tasks (it was amazing how much a hobbit could get done, given a long journey on quiet lanes behind ponies that knew their job and when any approaching vehicle could be heard a way off).
Carving was much enjoyed, both in itself and for the decoration of the useful; as was the making of models, from the challenge of miniature carriages, to the scaling down of buildings like the Old Grange, the mill or the Mathom-house. There was one entry which claimed to be a copy of one of the three White Towers, visible in the distance from Michel Delving; but since few hobbits had any closer an acquaintance, its accuracy must remain a matter for conjecture until it came under Mr Baggins’ judicious eye.
Smoking accessories were definitely more the province of the lads. Pipes could be tricky to get right, but there were pipe racks aplenty entered, and clever little pocket pipe stands; tobacco containers of wood or fired clay, pouches of precisely tooled leather, and sturdy handles for knives or for the replaceable reamers that were the smaller teasel heads. The decoration of such things - especially when poker-worked - tended to the robust and cheerful rather than the delicate, though there were exceptions. And Sam reckoned that so long as no one let on that some of the sweeping patterns were elf runes, and that the flowing ‘border’ actually told who had made the piece and when, Frodo had a better chance than not of winning a rosette with his tobacco jar. Of finely polished sycamore, painstakingly inlaid with slivers of pearly shell, it showed hobbits dancing in a tree lined dell (the matching piece, its slender elves gracing their moonlit glade far more elegantly, was shrewdly left at home on the mantelshelf). Sam’s lips were sealed, of course, and he knew that Mr Bilbo - excluded from the judging - would smile blandly and shake his head, were his opinion asked.
In the Arts section, competition was probably keenest in the portrait class; there was more than one hobbit who could read little more than his name and the numbers, but would limn a fairer likeness than any whose calligraphy was perfect. Still life entries were popular, their strokes of boldly sweeping colour in complete contrast to the recent trend for the making and decoration of shades. A sizable class of starkly black profiles stared at or turned their backs upon each other, as they awaited judgement; Sam blushed to know his own was amongst them, completely recognisable despite Mr Frodo’s insistence on embellishment more suited to a gentlehobbit. And of course, there were landscapes in watercolour, finely detailed or mistily vague; Sam was counting on at least one rosette for Frodo here, for there were few with his eye for the minutiae of the Shire.
It was indeed a rare hobbit on the Show-ground today that had not brought at least one item - and maybe another for a friend left at home - to represent him or her beneath the measured and careful decisions about to be taken so deliberately within the tent. But for now, there was nothing more to be done towards the winning of a coveted rosette, and every reason to plunge into the delights of the day; time enough, come the four o’clock bell, to worry further over winning or not.
Chapter 3: Show Day the First - Morning.
Chapter 1 was here and the story began with The Prologue
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