5.18pm
"Hang on, Merry – left a bit! no, right. Down there... ow! Did you just scratch me or something?"
"Honestly, Frodo, one could get the idea that you don't trust me," said Merry, trying not to smile. "Even Grandpa Rory used to get me to rub Mum's cold lotion into his sunburn. He said I had the gentlest touch of any hobbit in Buckland." He took another splodge of cream from the worn pot beside him. "If it feels like I'm scratching you that's because your right shoulder is absolutely roasted. Even your freckles have burned. And there are at least three times as many of those as there were last time I saw you without your shirt. What have you been up to, Frodo? Fatty and Folco told me that you've stayed in most of the past week, so I clearly can't blame them."
"Well Fatty and Folco are wrong," said Frodo, gritting his teeth as Merry proceeded on to his left shoulder. "I went for an all-day hike the day before yesterday. Those lazy-bones were too busy resting in the garden and bothering Sam to notice me."
"So of course you stripped off your shirt because it was getting too hot," said Merry. "Frodo you really are..."
"It burned me through the shirt!" insisted Frodo, visibly wincing. "I think there must be red-head in the Bagginses somewhere. And I always thought that Lotho was pure Sackville!" he winced again.
"Well now," said Merry, lightly throwing Frodo's shirt back to him and smiling at him a little, "this will teach you to go for day-long hikes in August and get burned when you have relatives staying. It's not at all polite. You should have waited for the others."
"I'm allowed to go walking by myself, Merry," said Frodo, crossly.
"Yes, of course you are," said Merry, puzzled by the reaction. Then suddenly put a hand to his head, stricken by an image of how very, very far Frodo could walk away from them all if he had a mind. Now pulling his shirt on with an unbecomingly sulky air, the dear old hobbit looked as though he were already miles away from Bag End and the things of home. Miles away even from the Shire. Miles and miles and uncounted miles away from his foolish young cousin, still trying to pretend he did not pine for days when Frodo Baggins was the elder brother to make up for all those elder brothers of which early graves had robbed him, and Meriadoc Brandybuck was allowed to be a child, careless and companionable, and did not have to work and think and neglect his friends and be serious and solemn and make Buckland thrive as never before because otherwise his father's failures would count for something and people would know...
And then were was a hand on his shoulder, and Frodo was guiding him to an armchair, and looking into his face with passionate concern in those weary brown eyes. And Merry noticed that in own eyes the tears were blossoming, running down his own face, even on to his neck and inside his shirt. Stranger still, he was sobbing. Frodo crouched beside him, and waited.
"I'm tired," said Merry at last. "It's hard, Frodo. Very hard. And it's been so long. I hardly know Pippin anymore, let alone Folco and Fatty, and it's all my fault. Or..." and for an instance he nearly spoke his fears for Frodo aloud, but some wisdom stronger than himself prevented it. Sobs were safer, and anyway here again they came. And Frodo gathered him into his arms, just as if they were still brothers in Buckland, brothers of the Brandywine despite the gap in their ages, and even old Bilbo Baggins and young Peregrin Took were nothing in comparison.
"I know," soothed Frodo. "I know. And," he added, passing Merry one of those beautiful handkerchiefs that had once belonged to Bilbo, "so does Pippin. I told him. Don't fret, Merry. He cares about you far more than you think he does. He even knows what very few hobbits apart from you and I and your mother know: why you are seen working in the fields or visiting the tenants every day of the year, and missing festivities to tot up the accounts in Brandy Hall, when your father was known to be abed and senseless an hour before. And why you will only drink small ale except at parties, and not much that's stronger even then, and why you make up for it by consuming half the pipeweed in the Eastfarthing. And why you will never wager money on even the smallest trifle. And why you neglect friends who until old Rory died were the dearest thing on earth to you."
Merry gripped the arms of the chair, suddenly nauseous. But Frodo's voice was persistent, and gentle.
"Merry, we know. Well," he added, a trifle awkwardly, "not Folco so much. But Pippin, Fatty and I: we know. And we understand. And we think the world of you for doing what you do for Buckland. Though remind me to have a word with you after supper about the art of delegating. I'm not much good at it myself, but..."
Merry gave half a chuckle and tried to smile. "I'm dreadful at it," he admitted. "Some of my cousins – Berilac, for instance – would be happy to do more, I know. But I'm afraid. I see them drinking and I wonder which of them..." he stopped himself. That way lay things he could never say, not even to himself. Better to change the subject. "Why not Folco, incidentally?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Why tell Fatty but not Folco? He's always seemed pretty steady – steadier than Fatty at least. And I know him just as well as I know Fatty, probably almost as well as I know Pippin these days."
"If you think that then you certainly don't know Fatty that well. Folco is steady, and reliable, you're right. But Fatty..." he pondered. "Fatty is something else. Don't underestimate him. He's been horribly spoiled all his life and he plays the fool because he finds it easier than relying on himself. But he's worth something, and one day Master Fredegar Bolger will realise that. And so will his parents and his sister, and Folco, and all. I hope I'm there when it happens. It will be wonderful."
Merry chewed his lip awkwardly. "Frodo, I've been a terrible idiot."
"Well, that doesn't surprise me," said Frodo. "In general, do you mean, or specifically today?"
Merry snorted, then shook his head as though clearing cobwebs from his brain.
"I keep getting upset. About Pippin, and, well, you know. That our friendship isn't what it once was. Only I've been convincing myself that the problem is really jealousy of his drawing abilities – all your drawing abilities – or frustration that he isn't quite the young scamp that I always wanted him to be. That kind of thing. And of course the one thing that I could have done that might have helped is taken him aside and talked to him, and that's the one thing I haven't done. I've talked to everyone else." He put a hand over his face, and then smiled. "As I said. A terrible idiot."
Frodo leaned forward and squeezed Merry's shoulder. "Yes, Merry," he said. "You really are an idiot."
But there was a grin in his voice, and Merry found himself smiling too.
Frodo stood up. "Pippin gave me something to give to you," he said. "Actually his exact words were: please give this to my silly old cousin when he finally comes to his senses. So, here you are."
He reached behind his desk and pulled out a large board folder, held together tenuously with a frayed blue ribbon and almost leaking paper.
"It's Pippin's portfolio," said Frodo. "Pippin's sisters and I are only allowed to look through it if he's looking over our shoulders. Fatty and Folco have been shown specific drawings, but no more. And no one else knows about it. He says you're to take it to your room and open it there, and look to your heart's content. You can give it back to him tomorrow or the next day."
Merry could not speak. He took the portfolio and stood still, moved beyond words.
"There's another, smaller folder inside it," said Frodo. "Or perhaps more of an envelope. I haven't seen it. I only know about it because Pippin told me earlier today. It contains pictures that Pippin has never shown to anybody, and that you're to tell no one about. Not even me. He says... don't start, Merry. He says that he hopes you like them."
8.34pm
"Ah, Merry, there you are. Gosh, you really have found the most perfect place to be."
"Have I, Pip?"
"Yes."
The most perfect place to be was a patch of grass on The Hill above Bag End, one of the few not dried up in the August heat. During the morning it caught the edge of the shadow cast by Bilbo's party tree and this, it seemed, was enough. From here much of Hobbiton and Bywater were visible. Over the fields to the west the sun was setting. A delicate, rosy-pink sunset. A Hobbiton sunset, thought Merry. Picture-perfect. I miss Buckland.
Approximately five seconds later he sneezed. Pippin was tickling his nose with a grass stem.
"Gerroff."
Pippin chuckled. Then he said, "Have you got a light? I think Fatty has stolen my flint."
Merry rolled his eyes, then sat up and drew his tinder box from his jacket pocket. Pippin took it gratefully.
They lit their pipes in silence, and Merry propped himself back on his elbows. The sunset was darkening, accompanied by a smattering of small clouds. Not just rosy now. In places the sky was almost green.
"Now that's more like it," said Pippin, pointing with his pipe at the sky. "Sometimes I think all of Hobbiton's in this rather dull haze of prettiness. But that's a fine sunset. Worthy of the best you can see from the hills near Tuckborough. Not a bad view for it either." He began to stare intently at the sunset and the village spread before them much as old Grandpa Rory would have examined a prize bull. "I might try and sketch from here tomorrow. I can't mix colours like those quite yet, but I bet I could with the new oils Frodo's promised me for his birthday. Then I could buy a big, big, big piece of canvas from Blund's in Michel Delving and make a project of it. A proper oil painting from The Hill!" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "What do you think? If I get it finished by my next birthday it could be a present. For Frodo, maybe – or for you." He took an earnest puff on his pipe and looked at Merry, his eyes alight and his face almost beautiful with unguarded enthusiasm. "Or perhaps you'd prefer something of Buckland?"
Merry heard himself muttered something vaguely appreciative, as Pippin turned back to peer once more at the steadily darkening sunset, puffing again on his pipe with the abstracted air of a hobbit three times his age. Or even five times his age. The air of Bilbo, in fact.
And then Merry drew upon his own pipe, and began to laugh.
Pippin started, and turned around angrily. "What?" he demanded.
Merry tried not to smile but there it came again. He touched his young cousin's arm. "Poor Pippin," he said. "I'm terribly sorry. I'm not laughing at you. Just at the world, or the world as it is this evening, or something. I've spent all day feeling bad about things, and now I don't. I really don't. And," he added, suddenly tired of being serious, "Frodo's spent the whole of supper telling me about this incredible thing he calls delegating, and talking to me in this wise learned way as though he hadn't spent the whole of his time in Buckland stealing vegetables, playing terrible pranks on unsuspecting relatives, and trying to lead me astray. I wouldn't mind but half of what he says makes a great deal of sense. Oh, and I'd love you to."
"To what?" asked Pippin.
"Paint me a view of Buckland. It would mean a great deal to me. Somehow I've given up seeing it as beautiful. Let me see it through your eyes, Pip."
Pippin nodded, but then frowned. "I don't suppose you looked at that big portfolio thing of mine, did you? Frodo mentioned that he would pass it on to you but, well. I wasn't sure that you'd be interested."
Merry turned to his companion, feeling the smile drain from his own face. "Why do you say that?"
Pippin shrugged. "I don't know. Perhaps because I was afraid that you wouldn't and I don't like being disappointed."
Merry took a long pull at his pipe. "I've disappointed you a lot in recent years, haven't I, Pippin." It wasn't really a question. Pippin stared straight ahead and seemed to ponder it for a moment.
"I know it's not your fault, Merry," he said at last. "It's because of Uncle Saradoc and... and things. Frodo has spoken to me about it. Quite a few times, actually. And I love you for doing what you do, and working so hard and keeping Buckland going and never once complaining. But I wish you did complain," he added, flushing. "It's not fair. And I can't help feeling a bit hurt about seeing so little of you for so long. I can't help it. I miss you."
"Yes, I know," said Merry. Then he turned to face Pippin, almost fiercely. "Your portfolio is incredible, Pippin. I thought the others were exaggerating when they said how good you are. It's quite extraordinary. If you weren't your father's son I'd be fighting half the wealthy families in the Shire for who got to be your patron. It's a shame in a way that you'll never be able to do it as more than a hobby. You're one of the most gifted artists of your generation."
Pippin blushed. "There was a large envelope in the portfolio. For your eyes only. Two sets of paintings, one in oils and one in watercolour. Did... did Frodo give you those?"
"Yes, he did," said Merry, softly.
The envelope had not contained Pippin's best work, but what Merry had found within had still been strikingly good. And astonishing. Mostly Pippin drew from life. There was no way that the secret paintings had been. There were dragons, forests, mountains, monsters. Glorious, outrageous creations that filled the canvas. Intricate designs full of strange and improbable shapes that somehow twisted into a recognisable image. Illustrations from Bilbo's stories and poems, landscapes of fairytale that Merry had never fully imagined, realised before him on the page. How Pippin had visualised them so richly Merry could not guess. They were beautiful, bewildering, brilliant...
"Well I would like to tell you what I think about those pictures, Pippin," he said, "but you'd get far too big-headed. So I shan't."
"I'll assume then that you think they're masterpieces and that I'm a genius," smiled Pippin.
"Do so."
It was growing dark, and colder. Below them the villagers of Hobbiton were lighting their lamps. Merry refilled his pipe.
"One day Frodo's going to go after Bilbo," said Pippin suddenly. His voice was only a murmur but in the evening hush it sounded loud as a bell. "You know that, don't you."
Merry stared at him. "Yes, Pippin" he said, hoarsely. "Yes, I do know that."
"Are you and I going to let him go off alone?"
Merry saw again in his mind Frodo travelling alone, travelling so far, far away from them all. He shivered. "No. No, we're not," he said, with growing resolution. "Not alone. Is that what the pictures are about, Peregrin?" he asked.
"Partly."
There was a pause, and then Pippin spoke again. "Fatty's reliable, you know."
Merry pondered this. "So Frodo told me. I believe Sam is too."
"Yes," said Pippin, "yes, I suppose he is."
Merry was cold, and tired. One night's walking in the company of friends had exhausted him. And what he could possibly be good for in a long adventure he could not imagine.
He stood up. "When he goes," he said. "When Frodo goes we will go too. All of us. Wherever the road leads us, we'll follow it with him."
He could just make out Pippin crinkling his eyes. "Well, Merry," he said, "I think that's settled."
And so it was. And so they walked down the Hill together, into the light and warmth and laughter of Frodo's kitchen, at 9 o'clock in the evening on the 20th of September in the year 1413 of the Shire Reckoning.
