The Eavesdropper

By MysteriousWays

A little peek into Frodo’s childhood.

"And what am I supposed to do with this?" Drogo Baggins was holding an unusually shaped object, that happened to be a dwarf made cork screw, a wedding gift from his Uncle Bilbo, who was not in fact his uncle. Drogo was helping his wife tidy up the kitchen at the end of a long day.

"Oh, honestly Drogo!" Primula Baggins exclaimed in exasperation That goes in the same place it has always gone for the last eight years. The far right hand drawer of the side board. You ought to know that now!"

Drogo turned away smiling and suppressing a chuckle. Frodo witnessed all of this from where he sat peeking into the kitchen through a crack in the barely opened kitchen door. He had to suppress a giggle of his own at seeing his father play his old trick. For longer than Frodo could remember his father had been repeatedly asking his mother where things were or where they belonged, always pretending that he could honestly not remember their location even after many years of living in the same house where very little had changed since the day he had moved in as a newlywed. Frodo had seen nearly this exact same scene play out time and time again. "Papa, why is it you never remember where things go when you are helping Mummy?" Frodo had asked when he was about five years old.

Drogo chuckled, "Can I tell you secret, Frodo Lad?" Frodo pinched his lips together with his fingers and nodded to indicate he would not tell his father’s secret. "The truth is I know where everything is, and where everything goes. I just learned early on that it was funny the way your Mum gets so exasperated with me when I act as though I don’t know."

Frodo’s already large, wide eyes, got larger and wider, and his lips curled up into a mischievous smile that was an nearly exact match to his father’s. "May I play that trick too?"

"I don’t think that would be a good idea, Frodo Lad. There are things that Papa’s can get away with and son’s can not. This is likely one of them. I am afraid if you started pretending that you did not know where anything was, your Mum would see that you learned by the process of giving you extra chores."

Frodo’s face fell, "Yeah, you’re probably right," he said sadly.

Drogo hated to see his son disappointed. The boy’s mildest look of disappointment could tug at a Hobbit’s heart. "I tell you what you can do, Frodo Lad, you can help me make this game more convincing to your Mum."

Frodo looked up at his father with a puzzled expression, "How?"

"I am thinking that from here on out, I can start asking you where things are and where things belong as well. You just play along as if you didn’t know better. If your Mum is suspecting that I am tricking her she will start to think differently when I am asking you the same thing. Your Mum will also likely be pleased to see that you know so much of where things belong about the house."

It had been a good trick. And though Frodo was not aware of it, that trick led to him being a fairly tidy little boy. One day Frodo got the idea of improvising on the game by picking his father’s pipe up and putting it away, after his father had wondered off leaving it on the kitchen table. Frodo knew that later his father would come looking for it and ask for it, giving Frodo a chance to tell his papa that his pipe was where it belonged. Before long Frodo’s pretending to think and act like his mother became second nature and he would bustle around tidying up after himself forgetting that this used to be something he had once hated to do. All Frodo was aware of was that to his mother they both shared the same problem of his father being forgetful, but in truth Frodo was helping his father with a long running prank, and wondering if his mother would ever catch on.

Frodo continued peeking into the kitchen, careful to not let the door open too much for fear of being discovered. It was well past his bed time. About an hour before, his mother and father had tucked him into his bed read him a story, then kissed him good night. Frodo had been right on the verge of falling asleep when the wind outside started to blow harder and make moaning sounds as it blew about the house and trees and through any crack or crevice it would find around his window. At seven years of age Frodo wanted to be seen as a brave and mature hobbit for his age, but some things still made him nervous. When the wind had started speaking in it’s spooky voice. Frodo only hesitated for a few minutes before deciding to go seek solace with his parents. As his footsteps brought him near to the closed kitchen door, he heard his mother laugh. Curious to know what she was laughing about Frodo crept silently the rest of the way to the door. Ever so slowly and carefully he turned the knob to release the door from it’s latch then pulled the door a teeny bit towards himself to allow a small space to open up so that he might hear and see what went on in the room on the other side.

The kitchen was bathed in the warm glow of several oil lamps mounted on the walls around the room as well as one that hung from the ceiling over the kitchen table. Frodo liked the way the light gave his mother’s chestnut brown hair a burnished glow. Unlike most lady hobbits, Primula Baggins liked to wear her hair down. For practicality she would hold it back from her face with combs, clips, or more frequently tied back in a kerchief. This allowed he hair to fall down her back wavy tresses that curled tightly at the end. There was one lock just behind her ear that was as dark as chocolate cake that wound into a tight cork screw curl. No matter what Primula did with her hair, this one lock always slipped free of the rest to tumble down ver the front of her shoulder. To Frodo that lock of hair seemed to be showing itself off well aware of how pretty it looked. Frodo could remember as a very small boy, sitting on his mother’s lap, sucking the thumb of one hand, while with his other he would reach up and wind that curl of hers around his small chubby fingers. Frodo sighed and wished he were small enough now to sit on his mother’s lap with her errant curl wound around his fingers.

Without even considering it, Frodo continued on peering through the narrow opening before him, rather than going into the room himself. He liked listening to the warm soothing tones of his parents chatting. Even as they discussed such mundane things as the weather and the next days chores, their voices gently reverberated with the love they felt for one another. Frodo liked to hear them talking this way, and knew that if he were to make his presence known the soothing sounds of their conversation would end. So instead he stayed where he was. He did not notice that his eyes had started to blink with increasing frequency. He was not aware of his heavy eyelids coming to a close and not bothering to open again.

"Did you hear that?" Primula asked interrupting her husband’s retelling of a conversation he had with Rory Brandybuck, that day.

"Hear what?" asked Drogo.

"There was a sound."

"It is a blustery night, love, it was likely just the wind."

"I suppose, but I think I will go check on Frodo. It may have been him calling."

Primula crossed the room and put her hand on the door with no concern for the fact that it was already unlatched and slightly ajar. She pushed on the door opening it about foot more then it came to a stop. "What on earth?" She looked down to find her son, curled up against the door frame, fast asleep with one small foot sticking out in the path of the door.

"What is it?" asked Drogo as he came up from behind.

Primula smiled, "We have an eavesdropper." She knelt to the floor then reached through the opening to carefully move Frodo’s foot without waking him up, allowing the door to swing open the rest of the way. "My poor baby,"said Primula as she gently place a hand on Frodo’s forehead, " I wonder what possessed him to sit here?"

"Mischief, most likely," replied Drogo with a hint of pride, "We can ask him in the morning. For now I supposed I need to be picking him up and bundling him off to bed."

"No, I think I would like to hold him for a while," Primula said softly, "I have not got to hold him and rock him in so long."

Drogo did not argue. Primula stood up and went to sit in her rocker that was placed near the hearth. Drogo picked up his sleep heavy son and carried Frodo across the room and placed him in his mothers arms. Frodo stirred, then his hand slipped up to grasp a hold of his mother’s errant curl.