His father sat down in the old armchair with a sigh, and laid back to rest.
He turned back to the tray before him and lifted the teapot to pour the steaming liquid into the cups. Ever so carefully; mustn't spill a drop.
'You should be glad I didn't make you work in the garden today lad,' his father said, in a voice that was full of weariness. 'I'd 'ave been glad of the help mind you, I am old, but your back wouldn' ave' taken it.'
His eyes never left the cups, making sure that not a drop was wasted, and each cup was filled appropriately. He gave all his concentration to the tray in front of him, but saved some for his father and listened dutifully.
'I stopped in to have a word with Mr. Frodo during your break...'
He lifted the worn silver spoon from its place on the tray and set it into the cup. He started turning it around in the hot liquid, starting to count.
'He seemed out of sorts, I'd deem, acted off-hand like to me, like I'd done somet'in' wrong.'
Hand shook and metal clinked against cracked and chipped porcelain, worn down through long year's use. He swallowed and breathed, and resumed stirring.
'I'd say he was acting a bit queer, like one of his Brandybuck cousins he homed up with before he came to the row. Not at all like dear Mr. Bilbo!'
'He seems to be nice enough sir. He may well have been out of sorts, and felt sad today.' He finally replied, taking care to be courteous and respectful.
'Well people can seem to be all kinds of things lad, just you be careful how close you get to him. Folks like him often pretend to care about you, when really all they want is a job done.' His father gave him a probing stare. 'You mind how you go tomorrow when his cousins come to stay.'
He finished stirring and added milk to his own cup. His father didn't take milk. Carefully he took his fathers' cup and carried it steadily over to where his father sat.
His father took the cup gingerly, gauging the temperature by the heat he felt through the porcelain, and took a sip. After what seemed like an eternity his father sat the tea out with a face of disgust that was quickly changing to anger.
'Ninnyhammer! By the lands what did I ever do to get landed with a dolt like you?' Can't even make a simple cup of tea right!'
Golden eyes full of confusion gazed down at his father, great incomprehension displayed on his face.
'What? But I did everything! I stirred it right, and I didn't add milk...'
'Did you remember the canemill?'
Eyes widened and looked back to the tray, staring at the sugar jar that sat there, unopened.
He heard the crash before he felt it. Turning back to his father he saw that his hands were empty.
Porcelain shattered, flying everywhere and a few pieces found their way into his legs, biting through the thin cloth of his breeches and eating into his skin. Then the rising brown liquid splashed against the floor and came rising up like a fountain against ankles and shins, soaking through his breeches and scalding his flesh. He bit back his cry and crouched down to pick up the broken pieces of the cup.
'Is it really too much for a wearied father to come home from a hard days' work and expect a nice cup of tea waitin' for him?' He shook his head in reply.
His father struck him then in the only place exposed to him.
His back.
Flames licked and danced their way across his back and he could not bite back his cry this time. He threw his head back and roared with agony.
'If you make any mistakes on dinner tonight, you'll get much worse than that! Now finish cleaning this mess up and keep out of sight for a while!'
He finished picking up the remains of the mug and took them out into the kitchen where the bin sat. He then picked up a rag laying on the tabletop and went back into the room. His fathers' eyes were closed and his breathing was easy, but he could tell from the silence of his snores that his father had not yet dozed off yet. Silently he mopped up the spill, and set the cloth on the tray and carried it away into the kitchen.
He emptied out the remainder of the teapot, and of his cup, not feeling like drinking it now. He washed and dried up, tidying all the items away in their cupboards and drawers.
He sat down at the table and sighed, thinking of what to cook for dinner tonight. The Gamgees' were poor, and could never afford any of the more appetising foods, so he was always forced to make the simplest of foods pleasant for his father and himself.
Earlier that month he had asked to cook lunch for Frodo and he had accepted. He had been a little lost in their larder, seeing so many wonderful ingredients that he had not seen, but heard about, and he was a little nervous about cooking something he had never attempted before, but the look on Frodos' face as he too his first bite made it all worthwhile.
Aware of a throbbing pain in his legs he looked down to see that his breeches had become bloodstained. He sighed and walked out to the bathroom, where he set about removing the shards and bathing his wounds.
As he tended to his wounds, the words of his father flooded through his mind. 'Folks like him often pretend to care about you when they want a job done.' After he had confided in Frodo, Frodo had got him to tidy the study, and then the front room, and to take down the curtains for washing. Had he just wanted a job to done? 'You mind how you go tomorrow when his cousins come to stay.' He sighed. Meriadoc was just two years younger than he was, and most likely more carefree, but he was more worried about young Peregrin Took, aged just 10. It seemed likely that the job would fall to him to mind the lad and make sure that Pippin didn't stray to far. The thought did not exactly bring joy to his heart.
He felt bruised all over, and now his legs were sore as well as his back. At his age he should be full of energy, more than ready to indulge Pippin in a game or two, but he had none, save for when he was in front of an oven.
Looking up he watched his reflection in the mirror. His brown eyes were sad, and dull, with bags underneath, barely noticeable. The bruise under his right eye had almost healed, and the cut had now disappeared, leaving a brown scab. His hair lay in weak curls about his face, and around his neck; the bright golden highlights seeming out of place on his simple head.
He blinked, staring hard into the glass. For the briefest of moments he thought he could see the beautiful vision of his mother staring back at him, but like the flicker of an image in the flame, it had gone.
He missed his mother terribly. Things had been so good when she was there. His father was pleasant mostly; if not a little irritable sometimes but he was never this bad. His brothers and sisters' all lived in the smial with him, now his brothers' had all moved out and found jobs, and his sisters stayed with his aunt, and Rosie...
Rosie.
He allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he thought about the fair- haired beauty that he had seen the other week down at the market. As a lad of 12 he would often play with the lass, and with her brothers down at the lake. But when his mother had passed his father forbade his weekly hour of fun, and so Sam had not seen Rosie since.
Until last week. In the year since he had last seen her, the lass of 13 had grown taller, and filled out in all the right places, looking every bit the stunning beauty she ought to be. Her eyes sparkled like the running streams, and her hair was golden like the finest honey.
His smile faded as he stared at his own reflection. Something as beautiful as Rosie had no business as hanging about a simple gardener, with simple looks and mind to match, so he didn't ought to entertain any such thoughts.
Those, being the words of his Gaffer, and Sam, in his broken self-esteem and melancholy, believed him.
He turned back to the tray before him and lifted the teapot to pour the steaming liquid into the cups. Ever so carefully; mustn't spill a drop.
'You should be glad I didn't make you work in the garden today lad,' his father said, in a voice that was full of weariness. 'I'd 'ave been glad of the help mind you, I am old, but your back wouldn' ave' taken it.'
His eyes never left the cups, making sure that not a drop was wasted, and each cup was filled appropriately. He gave all his concentration to the tray in front of him, but saved some for his father and listened dutifully.
'I stopped in to have a word with Mr. Frodo during your break...'
He lifted the worn silver spoon from its place on the tray and set it into the cup. He started turning it around in the hot liquid, starting to count.
'He seemed out of sorts, I'd deem, acted off-hand like to me, like I'd done somet'in' wrong.'
Hand shook and metal clinked against cracked and chipped porcelain, worn down through long year's use. He swallowed and breathed, and resumed stirring.
'I'd say he was acting a bit queer, like one of his Brandybuck cousins he homed up with before he came to the row. Not at all like dear Mr. Bilbo!'
'He seems to be nice enough sir. He may well have been out of sorts, and felt sad today.' He finally replied, taking care to be courteous and respectful.
'Well people can seem to be all kinds of things lad, just you be careful how close you get to him. Folks like him often pretend to care about you, when really all they want is a job done.' His father gave him a probing stare. 'You mind how you go tomorrow when his cousins come to stay.'
He finished stirring and added milk to his own cup. His father didn't take milk. Carefully he took his fathers' cup and carried it steadily over to where his father sat.
His father took the cup gingerly, gauging the temperature by the heat he felt through the porcelain, and took a sip. After what seemed like an eternity his father sat the tea out with a face of disgust that was quickly changing to anger.
'Ninnyhammer! By the lands what did I ever do to get landed with a dolt like you?' Can't even make a simple cup of tea right!'
Golden eyes full of confusion gazed down at his father, great incomprehension displayed on his face.
'What? But I did everything! I stirred it right, and I didn't add milk...'
'Did you remember the canemill?'
Eyes widened and looked back to the tray, staring at the sugar jar that sat there, unopened.
He heard the crash before he felt it. Turning back to his father he saw that his hands were empty.
Porcelain shattered, flying everywhere and a few pieces found their way into his legs, biting through the thin cloth of his breeches and eating into his skin. Then the rising brown liquid splashed against the floor and came rising up like a fountain against ankles and shins, soaking through his breeches and scalding his flesh. He bit back his cry and crouched down to pick up the broken pieces of the cup.
'Is it really too much for a wearied father to come home from a hard days' work and expect a nice cup of tea waitin' for him?' He shook his head in reply.
His father struck him then in the only place exposed to him.
His back.
Flames licked and danced their way across his back and he could not bite back his cry this time. He threw his head back and roared with agony.
'If you make any mistakes on dinner tonight, you'll get much worse than that! Now finish cleaning this mess up and keep out of sight for a while!'
He finished picking up the remains of the mug and took them out into the kitchen where the bin sat. He then picked up a rag laying on the tabletop and went back into the room. His fathers' eyes were closed and his breathing was easy, but he could tell from the silence of his snores that his father had not yet dozed off yet. Silently he mopped up the spill, and set the cloth on the tray and carried it away into the kitchen.
He emptied out the remainder of the teapot, and of his cup, not feeling like drinking it now. He washed and dried up, tidying all the items away in their cupboards and drawers.
He sat down at the table and sighed, thinking of what to cook for dinner tonight. The Gamgees' were poor, and could never afford any of the more appetising foods, so he was always forced to make the simplest of foods pleasant for his father and himself.
Earlier that month he had asked to cook lunch for Frodo and he had accepted. He had been a little lost in their larder, seeing so many wonderful ingredients that he had not seen, but heard about, and he was a little nervous about cooking something he had never attempted before, but the look on Frodos' face as he too his first bite made it all worthwhile.
Aware of a throbbing pain in his legs he looked down to see that his breeches had become bloodstained. He sighed and walked out to the bathroom, where he set about removing the shards and bathing his wounds.
As he tended to his wounds, the words of his father flooded through his mind. 'Folks like him often pretend to care about you when they want a job done.' After he had confided in Frodo, Frodo had got him to tidy the study, and then the front room, and to take down the curtains for washing. Had he just wanted a job to done? 'You mind how you go tomorrow when his cousins come to stay.' He sighed. Meriadoc was just two years younger than he was, and most likely more carefree, but he was more worried about young Peregrin Took, aged just 10. It seemed likely that the job would fall to him to mind the lad and make sure that Pippin didn't stray to far. The thought did not exactly bring joy to his heart.
He felt bruised all over, and now his legs were sore as well as his back. At his age he should be full of energy, more than ready to indulge Pippin in a game or two, but he had none, save for when he was in front of an oven.
Looking up he watched his reflection in the mirror. His brown eyes were sad, and dull, with bags underneath, barely noticeable. The bruise under his right eye had almost healed, and the cut had now disappeared, leaving a brown scab. His hair lay in weak curls about his face, and around his neck; the bright golden highlights seeming out of place on his simple head.
He blinked, staring hard into the glass. For the briefest of moments he thought he could see the beautiful vision of his mother staring back at him, but like the flicker of an image in the flame, it had gone.
He missed his mother terribly. Things had been so good when she was there. His father was pleasant mostly; if not a little irritable sometimes but he was never this bad. His brothers and sisters' all lived in the smial with him, now his brothers' had all moved out and found jobs, and his sisters stayed with his aunt, and Rosie...
Rosie.
He allowed himself the smallest of smiles as he thought about the fair- haired beauty that he had seen the other week down at the market. As a lad of 12 he would often play with the lass, and with her brothers down at the lake. But when his mother had passed his father forbade his weekly hour of fun, and so Sam had not seen Rosie since.
Until last week. In the year since he had last seen her, the lass of 13 had grown taller, and filled out in all the right places, looking every bit the stunning beauty she ought to be. Her eyes sparkled like the running streams, and her hair was golden like the finest honey.
His smile faded as he stared at his own reflection. Something as beautiful as Rosie had no business as hanging about a simple gardener, with simple looks and mind to match, so he didn't ought to entertain any such thoughts.
Those, being the words of his Gaffer, and Sam, in his broken self-esteem and melancholy, believed him.