Chapter 9. Second Breakfasts
Laurel Boffin was already tired, and it was barely sunrise. She’d been up in the middle night, or so it felt, though properly the Widow arose precisely between middle night and dawn and put on the teakettle before calling for Laurel. The young tween had dressed hurriedly, then gulped down her tea and wolfed (she stopped to savour the word, savage it sounded, as savage as she felt at the moment) down several current buns with butter and honey. Then she’d laboured for hours, first milking the goats and then gathering the eggs.
The only bright spot was that whilst the lass took care of the hard physical labour that was beyond the Widow’s strength, “Auntie” Petunia would have been stirring up a feast for second breakfast that would have shamed the Head Cook back home at the Manse. If she were home now, Laurel thought, torn between resentment and wistfulness, she might just now be stretching in her featherbed with its covers of eiderdown and soft pillows and silken-smooth bedlinens. She might be thinking of rising... or she just as likely might roll over and pull the covers up, to sleep another hour or three.
Laurel came from the First Family of Waymeet. Her father, Folco, owned the mead-works there, and Way-Mead was generally acknowledged as the best in the Shire, having taken top honours at the Lithedays Faire for more years than the Old Took had boasted when he was finally laid to rest. Folco imported honey from all over the Shire – only the best honey. Like his father before him, he was away from home for weeks every year, travelling to various farms to sample their honey before deciding which he’d purchase for his stocks for the mead-works that year.
The farmers and their families welcomed him warmly and made him feel at home... so much so, that he’d decided his only daughter would benefit from the wholesome atmosphere to be found on one of the farms that he regularly visited. When, with the advent of Springtide this year, Laurel’s governess had unexpectedly married and given her notice, Folco had been faced with finding another suitable companion and teacher for his motherless lass, for he’d soon be leaving on his honey-buying rounds and would be gone until Autumn was nearly ready to give way to Winter. In the end, he made certain arrangements for Laurel that would keep her safe, he hoped, and provide an education of sorts for her while he had to be away.
Her first few weeks away from the Manse had been both interesting and informative. Though a little uncertain at first, she had soon established her place within the large and boisterous Sandheaver family. Along the way, she had found the farm chores interesting and leavened with fun and frolics on the part of the young hobbits in the family. They never shirked their responsibilities or grumbled. Laurel’s good friend Dahlia would have called them “disgustingly cheerful”, as a matter of fact.
Oddly enough, she had missed Dahlia’s company and acid wit less and less as she became accustomed to her temporary home. Besides caring for goats and farm fowl, she’d nurtured potted plants on the windowsills, learned to cultivate and harvest herbs, and more. She found sewing on buttons and mending holes and seams much more interesting than trying to stitch an intricate pattern that would likely be folded and stored in a chest when finished. She took to knitting like a duck to water, eyeing the delicate knitted lace her “sister” was creating with the ambition to refine her skills to the point where she could herself turn out such lovely work and create her own patterns. (How Dahlia would have laughed at such an idea!)
Then word had come that old Uncle Agaricus had died, leaving Auntie Petunia alone and lonely. Bertie Sandheaver had promised his great-uncle that he’d find a tenant to run the farm for the old couple, but he’d been occupied with spring ploughing and sowing on his own land and hadn’t begun the search... and now Auntie was in desperate straits, needing help for a fortnight, or perhaps as much as a month! ...until he could find a suitable companion for the sweet old lady.
Bertie sat down the whole family at table for a discussion of the matter. He was of a mind to send one of his children along as a helper – except that each had his or her own function that kept the farm running smoothly, and taking one or two of them away would throw an extra load on the others, and right at planting time!
Laurel looked around the table at the sober faces, tear-streaked at the news of Great-uncle’s passing, and it occurred to her that she was the only superfluous “member” of this kind and welcoming family, and that she could bless them in return for the many blessings they had showered upon her in the past weeks. She raised her hand. ‘“Uncle” Bertie?’ she said.
‘Yes, my lass?’ Bertie said, and despite his sadness, he could still find a smile for the tween.
‘I can go... I can help,’ Laurel said. ‘I’d like to help! It’s just animals, isn’t it? A few goats to milk, and gathering eggs, and feeding and cleaning and home chores and such! You’ve all taught me so much since I’ve come... if you think I know enough to help Auntie Petunia, then I’d be honoured to be allowed to do so.’
Her reward had been to see beaming smiles spread across her “Uncle” and “Aunt’s” tear-washed faces, while she basked in the cheers raised by the children, from the smallest, a faunt, to the oldest, a tween who’d reach his majority next year.
And now... ‘Out of your own mouth you have it,’ she muttered to herself, quoting an old book she’d read once after taking it off a shelf in her father’s library at random. Inside the cover was the inscription, “For FOLCO BOFFIN, from Bilbo, who thought you could benefit from a little more magic in your life”. The book had seemed rather outrageous to her, with its tales of adventures and heroes and skulduggery. (“skulduggery”, she murmured to herself. Such a satisfyingly evocative word!)
Two more weeks. Surely she could cope with the burdens imposed upon a serving-maid and surrogate daughter for another fortnight?
But she was tired. And it was washday, meaning that after second breakfast, she would have to fill the washtub full of hot water that was currently heating in the copper boiler, and stir in soap, and then stir the clothing the Widow added, and fish it out again with the paddle, and dump it into the rinse tub. And then she’d help the Widow wring as much water out as they could manage. Thankfully, a neighbour came to empty the tubs, for they were too heavy even for a tween and an elderly hobbit working together to manage.
She sighed as she catalogued the rest of her chores for this morning. Whilst “Auntie” Petunia was pegging out the wash on the lines, it would be Laurel’s task to trundle wheelbarrows of hay to the byre, and make a pile of hay there in the stall, and take away the old hay and spread it on the kitchen garden, and then fill the racks on the goat-meadow.
Well, at least she’d sleep well tonight! And then the sound of the Widow banging on a metal pan sounded, bright and sharp on the morning air, and the tween laughed and shook off the rest of her ill humour. Second breakfast was on the table!
***
Sitting in the common room of The Green Dragon, Ferdibrand stretched and yawned. ‘That was such a delightful first breakfast,’ he said. ‘Added to early breakfast, that we ate before we set out in the wee hours, that makes two meals for today. Shall we start on our third meal now? Or later?’
‘They are serving second breakfast as you speak,’ Rudi replied, indicating a serving maid passing with a well-laden tray full of fresh-baked hand pies both savoury and sweet, from the delectable smells that reached their nostrils. ‘By later, are you referring to elevenses, perhaps?’
‘Elevenses!’ Ferdi said, affecting shock. ‘Why, that is some hours away, yet! I hope you are not suggesting that we let a fine-smelling second breakfast get away from us! Nay, I say! If the fish is nibbling on the line, one should always seek to set the hook!’ He scrutinised the tween. ‘Do not try to convince me that you are not about to perish of hunger.’
Rudi laughed. ‘As you observed just the other day, tweens are always hungry!’
Ferdi eyed him closely. ‘And is it true in your case, I wonder?’
‘To be honest, I don't know if I have ever heard any of your observations go amiss,’ Rudi said with a grin. ‘I even heard the Thain say once that your observational skills are exceptional, and that is what makes you the finest tracker in the Tookland.’
‘Flattery can be an effective tool for shaping the outcome you desire,’ Ferdi said, but then he shook his finger in Rudi’s face. ‘Just don’t make a habit of it.’
He waved to the server, and it was not too long before they were enjoying a freshly brewed pot of tea and two platters of hand pies, one piled high with sweet pies filled with fruit or custard and the other boasting savoury choices with hearty fillings of meat or fish or poultry and vegetables.
***
‘It’s lucky the food bag didn’t fall out of my basket when it went flying,’ Farry said as they hobbled slowly along. ‘Had it fallen in the ditch, all the food would have been spoilt with mud and water!’
‘Talk about mud pies,’ Goldi said. ‘I don’t fancy eating mud pies, though when I was younger, the idea didn’t seem to bother me so much.’
‘We made an awful lot of mud pies in our time,’ Farry reflected, sounding a bit like a gaffer reminiscing on the front stoop with a gammer of his acquaintance on a pleasant summer day.
They continued for a few more moments without speaking, perhaps pondering the passage of time, or days gone by. Or perhaps they were only thinking how far they’d come, and how much farther it was to reach the haystacks they were aiming for.
‘It’s lucky no waggons are on the Road right now,’ Goldi said at last.
‘No,’ Farry said. ‘I mean, yes, it’s lucky. No doubt they’d stop to help, and then our journey would be over just when we’ve barely started.’ But secretly, deep down inside, he was wishing for a waggon. Or Rudi and Uncle Ferdi to come along. Or someone.
He wondered what Goldi might be wishing for.
Hopping along on a sore ankle, even with Goldi propping him up with her shoulder, was hard work. More than that, Farry couldn’t seem to keep the tears of pain from leaking from his eyes. Nor could he suppress a grunt of pain with every step he took.
‘I’m sorry, Farry,’ Goldi said. ‘Do you want to stop and rest?’
‘What’re you sorry for?’ Farry gasped. ‘You’re not the one who fell into the ditch!’
‘I can be sorry that I cannot do more to help you,’ Goldi said.
At first, Faramir could find no answer to this sentiment. Finally, he said, ‘You’re doing a lot already.’ But the words sounded inadequate to him even as he spoke them.
‘My dad talked about how he wished he could do more for Mister Frodo, so many times along the way,’ Goldi said, keeping her eyes on the ground ahead of them to avoid any more stumbles or mishaps.
‘He did an awful lot!’ Farry protested. ‘Why, he probably carried a heavier pack than any of them because he thought to bring so many things that he hoped would please or astonish Frodo!’
‘All but rope,’ Goldi murmured. ‘He’s never quite forgiven himself for forgetting that.’
‘And yet, he had rope when they needed it most,’ Farry argued. ‘I remember when we were invited to tea, and he told about the elven rope, and how all was blackness in front of Frodo’s eyes after he slid down that slope – until your dad let down the rope, and it shone with a faint silver light in the darkness. And Frodo was able to grab it, and tie it around his waist, and your dad was able to pull him up to safety once more!’
‘My, you were listening!’ Goldi said, though Farry wasn’t sure whether her tone was admiring or mocking.
‘I always listen well when your dad tells stories,’ he confessed. And then he sagged against Goldi and said, ‘Can we stop a moment? Please?’
They rested, breathing together, for a long moment, long enough for Farry, in his wet and muddy clothes, to begin to feel the chill of the wind. At least the effort of moving was warming, somehow.
As if the chill weren’t bad enough, his companion noticed and remarked on it. ‘You’re shivering,’ Goldi observed.
Farry gritted his teeth and nodded. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Foot by foot, as my da told Uncle Merry...’ But he didn’t feel like resuming the argument about Uncle Merry and the Black Breath, and so he didn’t finish the thought.
They started their hobbling progress again.
‘It’s like my dad said to Mister Frodo, there in the Dark Lands,’ Goldi said. ‘He wished he could carry It for him, but he couldn’t – at least, not until he thought Shelob had killed his Master, and then he had to take It, or It would have fallen into the hands of the Enemy.’
‘That’s right,’ Farry said. ‘My da told me that part of the story. And that Mayor Sam could not carry the Ring, but he did end up carrying his Master for part of the way, when they were near the end.’ He glanced askance at her. ‘You’re not going to try to carry me, I hope?’
‘I’d probably drop you on your head,’ she said seriously. ‘On the other hand...’
Farry looked at her in astonishment. She wasn’t going to try to carry him, was she?
But Goldi pointed. ‘We’re nearly there,’ she said. ‘Not much farther.’
It felt like an eternity, as if they had walked halfway across Middle-earth from the Road to the nearest haystack, but at least they reached their refuge at last.
Though he wished he could drop to the ground then and there and stop moving and struggling and just rest, Farry insisted that they move around to the side of the haystack away from the Road to escape the notice of any casual observer who might see something awry with the hay after they’d burrowed into it.
A sharp metal clanging sounded somewhere nearby, and both children stilled momentarily and then practically dove into the hay without regard for sore ankles or anything else.
At last, they were hidden in the hay. It was shelter of sorts, for the stack was formed to shed water if it should rain, and the wind could no longer reach them. But Faramir still could not seem to get warm, and both ankles throbbed, and if he’d been only a few years younger, he would probably have cried for his mother.
Instead, he swallowed hard, clenched his hands into fists, and forced himself to speak naturally. ‘Well, I’d call that a good day’s effort! Are you hungry?’
‘I could eat an Oliphaunt!’ Goldi answered.
Farry rustled the food bag tucked inside his basket as if he were searching through it. ‘No Oliphaunts, I’m afraid,’ he said as lightly as his throbbing ankles would allow. ‘Would you settle for some bread and cheese?’
***