Firewood
by Auntkimby
Chapter Three: Through the Kitchen Window: Lobelia’s Perspective
Part I
It was nearly four o’clock by the time Sam
finally stopped for a few moments’ rest. “Lor’, this tree is large
enough to keep five hobbits occupied for a week, much less one,” he
sighed as he mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. His stomach
rumbled angrily and Sam patted it regretfully. “I’m sorry, lad, but I
brought nothin’ to give you. I know I’m usually not so neglectful, but
I fully expected Mistress Lobelia to send me packin’ right off, an’ I
didn’t think to bring ought for my tea. So you’ll just have to wait,
painful though that will be for us both.”
At that moment, the back door banged open,
and Lobelia Sackville-Baggins strode out of the smial carrying a
covered plate and a pint-sized tin bucket.
“Though you’re working for naught, I could
hardly deny you tea as well, though you’ll have to have it out here.
I’ll not have any sweaty Gamgee tromping through my kitchen.” She set
the plate and the bucket with a clatter on a little stone bench next to
one of the flower beds. “It’s nothing much, and more than I can spare,
I think. All that wealth buried in the cellars of Bag End and your
master cannot spare one penny for me.”
Sam’s gratitude for the unexpected meal was
overshadowed by anger at Lobelia’s continued tirades against Mr. Frodo.
Sam knew for a fact that had the Sackville-Bagginses treated Mr. Bilbo
and later Mr. Frodo properly, they would never have lacked for anything
at any time. However, judging by Lobelia’s girth and the condition of
the house and gardens, she was hardly tottering on the brink of
starvation and financial ruin.
Sam swallowed his annoyance and said
quietly, “Thank you for the tea, Mistress Lobelia. I was rather hungry,
and it does smell wonderful.”
Something flickered briefly behind Lobelia’s
cold green eyes, and then disappeared. “Just leave the dishes when
you’re finished; I’ll get them later,” she grumbled, and then she
turned and walked back inside without another word. Sam shook his head
and laid aside the axe before he walked over to the bench and sat down.
Lobelia had fixed an omelet stuffed with melted cheese and mushrooms,
three thick slices of toast with butter, a little dish of quartered
peaches, and a healthy wedge of pie. The tin bucket was filled with
tea, bitter-strong and very sweet. She’d gone to some trouble to make
this and Sam’s eyes were wide with astonishment. He quickly put the
food where it would do the most good, and sighed with contentment when
he had finished. Whatever else she might be, Lobelia knew how much it
took to fill a hobbit lad’s stomach, and for all her pronouncements of
poverty, she had not skimped on the provisions. He drained the last of
the tea, neatly stacked the dish, cutlery and bucket on the bench and
draped the napkin on top of them. Fully refreshed, he returned to the
tree and worked until the sun had begun to lower in the sky.
“Will you return tomorrow then?”
Sam jumped when Lobelia suddenly spoke at his
elbow. “If you wish it, Mistress Lobelia. I must see to a few things
around my own home, and then up at Bag End, but I could be here around
the same time tomorrow. If it rains, shall I come anyway? Is there
something that needs done in the house?”
“No, only outside, so if it rains you can
stay home and count potatoes, if it makes you happy.” She dismissed him
with a curt wave of her hand and went back inside.
Not a word of thanks, but Sam had neither
expected nor wanted any. He put the axe and saw back into the tool
shed, gave Posey a goodbye pat, and set off for Number Three Bagshot
Row.
Marigold pounced on him as soon as he walked
in the door. “Oh, there you are, our Sam! I was worried about you!” She
flung her arms around her brother’s neck and he patted her back
awkwardly. “Why were you worried, lass? I’m just fine, as you can see.
I’ve not washed up yet, so I don’t know if you ought to be huggin’ me
an’ gettin’ your pretty frock dirty,” he teased.
“She accepted your help then, lad?” Hamfast Gamgee asked from his seat by the kitchen hearth.
“Aye, she did,” Sam said, “after much
grumblin’ and questionin’ my motives. A huge oak fell in her back yard
after that storm last Tuesday, an’ she set me to chopping it up into
firewood. It will take me until Mr. Frodo returns to finish the job,
and perhaps not even then. I promised I’d do my best. She fed me a
right nice tea, though- I still feel comfortable inside and it’s been
three hours since I ate it.”
Marigold pouted, “So you won’t want supper then? I’m making a pork roast.”
Sam laughed. “Marigold me dear, I said I was comfortable, not dead. There’s always room for your pork roast.”
She beamed at him and disappeared into the
pantry to get the onions and potatoes she would add to the roast. Sam
moved into his bedroom to wash up and change his shirt, and his Gaffer
followed him. “Did she give you such a hard time, Sam my lad?” he
asked.
Sam scrubbed his face with a rag. “She gave
me no more than she gives anyone else, Da, and certainly not as she
gives Mr. Frodo. I think she was grateful, in her way, for she went to
some trouble in fixin’ my tea. She’d never let me know it, though.”
“So you’ll be goin’ back tomorrow?”
“Aye, after my chores here an’ at Bag End- I
told her I would.” Sam dried his face and chest with a towel and
slipped on a clean homespun shirt. “I think she’s a lonely, bitter
soul, Da, but one that still appreciates beautiful things. You should
see her garden…she knows flowers, and she minds her bit of earth
well-though she’s got it all walled in by a hedge. No one who shows
such care in tendin’ her gardens herself can be all bad.” He added with
genuine admiration, “She’s got to be ninety-five if she’s a day-meanin’
no offense, Da- and she takes as good care of her home and her property
as a lass half her age. The tree was a little beyond her, though, so
she was willing enough to turn that over to me.”
The aged Gaffer looked at his youngest son
with eyes filled with love. “Our Sam, you couldn’t see evil in a troll,
I don’t think.”
“Only if the troll liked roses,” Sam said with a straight face, and they laughed together.
Lobelia Sackville-Baggins stood at her
kitchen sink and slowly washed the single cup, plate and saucer that
Sam had seen earlier in the day. She’d had only a bit of leftover stew
and a slice of the bread that Marigold Gamgee had baked; she had to
admit that the lass produced a fine loaf for one so young. The old
hobbit gazed out her kitchen window into the back yard, now tinged with
alternating hues of pink and yellow as the sun completed its descent
below the horizon. It now seemed doubly empty and silent since the
Gamgee lad had gone home. For five hours he had labored for her,
despite her sharp tongue, and she had heard him singing as he worked to
chop up the tree and stack the wood. Lobelia sank into Otho’s chair by
the fire, propped her feet on the stool, and nursed a cup of tea while
she gazed moodily into the flames. Samwise Gamgee’s presence at her
door and in her yard that afternoon had awakened memories in her heart
that she had struggled seventy years to forget. The sight of Sam’s
kind, open face, earnest deep brown eyes, and sandy-brown curls had
evoked visions of another young hobbit…many years ago, when she was
young.
Lobelia closed her eyes. Ah, yes, she had been young once, even beautiful…