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…