True Account of Iris Sandyman, baker and burglar
Preface: The begining
It astonishes me even now, that I am sitting down to write the story of my life. As this a story of my life I will start conventionally: at the beginning.
My life began on a hot day in mid-June, some hundred years ago in a little town in the Shire Lands called Michel Delving.
My parents were poor, but honest and hard-working Hobbits. Ianto and Flora (that was their given names) worked as a postman and odd-jobber and seamstress, respectively. The only event of real note in my early childhood, was the amount of female children my parents produced. There were seven of us, of which I was the eldest. This astonishing number of girls kept the gossips' (gossip is practically a sport for Hobbits) tongues busy wagging for quite some time. My parents took this fact in stride and made sure that each of us was made to feel special.
One of my first memories is of 'helping' my mother with my sister (eldest after myself) Hyacinth, take a bath. I was charged with finding a towel and washrag. Suffice to say, I performed my duties with efficiency and pride as only a toddler can. After Hyacinth was born came Azalea, Lily and Lilac, Ivy and finally, Marigold.
The first true sadness of my life occurred shortly after Marigold was born. My mother, fitting to her general disposition, died quietly in her sleep, of child-bed fever. My father soldiered on for our sake, though a little of his luminosity faded after she died. He lived solely for our sake- there was rent that had to be paid, food bought and children to raise. My poor father got little time to grieve properly. If he had had no children, I don't believe he would have waited long to join my mother once more.
We did live though and we were all happy. When I was about Twenty-Five I was accepted as apprentice to Missus Brown.
Missus Brown owned and operated a bakery. She was a plump widow, who was ever jolly and kindness itself. She was also the biggest gossip in our town. We worked well together: she gossiped and demonstrated, I listened and learned. Little things can bring us such joy in life.
For me, it was kneading bread dough, feeling flour between my fingers or arranging candied fruit on a cake just so. This was a pure kind of joy, I think, to do something you love to do (not to mention the lovely smell of baked goods) so that when you are tired at the end of the day and your hands ache- you can't help but smile.
Small moments, too, can bring both joy- and great sorrow.
A good friend of my father's had asked him to come out one summer day, to see a horse he had purchased. My father, Azalea and I walked along the path, asking riddles and smelling all of the flowers along the path. When we reached the pen where his friend waited, my father quickly voiced his concerns. Despite his friend's excellent deal he had made with the Man in Bree for the beast, he was still a Hobbit and this, was a fully grown horse. I had never seen a beast so big! He seemed twenty-feet tall to me. I was terrified. As the adults talked, I let my mind wander.
Azalea, also wandered. The paddock was short and not very well-made. She ducked inside quickly, unseen by any of us. Azalea had always loved all animals. What happened next is a blur- it was all over so quickly. My father jumped into the pen to grab my sister.
He shouted, which startled the horse, which reared and began stomping. He shoved my sister aside- in the fence, and the horse came down- and kicked my father. It bucked around, stepping on my father and then running off. My ears rang and my blood ran cold. I can't say for certain what happened after- but I do remember seeing both of them being carried in slings to the healer's home.
My father's head was broken open on one side. I never got to see him as he was laid out in the healer's home. He died after a series of fits, a few hours later. Azalea however, lived. Her back and legs were injured and she spent many months in the healer's home, but she lived. My sisters and I stayed together throughout, mourning together.
I won't bore you, reader, with the details of the arrangements made, the deals and so on as to our living arrangement. Suffice to say, our oldest male cousin, Tristram got the charge of us. His own home was not complete yet after my father's sudden death, and besides, he knew that separating us would have been the worst thing to do at that time. So he 'watched' us- and we got to stay in our rented smial. Time passed and slowly I felt myself again. I was responsible for my sisters- they were my world. So I worked, paid the rent (with help with my sisters old enough to work) and tried to keep everyone organized.
We were alright, but I knew that a change for the better for us was unlikely. Hobbit society is largely based on money and/or family. Families who have been wealthy for a long time- the landlords who live in private smials in Hobbiton and thereabouts, are who decides for everyone else. Women can own no property on their own- unless they are widows, spinsters (very rare indeed) or have a dowry from rich parents.
In short, something miraculous- or at least, very, very lucky, needed to happen to help us out of the situation that our family had been in for several generations. Little did I know, that a series of events were about to be set in motion, at nine o'clock, in the bakery, on a Tuesday morning.