Chapter Text
“And hungry as hunters, the Hobbit children,
The laughing-folk, the little people.”
—The Long List of the Ents
The sun rose on Bywater. It did it’s best to fight the chill that hung in the air, and which only promised to get worse as the month wore on. When the light struck the Pool it shattered into hundreds of dancing pieces, and lit up the rocks in the shallows at the water’s edge. It was one of those crisp September days, cool but not unpleasant. The frost that lined the dying leaves was already melting in the new sunlight, though only a few trees had started to put their autumn colours on. There was already life in the streets, as Hobbits dragged themselves from sleep and quietly set to their jobs, housework and breakfasts, every one as well-meaning and closeminded as any Hobbit to be found in the Shire.
A small queue had already organised itself by the pump at the west end of Pitcher Way. The group chatted openly, and each Hobbit had his or her mind focused almost entirely on their own life, as their day unfolded itself before them. None of them considered that their neighbour was thinking of themselves in exactly the same way. This was the way it had always been.
One Hobbit lass—her name was Lavender—was stood a little way away, waiting. After a while another Hobbit came along the road from the east side of Bywater with an empty bucket under one arm, a less empty basket in the crook of the other and a light, dancing step. Lavender smiled as the newcomer approached.
“You’re in good spirits, Meg,” she said. “You been at the drink?”
“Not yet,” Meg said as they made their way to the back of the queue. She rested her bucket on the ground and fumbled with the basket.
Lavender held her own basket out while Meg filled it with eggs. “You won’t be scything off your own foot then?”
Meg grinned. “Even I’m not that stupid. There’s eleven there, ‘cus the twelfth got stepped on. So that’s…” She looked up as if reading from an inner script. “Tuppence three farthings.”
Lavender produced four small bronze coins from a coin purse. “You worked that out quick,” she said, handing the coins over and settling the basket back on her arm. “For you.”
“I asked Clover afore I left the hole. She’s good at that sort of thing. Sorry about the broken one.”
“We’ll manage. How is Clover?”
Meg shrugged. “Don’t rightly know. She comes out with all this stuff I don’t properly understand…”
By now they’d reached the front of the queue. Lavender set her bucket beneath the spout and began to work the pump handle. “It’s not up to you to worry about Clover. Or any of them.”
Meg leaned against the pump and sighed. “Of course I’m worried. She’s my sister.”
Meg Delver was the eldest of twelve children. The result was that from a young age Meg had needed to become almost a second mother to the younger of her siblings. Lavender was the middle of three, and had never felt any particular responsibility towards her brother or her sister. Meg smiled sadly. “How’s your lot?”
“Much the same. Rose went to help mum with Mrs Appleton, and ended having to stay with her near the whole night. Poor thing’s still in bed.”
“Primrose, Mrs Appleton or the babe?”
Lavender chuckled. “All three, probably.”
“Lad or lass?”
“Lass. So some good came of it.” They switched places. Lavender heaved her full bucket out of the way, sloshing some of the water over the side.
“They were both all right, though, weren’t they?”
“Course they were. Wouldn’t be telling you about it otherwise.”
Meg nodded while she pushed the pump handle. “Rose going into midwifeing then?”
“Not until she’s older, I don’t think. Mum just wants someone to pass her skills onto, and she knows they’d be wasted on me.” Meg tried to picture Lavender as a midwife, but found it impossible. “And I don’t imagine many mothers would be happy with Nick coming to tend them,” Lavender added.
Meg laughed, her dimples growing deeper. “That’s a shame. He’s a sweet lad, I’m sure he’d take right to it.”
“Ha!” There was a brief silence, and Lavender leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “Jonson han’t mentioned any other lasses, has he?”
Meg frowned. “No.” They moved out of the way to let the next Hobbit in line use the pump.
“Just I heard he’d gone off with Bluebell Ansley from Overhill way.”
Meg hesitated before replying. Bluebell’s married sister lived on the same street as her own family, and Jonson always took a keen interest whenever she visited. But what they’d done together, if anything, was unknown to Meg. Hopefully it’ll stay that way, she thought. “Mayhap. But I ain’t sure, sorry.”
“Huh.” Lavender pursed her lips. “If he has I’ll cut his bloody head off.”
“Fair enough. But you have to give us the head back, so’s we can bury him.”
“I can’t promise nothing. See you at the festival later?”
“Course. It’s been a good harvest this year, I want my reward.”
“Looking forward to it. See you later.”
They hugged briefly and separated, Lavender going downhill, back towards her home, and her father’s wheelwright’s workshop. Meg, meanwhile, went back the way she came. She was trying hard to stop herself grinning like a fool as she walked. It was difficult. She took in the birds singing, the dirt beneath her feet and the clusters of colour from the last of the wild flowers. Today would be a good day.
The Delver hole was towards the centre of East Warren Lane. To her right was a row of small wooden cottages, and a line of birch trees. To her left was a hill, and a shabby row of Hobbit-holes. These weren’t the grand, homely smials that lay along the north bank of the Pool, but primitive holes that had existed for centuries with very little renovation. The boards over the floors were uneven, and all that covered the dirt walls was bare brickwork. They each had a small garden, though they were primarily kitchen gardens, with few flowers. No Hobbit would choose to live in holes like these, if they had the choice.
Meg reached Number 12 East Warren Lane; her home. There was a chestnut tree growing in the front right corner of the lawn, which was in a constant state of disarray thanks to the flock of chickens that lived in a rickety henhouse. They had one window, like around half of the holes on the Lane. The other half had no windows at all. The fifth Delver child, Rob, was sat on the front doorstep smoking. Even from the road Meg could hear the chatter of voices inside. “You all right there?” she asked brightly when they met on the step.
“Aye,” he said.
She stepped around him gingerly, made more difficult by the bucket. “Don’t finish up the pipe-weed. They didn’t have any left at market yesterday.”
Rob shrugged. “There’ll be more today.”
Meg smiled in the doorway, considered ruffling Rob’s brown curls, and then thought better of it. Inside, the hole was buzzing with life. When she’d left for the pump the only ones awake besides herself were her parents, Jack (third Delver child), and Clover. Now everyone was awake and seemed to be on a mission to make as much noise as possible. On her way to the kitchen she dodged the twins when they ran down the main passage at full pelt. “Steady now, lads!”
The younger twin wailed over his shoulder to her, “He’s got my boat!”
“Give him his boat, Danny,” she called after them as they ran into the parlour.
When she stepped into the kitchen, she could just hear Danny saying, “It’s our boat!”
Most of the kitchen was taken up with a collection of mismatched chairs, as well as three tables that had been pushed together to make one long table. At the moment they were littered with bowls, cups and, in the centre, a large pot, nearly scraped clean of porridge. Meg’s mother was sweeping around the feet of assorted brothers and sisters. Maizey, Hender and Poppy were sat at the table and in deep conversation, while Jonson, the exception, was leaning against a kitchen cupboard and sipping tea in silence. He smiled at Meg when she came in.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning yourself,” Meg said. “Lavender ain’t happy with you,” she added. With trembling arms she rested the bucket on the centre table. “I got the water, Mum.” She dropped the money Lavender had given her into a jar on the sideboard.
“Why’s that then?” Jonson asked, setting his cup down.
“Thank’ee, Meg.” Mrs Delver stopped her sweeping and smiled. Her dark hair was already starting to come loose from its bun. “Can you get Myrtle in here to start on the bowls?”
“Will do.”
“What do you mean, ‘ain’t happy’?” Jonson said.
Meg smiled to herself as she turned to leave the room. “You’ll find out this evening.”
Behind her she heard him call her name, followed by the patter of feet on wood when he followed her out to the corridor. “Tell me what she said.”
There were shrieks from the parlour. Meg rolled her eyes and marched towards the doorway, saying as she did, “You should bloody know, she’s your lass.”
The fight for the boat had turned into a screaming match between the twins and Martin, the youngest Delver. Jack was attempting to hold the boat out of their reach while their father, who was struggling to separate them, said, “If you can’t share properly, no one gets the boat.”
“Here,” Meg said, holding out a hand. “Want me to hide it somewhere?”
Jack handed her the toy and gave her a relieved look. “Cheers, Meg.”
Jack and her dad held back the wailing children as she left. Jonson was waiting for her in the corridor. “You’re meant to take my side,” he said.
“You’re my brother, not my friend,” she said while he followed her on her way to the lasses’ bedroom. “I need to take Lavender’s side, since she can get rid of me if she wants. But you’re stuck with me no matter what I do.” Inside, Myrtle was searching for something with a panicked energy. Half of her hair was braided, tied with a green ribbon, while the other half was hanging loose over her left shoulder. “What are you looking for?” Meg asked.
“My other ribbon! I left it in the box on the dresser, but it’s not there now!” Myrtle said, scrabbling under one of the beds.
Meg searched through the ribbon box, but found only yellows and blues. “Does it really matter if your ribbons don’t match?”
“Yes!” Myrtle wailed. Now she was sifting through the dolls in the trunk at the foot of her and Poppy’s bed.
Jonson was leaning against the doorway with folded arms and watching the scene with disinterest. “Come on. You’d want to know if I said something about Winden. For the love of— Calm down, Mert, it’s only a ribbon.”
“But it’s my ribbon.”
“I wouldn’t do anything to upset Winden. Look.” Meg removed the ribbon that was holding back her own brown curls. “It’s not the same shade of green, but will it do?”
Myrtle stopped, trembling slightly. “Maybe.”
Meg knelt down and speedily plaited Myrtle’s loose hair. “There. Mum needs you in the kitchen.”
“Thank’ee,” she mumbled, and scurried out of the room.
Meg went to the toy box, and dropped the toy boat in among the dolls. She looked back over at Jonson. “You still here?”
“No.”
She stood up straight looked around the empty room, suddenly alert. “Where’s Clover?”
“Not here, I guess.”
She pushed past him, back into the corridor. “Aye, very helpful.”
“Well, you ain’t being helpful. How can you be sure you’ll not upset Winden?”
“I’m not a rake.”
“He is, though,” Jonson said darkly.
“Was.” Already halfway to the front door, Meg called to him over her shoulder, “Mayhap you could ask Bluebell Ansley what’s up with Lavender.” She smiled to herself when she heard Jonson swear. Rob was just coming in from outside. “Has Clover gone already?”
“Just afore you got back.”
“Right.” She grabbed a sunhat from the coat stand and stood in the doorway. “I’m going now, Mum. See you this evening,” she called.
Meg rushed down the garden path and uphill, towards Boffin’s Farm. She tried to go as fast as she could without actually running, but her muscles were already aching. This probably wasn’t a good idea, she thought. Her heart was pounding when she saw a familiar Hobbit ahead of her on the road. “Wait!” she called.
The Hobbit stopped her lonely journey and turned to look at Meg. It was Clover, the oldest of her little sisters. She watched silently while Meg caught up, her face passive, her hands still and tense. When Meg reached level with her, she doubled over, gasping for air. “You can walk quick when you w—” She was interrupted by a coughing fit.
Clover ran a soothing hand up and down Meg’s back. “Easy…” she said softly.
Nothing else was said until Meg had recovered. She straightened up and patted down her hair. “Sorry about that. I’ll be coughing up hairballs next.”
Clover said nothing.
“You’re eager to get to work,” Meg said as they carried on up the road. “Looking forward to the festival?”
“Not really.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
A prickly silence fell. Meg itched to fill it but struggled to think of anything. Finally Clover said, “Why did you tire yourself out trying to catch up with me? Why din’t you just let me go by myself?”
She shrugged and looked up at the clouds. “I thought you might like someone to talk to.”
“What if there wasn’t anything I wanted to talk about?”
“There’s always something, with you,” Meg said. When it became obvious Clover didn’t want to reply she added, “You’ll feel better for talking about it.”
Clover seemed to think about this for a while, and then said, “Do you ever think about work and how it’s forever?”
Meg tried to come up with an adequate response, but in the end just settled for, “Not really.”
Clover’s fingers started to clasp and unclasp, and her eyes seemed to be staring right through the trees and hills ahead of them. “We started work at the farm when we was nine, and we’re still working there now. And then that’s it. There’s nothing else. We spend our whole lives on the farm and we die.”
“It’s not forever,” Meg replied, with forced cheer. “Just until you’re wed.”
The way Clover’s expression changed suggested this last comment was worse than saying nothing. “Then my children’ll go to work on a farm when they’re nine and stay there until they’re dead or married. And their children too. Why?”
“Someone has to work on the farms.”
“But why us?”
They were just down the lane from the farm gates now.
“Look.” Meg stopped in the road and clasped Clover’s shoulders. “Work don’t matter. What matters is you’ll marry a lad who’ll love you, and then you’ll have little’uns who’ll love you. And that’ll be enough to be happy.”
Clover recoiled slightly. Meg had an odd, desperate look in her eyes, and her nails were digging into Clover’s shoulders. “If you say so,” she said, trying to keep her voice level.
The desperation disappeared from Meg’s eyes and she suddenly pulled Clover into a hug. “You know you’re loved, don’t you?” she said.
Clover did her best to hug her sister back, and buried her face in her shoulder, “Of course. Do you?”
Meg let go and although she smiled, her eyes did not meet Clover’s. “Oh, I don’t matter.”
Clover’s brow furrowed. “What?”
But Meg was already continuing towards the farm. “Look, Master Sango’s at the gate. Let’s see if he’ll get our names right today.” She laughed.
Clover silently stood and watched her sister for a moment. Then she followed her to the gate of the farm, and the golden wheat fields beyond.
The largest and homeliest smials in Bywater were built along the north side of the Pool. One of them had been the home of Holtbold Took until his death some years previously. He had relocated to Bywater from the ancestral home of the Tooks, citing ‘too many relatives’ as his primary reason for the change. The best smials all being on the same row presented Holtbold’s two sons, Hortenbold and Aferbold, with a problem. They had to either become neighbours, live below their means, or leave Bywater all together, none of which were inviting prospects. In the end the brothers had compromised by each taking a hole on opposite ends of the row, Hortenbold on the east and Aferbold on the west. This left them far apart enough that they didn’t step on each other’s toes, but close enough that they met on a regular basis, and that their own children treated their uncle’s house the same as they treated their own.
The brothers had divided their father’s belongings between them and, among other things, Aferbold had taken the framed family tree of the Tooks that Holtbold had commissioned. At the top was Isembold Took and his wife, Rue Goodbody. It showed their nine children, forty-one of their grandchildren, fifty-two of their great-grandchildren and even thirteen great-great-grandchildren. They had more, but the tree didn’t show the descendants of daughters. Tiger Lily often looked at the tree, and knew that her children would be among those absent.
The pale, early sunlight was peering through the window of the morning room were Tiger Lily sat alone, her chin rested in her hand and her book left, forgotten, on her lap. She was staring at the tree again, where it hung above the fireplace. Her eyes were fixed on her own entry, which reduced her to nothing more than one name in a sea of Tooks, the same as any other. Tiger Lily felt small at the best of times, but when she looked at the tree, she felt entirely dwarfed. Metaphorically speaking.
She could almost feel herself being sucked in.
Someone came in through the front door, but she didn’t hear them.
“Away with the fairies, are we?” a voice said, making Tiger Lily jump.
She looked over at her cousin Opal, who was leaning against the doorway, a closed parasol rested on her shoulder. Tiger Lily closed her book and leaned back on the settee. “I was reading.”
“Mmm. You looked enthralled.”
“How is Buffo?” Tiger Lily said, putting just the right amount of distaste in her voice as revenge for the comment about the fairies.
“The same as ever,” Opal said. She flopped into an armchair. “I don’t care that you don’t like him. Did you have any plans or were you just going to waste the day away, staring into space?”
Tiger Lily smoothed out her skirts. “I’m going to go to the farm to help Sango with the harvest festival. His parents are at a wedding today.”
“I might go with you, if that’s all right. For want of anything more interesting. What time were you going up there?”
“Half-past eleven, I said.”
Opal glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “You’re aware it’s quarter past?”
Tiger Lily’s head whipped away from Opal to look at the clock. “Oh no…” She got to her feet, knocking her book on the floor in her haste, and rushed to the front door. Opal followed her at a leisurely pace. “I’m going now,” Tiger Lily called down the empty main corridor.
Her father stepped out of his study and said, “You’ll be back in time to go hunting, won’t you?”
She didn’t look up from where she was wrestling a parasol out of the umbrella stand. “Oh, yes, of course.”
“Good.” Mr Took smiled. “Have fun.”
“I will.”
She dashed out. Opal followed her. “Goodbye, Uncle Aferbold,” she said.
Tiger Lily was hurrying up the lane, taking quick little steps. Opal strode after her and managed to keep abreast of her while seemingly putting in half the effort. The air hummed with dragon flies, which weaved between the nodding reeds.
“Are you going to stay for any of the actual festival, or will you come straight back once it starts?” Opal asked.
Tiger Lily didn’t look at her when she said, “I’ll probably come back as soon as I can.”
“You are such a wallflower. You’ll have to come down eventually, you know.”
“From where?”
“The wall, of course.”
“Oh. It’s not that,” Tiger Lily said quickly. “I just want to be back in time.”
“You don’t have to be, though. Not if you don’t want to.”
“I do want to.” She looked at the clouds lazily crawling overhead. Her gaze was only brought back to land when a fight broke out among some of the ducks that lived on the banks of the Pool. “This will be one of the last good evenings of the year. And I’ve decided I’m not going to carry on shooting next year.”
“Yes,” Opal said, an edge of scepticism in her voice. “You said that last year, if I remember rightly. And the year before that.”
“I know. But this year is definitely the last. I am resolved.”
“Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
Tiger Lily said nothing for a while. She opened and shut her mouth a few times, but made no noise. Finally, she said, “Why did you stop?”
Opal shrugged. “I grew up. I lost interest.”
“I keep on telling myself that this time will be the last.” Tiger Lily was looking at the trees that bordered the road as though they were the most interesting things in the world. “But it’s so easy to say that every evening.”
“Then don’t concern yourself with changing. Be an archer until the day you die, if it makes you happy.”
Tiger Lily turned her head to look at Opal for the first time since they’d set out. “But I’m not—”
“—and you are not Father!”
Opal and Tiger Lily halted and turned to look at the hole they had just passed, where another lass had stormed out of a hole, face red, leaving the door wide behind her. There was a sign on the front lawn. It said in large letters, ‘Grubb and Sons’. Beneath this, in smaller letters, it said, ‘A Family Firm’.
A lad, older than the lass, stepped onto the threshold, one hand against the doorframe. “Come back here!” he bellowed.
The lad froze when he saw the cousins silently watching. “Hello, Miss Took.” He nodded at Opal, and then at Tiger Lily. “And Miss Took.”
Opal bobbed a curtsey. “Hello, Mr Grubb.”
Tiger Lily averted her eyes to look at the ground, and said nothing.
Mr Grubb silently retreated back into the hole, while the lass approached them, smoothing down her tight, dark curls. “He’s so horrid sometimes,” she said.
“Is everything all right, Abelia?” Opal asked.
“Oh, fine. Relatively speaking, of course. Dalgo’s just being a twit. Where are you two going then?”
“The festival up at Boffin’s Farm,” Opal said. Out of the corner of her eye she could see that Tiger Lily’s shoulders had tensed, and she was gripping her parasol with pale-knuckled hands.
“Do you mind if I join you?” Abelia asked. “I need to get out.”
They walked together, around the pool and over the Water Bridge. Abelia and Opal talked about anything and everything: the festival, the Boffins, the weather, Buffo… Tiger Lily remained painfully silent.
Inside the Grubb hole, Dalgo was standing in the main corridor, back to the wall, eyes closed.
“A fine job,” a second lad said. “Hopefully Abbie will come home today.”
Dalgo opened his eyes and scowled at his brother, who was watching him from his study, arms folded. “You can shut up as well,” he said.
“Pardon me. I’m sure you know best.” Monno grabbed a cloak from the stand. “I’m going to the Harlow wedding. I trust you have your list of appointments today, because I’m not checking for you.”
“It doesn’t matter what you think. I’m still the master of this smial,” Dalgo said.
Monno shot him a withering look. “And much joy may it bring you.” With that he left the hole, not looking back.
“That’s not fair,” Dalgo called as he watched him leave. “You know that’s not fair, you sorry—”
“That’s no way to talk to family,” a cracked voice said from the morning room. “When I was a lass—”
Dalgo leaned through the doorway, where Old Mrs Grubb was sat with Petunia, her pale-faced attendant and maid of all work. The sun cast shadows in the deep lines on her face. “You’re no longer a lass, Grandmother. Please stop telling us everything was better when you were.”
“Well! You come over here, my lad, so’s I can—”
He didn’t stop to hear what she was going to do. He didn’t stop at all until he was in his own study. When he was there he slammed the door, threw his spectacles onto the desk, and sat heavily on his chair. Slowly, he curled up, and grasped at his hair, trembling with tension. His breathing didn’t slow at all. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been in that position for when there was a timid knock at the door.
“Go away,” he said, letting go of his hair and straightening up so that he was only a little slouched.
“It’s me, sweetheart,” the visitor said.
“Oh.” He rushed to put his spectacles on. “Sorry.”
His mother was calm, as she always was. She sat in a chair opposite his, and looked at him in a way that made Dalgo feel like a visitor in his own quarters. He thought that one day he would have to learn the secret of how she managed it, so he could do it himself. Still refusing to say anything, she removed her own spectacles and cleaned them with her handkerchief. She did this in such a way that implied that, even though she was the one who had approached him, it was up to him to wait for her to be ready to speak.
Finally she replaced her spectacles, took a deep breath, and said, “I don’t like how you spoke to Abelia.”
He tried to draw himself up to his full height while remaining sat. He told himself that he was a grown Hobbit, and not a young lad anymore. “I think I was reasonable.”
She raised her eyebrows, as if to say, ‘You don’t really believe that, do you?’
“If I was being unreasonable, so was she,” he said quickly. “She knows Rico Boffin is a cad, and I’m sure she’s only courting him to vex me. You needn’t look at me like that.”
“She’s a tweenager, she’ll do as she does.” Young Mrs Grubb sighed and leaned over the desk to take her son’s hands. “I know you’re trying to do what you think is best, as head of this household,” she said. There was a slight edge to the way she said ‘head of this household’, which Dalgo couldn’t quite interpret. “But I’ve already lost my husband. I don’t want the rest of you to break apart.”
Dalgo looked down, all self-importance gone. He squeezed his mother’s hand.
“I know,” she whispered. “You’re doing very well with the firm, and the family. Most of the time.”
He felt deep in his person that this wasn’t true. Everyone seemed to have been able to get back to some semblance of normality. Everyone but him, at least. He still didn’t feel properly able to register deaths. He did it, though. For the firm. He had to. Registering births was also difficult, and officiating weddings was impossible. Monno had lost patience with him on this last point. ‘You’re not fit to be seen,’ he’d said, the last time Dalgo had been sent to a wedding. ‘You could at least smile.’ After that, Monno had taken it upon himself to officiate all weddings that came their way.
Dalgo swallowed and made eye contact with his mother again. “Thank you,” he said quietly. After a short pause, he added, “Sorry.”
“You have my forgiveness, but not Abelia’s.” She let go of his hands. “I was meaning to speak with you on an unrelated matter,” she said. “Petunia’s leaving us.”
“Oh.” He rested his chin in his hand. “Finally had enough of Grandmother, has she?”
“She’s getting married,” Young Mrs Grubb said disapprovingly, “so we have four weeks to find someone else.”
“They’ll need a strong constitution.”
“She’s not that bad.”
There was another knock at the door and Petunia poked her head around the door. “Begging your pardon,” she said, “but there’s a Mr Landon here to register the birth of his latest.”
“Oh, yes.” Dalgo looked down at the assortment of papers on his desk, and the hitherto ignored schedule of appointments. “Send him in.” He looked on his mother as she made to leave. “I’ll apologise to Abelia when she gets home. And I’ll be more civil with her in the future.”
“All I ask is that you try.”
When she left he took the moment of solitude to look up at the portrait of his father that hung on the wall. It had been painted a good few years before his death, but was the most lifelike image of him. There was still a blush in his cheeks, and a slight smile on his mouth. Dalgo didn’t like to think how they looked now. The only thing wrong were the eyes, which looked forward vacantly and, despite the best efforts of the artist, were dull and cold.
“Sorry,” Dalgo said, not quite to himself.