Frances Barratt' s Fanfiction Page 10 -Fifty Years On-

-FIFTY YEARS ON- by Frances Barratt Part 1 During the annual spring-cleaning of Bag-End, Bilbo Baggins decided to sort through all the scattered maps, documents and general clutter accumulated in his one-hundred years of life. To reach a century was not uncommon amongst hobbits; however, it was uncommon to appear as one of about three-quarters that age. It was said he looked no older than a fifty-year-old Man -- the Big Folk tending to age faster by comparison. Bilbo could not account for it so attributed it to good blood-stock and sheer good fortune. Being a career-bachelor, without any close female relatives either, he accepted -- and made use of -- any help offered to him by the ladies of the neighbourhood. Bell Gamgee -- wife to Hamfast, known as 'The Gaffer' and gardener to the Master of Bag-End -- had recently stepped into the breach vacated by her sister-in-law, Jade Goodchild. Following the recent, tragic death of her only child, Jade had withdrawn into a shell of mourning that none could prise her out of. Her husband -- Bell's brother -- had been compelled to live his life in virtual solitude. Not even Bilbo had been able to coax Jade out of her self-imposed incarceration. So it was that on a particularly warm, spring-morning, Bilbo found himself ankle-deep in books and papers. Two inches worth of memorabilia was not much for those of higher stature but to a hobbit it was sufficient to pose a threat to safety. When Bell Gamgee called out his name from the direction of the kitchen, Bilbo turned so suddenly that his toes bumped against a pile of leather-bound volumes, sending them crashing to the carpeted floor in s shower of dust. "Drat!" he muttered, more from the inconvenience of having to re-stack the books than the throbbing in his big toe. Bending down to begin the process, something new caught his eye. Poking out from beneath the foot of the desk was the corner of a folded piece of paper. Reaching for the thing so brutally ejected from its resting place, his fingers latched onto it and he raised it and himself. "Now what do we have here?" he mused. It seemed unfamiliar at first and had slid from between some nearby maps, jostled out of their alignment when the books fell. "Mister Bilbo?" Bell questioned from the doorway of the study. Startled -- like a boy caught scrumping apples -- he screwed up his eyes and snapped back: "What?" Unabashed, Bell continued with her intended announcement. "I've set out luncheon on the kitchen table; all cold food so nothing will spoil..." and her eyes wandered to the chaos on the floor. "Has that boy left all this mess for you to clear up? The little --" "No; no, Frodo didn't do this," and a sheepish grin mellowed his mood. "I stubbed my toe -- when you called out my name," he explained. "Oh, I'm sorry. Shall I stay an' 'elp pick 'em up?" "No, it doesn't matter," he said, finding himself concealing the paper behind his back. "Very well," and she shook her shoulders as if to brush away some troublesome matter. "I'll be off then. I'll take down the parlour curtains tomorrow -- as long as this good weather 'olds." "As you wish." She turned, then swung back again. "Oh, Frodo's with my Sam," she thought to impart, since Bilbo had not enquired as to the whereabouts of his 'heir'. "Good," Bilbo replied absently, his thoughts remaining on the new discovery he fidgeted with behind his back. "Good-day to you then," and she left. "Yes." When he finally focused upon reality once more, Bilbo discovered that Bell had already gone. Swiftly, he unfolded the paper and stared hard at it. It wasn't that it was written in a foreign , or that age had rendered it indecipherable -- quite the opposite. Fifty years fell away in one breath because he recognised the thing for what it was: a letter; a letter written in 1340 by Primula Brandybuck... TO BE CONTINUED...

Piles of old books and journals that Bilbo had found in his study.

-FIFTY YEARS ON- by Frances Barratt Part 2 He'd read the date and then the signature. Combined, they had pricked tears from his eyes. Blinking, he tried to focus on the body of the letter but each word only conjured up the image of the lass with a female version of Frodo's face. It hurt more than he could have imagined it would. Staggering to the chair, he sat down, rubbed the cuff of his shirt across his eyes and spread the letter on the desk. Calling upon years of discipline, Bilbo Baggins gritted his teeth and read the letter properly... 28th of Afterlithe 1340: Dear Bilbo, I was sorry that the weather thwarted our meeting yesterday. As I write this the rain is falling like pokers from the sky! Will it ever end? There is but one week of term-time and then I am free until the 4th day of Halimath. That is: if I can find transport -- to Hobbiton at least. May I be quite forward and beg leave to lodge with you, just for a few days? Hobbiton is such a pretty place and I would dearly love to see more of it. Always supposing none of us is flooded out before then! Do you think some angry god is punishing us for bad behaviour? If so then -- I AM SORRY; PLEASE STOP THE RAIN! Let's hope I am heard; I so missed our chat. In Humble Friendship. Primula. It had been decades since Bilbo had actually sobbed out any form of sorrow; certainly not since he'd met the Lass from the Hall, and not even at her Wake. The letter he now covered with both hands was a bald reminder of the happiest days of his entire life -- and that was no word of exaggeration. "So unfair; so dreadfully unfair," he stuttered. Sucking in a deep breath, something long-buried suddenly vaulted back into consciousness. "The book!" he said excitedly, leaping to his feet faster than any centenarian had any right to do. "She left it here, I know she did! Now then -- where was it?" He ransacked every shelf and cupboard in the study -- some still had books -- and when the book he sought did not come to light, he looked to those already strewn on the floor. Falling to his knees, he scrabbled around on all fours in desperate desire to find the thing he wanted. Finally, when frustration fermented into anger, his eyes were drawn back to the feet of the desk. There -- close to where the letter had lain -- was the corner of an old exercise book, peeping out from beneath the writing-desk. Greedily, he snatche at it and his hands trembled as they closed around it. "Fifty years," he mumbled, "and it comes to light now. What are you trying to tell me, Prim?" He collapsed on the floor and sat cross-legged as he'd done when a child at storytime. Opening the book, a strangled sound forced itself from his throat -- and another, darker memory, blended with it: of a dank cave and a strange being that had also uttered a throaty cough... Beads of cold sweat peppered Bilbo's brow. Some things should not be remembered. For a split-second, one hand found its way into his waistcoat pocket and the comfort of the object inside. "Prim," he breathed reverently. "He's here you know -- your son. Every day that passes I think that your death had more to do with the making of him than his birth. I miss you..." The tears fell freely and all ambience was blotted out for several minutes. "Bilbo? Bilbo, what's wrong?" Frodo's voice, laced with concern, called out. Looking up, Bilbo met the worred expression on Frodo's face. He offered up the old exercise book. "Look," he said. "Your Mother's; as fresh as the day she wrote it -- nigh on fifty years since." Frodo's knees buckled under the weight of recognition; he knew her hand-writing. His young hand took the book from the shaking, old hand. "What is it?" he queried. "She left it here that summer. I went on my Great Adventure. She never returned for it. I'd forgotten..." Bilbo uttered in short bursts. He dared look deep into Frodo's eyes -- her eyes. "It tells of the beginning of our... friendship; written in her own style of speaking. I can almost hear her voice..." He cleared his throat. "She'd asked me to take good care of it for her because she'd not dared to take it home. There must be a good twelve months of her life in those pages." "Fifty years ago you say?" as his brain tried to process the new information. "Yes." "But... that would make her only --" "Twenty-years-old," Bilbo nodded. Frodo frowned and sank back on his heels. "Still a schoolgirl." "Yes." Bilbo struggled to his feet and used the advantage given by staring down at Frodo. "We shared a thirst for knowledge; curiosity about things beyond the Shire. You have inherited some of that curiosity in how and why things are." Gripping the thin, paper-bound book, Frodo sniffed at it. This smelled musty, nothing like those he he'd found at Crickhollow. He recognised the aroma of pipe-weed in the fabric of this latest artifact. Then his brain clicked back to something Bilbo had just said. "Why daren't she take it home?" and he gained his feet easier and swifter than Bilbo had done. "Suspicion. We were not permitted to meet outside of family gatherings, so her notations would have landed us both in far too much trouble. It wasn't worth the arguments." "So you met in secret?" "Ocassionally. You make it sound as if we were behaving in an immoral manner. I assure you we were not!" Bilbo denied emphatically. "I respected Prim far too much to compromise her youth and reputation." Hearing his Mother's name on Bilbo's lips -- and in an affectionate tone -- seemed odd to Frodo. But he remained silent. "We may have met without the knowledge of our kinfolk but there were always other hobbits around; Hamfast for one, he was a youth then of course." "The Gaffer?" "Yes; only he wasn't then.. the Gaffer I mean. Old 'Roper' was still alive back then." Frodo found it difficult to imagine 'adult' hobbits as youths of his own age. He saw Bilbo turn aside and lean heavily against the desk. "Are you alright, Bilbo?" "I wish I'd never started this wretched spring-cleaning!" he muttered to himself; then glanced at Frodo. "Take the book; do as you wish with it!" and he waved dismissively at his young relative. "Did you ever read it?" Frodo asked steadily. "Once. The day after she died." Frodo winced. "Then what?" "I put it away -- along with all my memories of her." Slowly, Bilbo Baggins left his study. TO BE CONTINUED...

Frodo looking at the letter that his mother wrote to Bilbo so long ago.

-FIFTY YEARS ON- by Frances Barratt Part 3 The battered, old exercice book lay open on Frodo's bed. With a pounding heart he'd read the first of his Mother's entries -- the humble beginnings of the pile of Journals still awaiting closer scrutiny. Every word and sentence became ingested; he mixed in the remark from Bilbo that she had written in the way she'd spoken, so that it felt as if she stood by his elbow, whispering into his ear; confiding to him her girlish-glee at meeting her cousin for the first time... 2 Lithe 1340 It's very early in the morning and I can't sleep. No one else seems to be about yet so I thought I'd use up the time until breakfast and recount my feelings about yesterday. It was Mother's birthday party and the first of the festivities since Aunt Belladonna's death -- which happened when I was away at school. Anyway... There was the usual assortment of kinfolk from both sides: Brandybucks and Tooks, some of whom I'd never met before. Hobbit kindred spread out like the filaments of a spider's web, touching almost every surname in the Shire! One name being Baggins, as Aunt Belladonna had wed a certain Bungo Baggins from Hobbiton in the West Farthing. So that's how it was that I came to meet cousin Bilbo. I remember seeing this elegant personage; I mention 'elegant' because of the scarlet waistcoat he wore, its gilt buttons twinkling in the lamplight. He seemed a little shy around certain folk until he and Mother came face to face; then there were hugs and my heart went out to him as I realised who he was. So I made my way towards him and conveyed my sympathies. The death of one's mother cannot be an easy thing to bear, even for a son. But as he turned and looked at me... I cannot explain the feeling that exploded within me: an odd mixture of joy and sadness. The smile I can explain though; it was one of gratitude. He'd been grateful that I had mentioned his mother at a moment when everyone's attention was focused upon my Mother. When he spoke to me there was such softness in his voice; the tone of it especially, but the words too were tender and I can recall them: "Bless you, Little Cousin; your condolences are accepted with humble gratitude; I had not wanted to come -- which is why I dragged poor Drogo with me!" The other hobbit was -- I think I am right in stating -- his second-cousin of the Baggins line. There respective fathers having been first cousins of that stock. I shall have to consult the Great Scroll in the Library to see if we have any Brandybuck connections as well. Well now, wher had I got to? Ah yes, meeting Bilbo Baggins. Suffice to say that I liked him. Admittedly he seemed a sober sort; while all the other young hobbits were dancing, singing and consuming the ale, Bilbo was reluctant to join in the more strenuous types of celebration. Rightly or not, I assumed it to be because he still missed his mother's company. I did learn that he now lives alone in the 'ancestral home' as he called it. So do I! Live in the 'ancestral home' that is; but I gather that Bag-End is small in comparison to Brandy Hall. Still, I'd like to see it; perhaps I could take a detour to Hobbiton on my way back to school in Michel Delving, I'm sure Bilbo would make me welcome. Ah, I just heard someone moving around out there; no doubt it's Betony starting on breakfast. I'll go and help her and subtly ask if she noticed Mister Bilbo Baggins. A step back in time: that was the only way to describe it. In the simplicity of an event conveyed in naive narrative, Frodo began to understand his Mother as a person. It warmed his heart and he looked to the next entry, written a few days after the Party. He realised that she too had known loneliness; they shared more than mere blood and he smiled at a mention of Saradas... 2nd of Afterlithe 1340 Three days ago I met the most wonderful hobbit! Yesterday, I paid him a visit in his own home and he was most gracious towards me. He gave me tea and scones; they were not as fine as those that Betony bakes but I did not say so. The raspberry jam was excellent though so I did comment upon it. He smiled wryly at me as if he'd never had a compliment before. It led me to believe that Cousin Bilbo has led a rather sheltered existance. We talked at length though; I cannot recall every word -- or even some of the subjects, since one seemed to merge into another -- but I do remember Bilbo's enthusiasm for pure knowledge. He yearned to go travelling -- so he confided in me -- a most unusual thing, for why would any hobbit wish to go beyond the borders of the Shire? I've been told there are Big Folk and Monsters dwelling in the lands to the East; I do hope they remain there. At least the High Hay deters intruders from setting foot in Buckland. But I digress again. Bilbo asked me what I most enjoyed about school and laughed when I replied: "Going home for the holidays!" He agreed that it was an awful long way from Bucklebury to Michel Delving, the prime reason I have to take board and lodgings in the Capital town. I do get homesick. When I told Bilbo, he became very sympathetic, then asked me how long I had before Graduation. He just nodded when I said it was another two years away. "You seem so much more mature than twenty," he said. It was the greatest compliment anyone could pay me. My brothers still treat me like a child; though I must admit that Saradas is relenting a little and accepting that I have grown up. He Comes of Age next year, so I shall ask if Bilbo can again be invited. Saradas is not a hobbit to want too much attention and will try to 'make do' with a quiet meal at home with the closest kin. But I shall insist he have a splendid party. When I left Bag-End, Bilbo promised to come to Michel Delving on a weekend and we would take tea again. I shall look forward to that. My friends at school are well enough but some are a mite flippant. They think me strange because I want to learn about the Race of Elves. I've heard so many tales and cannot imagine anyting more wonderful than being Immortal! Saradas has a few books at the Hall but I feel there is much more to Elves than what is in those pages. Now, if I could guarantee not to meet Monsters, then I might join Bilbo on a journey to where the Elves live -- a place called Rivendell, so he said. I conjured up a place of eternal summer when he described it to me; though I do not think he has been there. There is far more to the World than the Shire -- or Buckland. I must end this entry as it's late and I must be well-rested for lessons tomorrow. My thoughts are with my Friends back in Bag-End. Goodnight, Bilbo Baggins, sleep well and I shall visit you again very soon. At least -- Frodo realised -- that his own schooling had taken place in more congenial surroundings. From reading of her experience in the School at Michel Delving, he supposed his Mother had never intended to subject him to the same isolation. He had been tutored privately, which begged the question as to why Primula Brandybuck had been sent so far away from home for her education. Whatever the thinking behind that particular decision, he had no doubts that he owed his Mother a debt of gratitude for not repeating it. Turning another page of the musty book, Frodo's eyes were drawn to a piece of paper carefully pasted onto the book below an entry for the 13th of Afterlithe. It was her first correspondence from Bilbo... 13th of Afterlithe 1340 Friday the thirteenth! I always dread these because nothing ever seems to go right; nothing important, but silly, annoying things happen. I remember once that two cups, a chair leg and the catch on a gate all broke; as well as my apron pocket tearing on a nail and a cloud of soot falling down one of the chimneys! Had it been practical, I'd have stayed in bed the next Friday the thirteenth. So what joys will this one bring? The only consolation is that Bilbo promised to come,his letter arrived yesterday. "10th of Afterlithe 1340 Dear Primula, I felt that I should warn you that I intend to take up your kind invitation to tea! All being well, I ought to arrive in Michel Delving around 11o'clock on the morning of Friday the 13th. I'll not tempt Fate by dwelling on the date! Perhaps luncheon would be a better idea? I trust your judgement in finding a suitable establishment, your parents would never forgive me for taking you to an inn! Until then, young lady, I remain, respectfully, Your Friend: Bilbo Baggins." My dear Friend, we shall have a splendid day! EVENING I was right -- we did have a splendid day. Cousin Bilbo was so much more... articulate I believe is the best way to describe it. He seemed more at ease than at the Party, probably because he didn't need to be 'polite' to relatives that he didn't truly like. He did tell me that his companion that day -- Drogo Baggins -- had spoken in flattering terms about me on the homeward journey1 What a surprise since he didn't spend any time in my company! -- well, not so that it registered with me -- in order to make such comments. Some young lads are born flatterers and I vow never to be taken in by them. Michel Delving is a vast place compared to Hobbiton, or even to Bucklebury, and can be daunting to a newcomer -- as I well remember -- but Bilbo was fascinated by its architecture (that's what he called the style of its buildings) and reckoned they owed more to the influence of Men and Elves than Hobbits. It makes sense, though I had just admired the intricacies of the stone-carvings. Carving in wood in one thing, but to lend the skill to solid stone must have taken an enormous amount of time and endless patience. Bilbo said there are lots of stone buildings in parts of Middle-Earth, I want to learn about them; to read the histories of each Race. It's not enough to sit back and let life happen. Sending me away to school might have been a 'modern' thing for Father to have agreed to, but I'm certain he rues the day he signed the Education Contract. As I told Bilbo, I once overheard him complaining that I never stop asking questions. How else am I to learn? The Sun has now set and I must retire to my bed, though I am sure I shall not get much sleep. So many things to think about; so much to read up on when I next go home. Home; I'd never been in so much of a hurry to return there, but now... Now I just want to tell Saradas about Bilbo''s theories on the 'architecture' and see if any of his books corroborate it. But I have another three weeks before the Harvest Break. Still, I can always write to Bilbo since he cannot come again for a fortnight. Roll on the 27th. Frodo had read the words -- and between the lines -- forming an opinion about his Father that was to add more questions. But his body took over and he fell asleep. TO BE CONTINUED...

-FIFTY YEARS ON- by Frances Barratt Part 4 Frodo woke up with cramp in his right leg, having no idea how long he'd been asleep except that it was now dark. Starlight streamed in through the window and he sat up to ease the pain in his leg, gazing thoughtfully out over the view of garden, meadow and trees. Once the cramp had worn off he realised that emotional fatigue had wearied him as surely as any physical labour and stood up, wandered to the window and took a moment to reflect upon his Mother's opinion of the hobbit she eventually wed. She'd been rather dismissive of him; but he accepted it as quite normal. Ignoring the pangs of hunger, he lit a lamp and returned to the slim volume of diary entries. Surprisingly, there appeared to be a fortnight gap between the Friday the thirteenth record and the passage he now peered at. Why hadn't she set down anything in between? He examined the book for any evidence of torn-out pages but found none. Thinking aloud, he said: "She must have sent letters instead; she wrote as much. But why no replies?" Nevertheless, he perused the account as it stood... 28th of Afterlithe 1340: It rained all day yesterday -- again! The whole week was one long downpour and the roads were a terrible mess: floods and subsidence stopped all unnecessary traffic. The carts that did venture out were few and far between; the Post became delayed and -- as I feared -- Bilbo did not come. I have another week before Harvest Break and I can go home, so I pray this incessant rain stops in good time. I must get back somehow and I wanted so much to speak again with my dear Friend. He feels like a Soul-Mate... If I write a letter quickly the Post-cart may set it on its way to Hobbiton. I need to tell Bilbo that it is my intention to repay his courtesy-call and visit him at Bag-End on the journey home. He's sure to welcome me and -- should conditions still be bad -- perhaps even allow me to lodge there a day or two. Ah, even such simple plans serve to raise my spirits. Now to word the letter. His was quite formal and proper, but we are kin so I see no need for further formalities. There is was: the explanation that he had sought. Flooding had prevented any communication and perhaps she had not felt inclined to dwell on the fact. Whether the planned letter had been sent, he didn't know and did not plan to cross-question Bilbo about it. The theory would have to suffice. The hunger-pangs had evolved into audible rumbling and he knew it must be suppertime. Closing the little book, Frodo set it atop the pile of thicker ones retrieved from Crickhollow then left the room. Entering into the kitchen via the narrow doorway from the passage, he was surprised to see the room empty. "Bilbo? Bilbo, where are you?" he called as he made his way into the parlour. The old hobbit sat on a chair beside the fireplace; he looked up slowly as Frodo approached. "Weighty, isn't it? -- the Past," he said. "What do you mean?" and he halted. "You were asleep when I looked in on you to call you for dinner." Frodo crouched down beside Bilbo's chair. "She didn't care for Father when she first saw him." "No; it's often the case." "That's what I thought; but she makes him sound... arrogant." Bilbo sniggered. "Does... did she?" "Yes; but she liked you." "Bless her." He got up abruptly. "Dinner may be too spoiled to even eat as supper, but I wasn't hungry enough to eat without you," and he walked away. "Bilbo, you don't blame me for being curious about her -- do you?" and he stood up. Bilbo turned. "No, of course not. But you must understand how the very mention of her name dredges up things I had learned to forget." "I do understand. If it pains you too much then I won't speak of her again," Frodo promised. A tear crawled out of Bilbo's right eye and he walked back to Frodo, laid a hand on his shoulder and said: "There's no pain, Frodo, just regret. Speak of her as often and as much as you desire; remembering cannot kill me and it may strengthen you." He smiled. "Are you hungry?" "Very much so." "Then let us do justice to this fine pork-stew that Bell kindly left for us." THE END

Frodo reading his mother's journal. What he read warmed his heart.

Main Page

After Frodo discussed the relationship between his mother and Drogo with  Bilbo. The latter could feel regret about the unhappy marriage.