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-Alone Amongst Many-

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt
(for Lisa)

He stood gazing forlornly at the multitude gathered around him and began to count them in his head. He’d got to the number ten-accounting for pure blood kin on his mother’s side-when one of that number stepped out of the throng. Squinting-as much to see as to recall the name-he opened his mouth to speak; a heavy hand falling onto his shoulder permitted only a splutter to emerge.
   “Well, lad, a rum business and no mistake. “Spose it’ll be up to us to see you right.”
   “Uncle… Saradas? “ Frodo queried; the name as well as the owner’s intent.
   “It is. Well, there’s plenty of room at the Hall. Our Primula never would come afore, but that’s no never mind now; she’s gone and you’re not. What say you, lad? Shall we fetch your bags and chatels and find you a cosy room near your cousin Seredic; hm?” Saradas said in his bluff, no-nonsence way. Little had he realised that his callous attitude was one reason for his deceased sister’s reluctance to share the communal ‘family home’. But Saradas was wedded and had a son of his own, so he reasoned that taking another made sound sense. No matter that Frodo was but twelve years in his life and Seredic had a twenty year head start. The age-gap would prove too vast to bridge.
   Frodo needed time to adjust. No sooner had he been told he was an orphan than the wake had been arranged and his future decided. No consultations;no sympathy shown him, just the gathering of the Brandybuck clan and it was sealed. He often wondered  why-his name being Baggins-none of his father’s kin had offered to adopt him, but in typical reticence, he’d not dared ask. It was as if he was something to be ashamed of-and that hurt. So he nodded dumbly at Uncle Saradas and the older Hobbit went back into the crowd, leaving Frodo in his thoughts. The grown-ups had once again become oblivious to the orphan so he decided to sneak away…

TO BE CONTINUED…

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt
Scene 2

Frodo loved the landscape with it’s myriad of variation of trees, pasture, hedges-and the river. Before the tragedy, he’d loved visiting just to see the Brandywine and take trips on the Ferry; not that he’d gone much further than the opposite bank. The Ferry- Master indulged the young Hobbit’s fascination with the craft that skimmed along above the surface like a wooden lily-pad; so naturally-it was to the Ferry that Frodo directed his steps.
   At his feet wandered so did his mind, until the shrubs around him became woodland in his imagination and a half-heard tale edged into the forefront of his brain. A tale of a ‘dark wood’, bearded dwarves and a dragon-not that Frodo knew what a dragon was, only that it sounded like a fearsome creature. Before too long, he realised that the wild-country bore signs of cultivation and he stopped to get his bearings.  Too late, he concluded that he was lost-and hungry. Hobbits need six meals a day otherwise they consider themselves deprived; young Hobbits are no exception.
   Frodo grew afraid; it would be dark soon and he had no idea where he was. The fields around him sprouted crops, that much he knew, but not too distant he spied a lane flanked by hedges. Hedges meant that someone had set them in place, so he decided to make for them. But his hunger slowed his barefoot pace and though Hobbits are gifted with stout soles to their feet, they are still apt to become footsore. The combination of sore feet and a rumbling stomach drew his large eyes to a mushroom patch. He preferred the fungi cooked but needs must when hunger drives.
“Oi!” the angry voice yelled..
Halting, crouched over the fungus; several of which were already in his breeches’ pocket, Frodo’s head shot up in alarm. Losing his balance, he toppled backwards landing in an ungainly position staring straight up into the stormy features of a Hobbit.
   “What your be doin’, my lad?”
   “I…I’m lost,” Frodo excused.
   “Thievin’ more like. Empty your pockets!”
Fear more than respect forced Frodo to obey. All his pockets contained were a handkerchief and three small mushrooms. “I’m hungry,” the young Hobbit complained.
   “Gonna eat ‘em raw were you? Foolish boy!” The farmer-Hobbit stood with hands on hips scrutinising the lad, dressed more for a wedding than a walk. Or… He drew in his breath. “You wouldn’t be the orphan by any chance?”
Frodo nodded.
The farmer smiled. “Maggot’s my name; we ‘eard about the accident,” and he shook his head. Mrs Maggot makes a fine job of cooking mushrooms,” he said, bending to haul the lad to his feet. “Come on then; but mark you, if I catch you in my fields again…” as he wagged a finger in warning. “I’ll tan them breeches to your hide!”
“N-no; yes… I mean.” Frodo gulped, “Thank you for your kindness,” he thought to say.
“Hmph,” Farmer Maggot snorted, but took the young Hobbit by the hand and led him down to the lane to a wide, wooden gate set in a high wall.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Little Frodo

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt
-Scene 3-

Mrs. Maggot’s cooking was better than Frodo had expected; he hadn’t thought anyone could match his mother’s skill with the barest essentials. Of course, his hunger might account for the pleasing taste. He ate steadily though, as he’d been taught; ever polite was young Frodo Baggins. His manners extended to thanking Mrs Maggot each time she produced a different course, until he felt he would burst.
   “No more, thank you, Mistress; I am full to the brim,” he said in all honestly.
   “He’s a good lad,” she commented to her husband, eyeing him purposefully over the top of Frodo’s head.
   “That’s as maybe,” Maggot grumbled. “Don’t excuse ‘im bein’ in my fields at dusk.”
   “I was lost,” Frodo reiterated, meeting the farmer’s scowl full on.
   “Then mark the way as I take you ‘ome.”
   “But it’s dark,” the lad pointed out.
   “Road don’t change just ‘cos it’s dark!”
   “Seeing it does,” said Frodo defiantly.
   Farmer Maggot pursed his lips and raised his hand to swipe at the insolent mouth. His wife’s own hand intercepted the blow.
   “What…?” he began, rounding on her.
   “Leave  ‘im be,” she warned. “He’s got an honest face; good stock them Bagginses are,” and she smiled at its youngest member.
“ You’d best be gettin’ ‘im back to the Hall afore they sends a search party to tramp all over your crop.” She knew exactly how  to manipulate her husband into taking the right action.  To Frodo, she whispered: “I’ll give you some of the mushrooms to take with you.
Who’s responsible  for cookin’ back there?”
   “Aunt Acacia,” he murmured.
   “Acacia Chubb as was? Then they’ll not go to waste.” She turned aside to wrap a good quantity of the brown fungi in a clean cloth, which she then handed to Frodo.  “ Keep the kerchief,” she allowed.
  “Thank you, Mistress,” the lad repeated. “I’ll tell Aunt of your kindness.”
Mrs Maggot actually blushed. “Pah, no need, lad.”
  “You’m ready then?” Farmer asked gruffly.
  “Yes, sir.”
“Then we’d best be goin’.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Brandy Hall

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt
Part 4
It was a hurried journey back to Brandy Hall; somewhat unpleasant as far as Frodo was concerned. Every step of the way, Farmer Maggot muttered about ‘unruly children’ and folk ‘taking responsibility’ for their kin. If he lagged behind, Frodo found himself being pulled along; virtually dragged over rough ground so that his feet hurt even more.
   “I’m tired,” he dared complain. “Can’t we rest awhile?”
   “No! it’s full dark already and I ‘ave to be up with the sun t’morrow. No lazy about for the likes of me!” and he yanked on Frodo’s hand to hurry him up.
   Realising that yet one more Hobbit adult regarded him as a liability, Frodo had no choice but to try and keep pace with the Farmer.
Finding comfort in his own thoughts, Frodo drifted into the realm of imagination whereby he had to maintain a brisk space in order to out run some nameless foe. To aid the co-ordination of feet and fantasy, he conjured up a troop of riders on horses: Men…
   Men were the Big Folk who sometimes strayed into the Shire. Tales of their warfare an uncultured ways were always coming from Bree-Land to the east. Frodo had never cared for these Men and hoped never to meet one, so they made a suitable spur in the dark.
Soon, familiar shapes appeared in the dense greenery and he recognised what he believed to be the path to Bucklebury Ferry. Not long now. As the rambling shape that was Brandy Hall loomed out of the darkness, the moon decided to light the last stage of the journey.
Then Farmer Maggot halted.
   “Do I take ‘e to the front door?” he asked of Frodo.
   “I suppose so. Why not?” the lad countered.
   “ Didn’t know whether them Brandybucks allowed you in that way.”
   Frodo didn’t understand the point behind Farmer Maggot’s query but thought of challenging him; all he wished for was a soft bed and a good night’s sleep, he’d had enough of the peculiar ways of adults.
   Maggot pounded on the first of three front doors that he came to. It opened to reveal a red-faced Hobbit. “Beggin’ your pardon,” the Farmer began, “but does this belong ‘ere?” and he drew Frodo forward.
   The Hobbit-in- residence peered from the lighted passage out into the gloom and squinted. “Frodo? It is Frodo. Acacia!”
and he  turned to call again. “Acacia! Here’s our nephew, safe and sound.”
   “Then I’ll be goin’” Farmer Maggot decided.
   Spinning back,  Saradas recalled the retreating Hobbit. “Do take a cup of ale before you go… wherever you are going.”
   Now, Farmer Maggot hadn’t expected hospitality; he was a farmer and the Brandybucks were… well, they were above him in the hierarchy of the Shire. “Oh… well… thank ‘e. I was only doin’ a kindness, I thought as ‘ow you’d be worried 
about ím.”
   “We were; we were, weren’t we-?” as he looked anxiously for his wife. “Acacia?” he grinned sheepishly at the Farmer.
   A rotund, female Hobbit scurried out of the welcoming glow of Brandy Hall’s countless passages. She spared a cursory glance for her husband then swooped on Frodo. “Come here you ungrate!” snatching at his tweed coat with such a force that stitches were heard to crack. “Get inside! Keeping honest Hobbits from their beds whilst they worry about you!” Literally throwing Frodo ahead of her, she ignored the neighbourly action of Farmer Maggot to vent her anger on the young orphan.
   Under such a tirade, Frodo wished he’d kept on wandering; even Farmer Maggot’s displeasure hadn’t been as bad as this from a member of his kindred. Biting his lip to stem the flow of tears and not give his Aunt the pleasure of seeing him cry, Frodo allowed himself to be put into a small room at the furthest end of the complex. Once safely inside, he flopped down onto the bed and cried himself to sleep.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Farmer Maggot's Fields

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt
Part 5

Seredic Brandybuck was a young Hobbit who spent much of his time in Bree-land- particularly at the famous Prancing Pony Inn within Bree itself. It was there he’d learned ‘the ways of the world’ as he was wont to boast. Behind his back, sensible Hobbits whispered the truth: he’d learned all the uncouth ways of the Big Folk and no good would come of it. Seredic’s bloated opinion of himself was matched in his physique; even by Hobbit standards he was portly, and still only thirty-two years in this life. If any hoped he would miraculously alter once he came of age, few dared hold their breath. In short, they didn’t much care for Seredic. Nor did his cousin. Frodo viewed the ‘tweenaged’ Hobbit with caution and disdain. Even on prior visits to Brandy Hall, Seredic had bullied his young cousin: tripping him up had been a favourite taunt. Now that he was in residence, Frodo didn’t expect matters to improve. He was not to be proved wrong.
   He’d slept soundly, given the circumstances, so the loud banging on the chamber door was an intrusion upon a wonderful dream of a valley filled with waterfalls and exquisite architecture. Gasping to rude-reality, Frodo bolted up in the bed just as the circular door swung inwards and a crimson face followed into the room. “Hello-“ he began.
   “Get up lazy-bones!” Seredic commanded. “There’s work to be done!”
   “What?” the sleepy lad queried.
   “Work!” Seredic slurred. “You don’t expect us to keep you for nothing?” as he wavered towards Frodo’s bed and put out a ham-fisted limb towards him. “Come on; up and out!”
   “W-what am I to do?” Frodo asked, scrambling out of the opposite side of the bed, where his clothes lay neatly folded on a chair.
   “Wash up the breakfast pots for a start. Think you can manage that?” came the sour response.
   “Y-yes; I suppose so,” stammered the orphan.
   “Then let’s be having you,” and he turned away, lurching out of the room.
   Frodo sighed. He hadn’t expected an easy life-there had been small chores to do at home-but his cousin’s barked orders relegated him to feeling like a servant. No-worse; servants weren’t spoken to as harshly as Seredic had spoken to him. Why hadn’t one of his Baggins kin sent for him? For the second time he wondered-it would not be the last.
   That first day as a resident of Brandy Hall would become etched into Frodo’s memory as one of the worst of his formative years. 
Washing up breakfast crockery proved to be a lengthy business; at that time there were probably thirty assorted relatives who had not gone to their respective homes after the wake. Legend purported there were often as many as a hundred squashed into the multi passaged complex that was Brandy Hall. Frodo shuddered as he put away the last cup and dried his hands. This was no life for a young Hobbit; drudgery was not the normal way for Hobbits to treat their little ones. His only escape lay in his fertile imagination-that and the landscape of Buckland. So it was in the woodland that Frodo found solace. Peace and quiet beneath the blue skies of the Shire to recall that dream of the enchanted valley.

TO BE CONTINUED….

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt

Part 6
Autumn strode inexorably on towards winter; the falling leaves becoming synonymous with Frodo’s spirit. No twelve- year old ought to feel as dispirited as he did, and for a Hobbit, that was highly unusual. As the season laid bare the trees so did it strip him of all hope; not for a good many years to come would he feel so utterly alone. But there are proverbs in some cultures that claim there is always hope.
Wrapped up in such phrases as: every cloud has a silver lining; or one door closes and another opens, they are offered as platitudes to boost flagging spirits. Except-Frodo hadn’t heard of them…
   On a particularly bitter- cold morning in the month of Foreyule, the forlorn Hobbit crept away from Brandy Hall and headed for Buckleberry Ferry; at least he had a friend in the old Ferry- Master whose home was one of the few free-standing buildings in Buckland; not dissimilar to Farmer Maggot’s but much smaller. A light still showed in the window of the cottage as Frodo approached the landing-stage. Gazing out across the inhospitable expanse of the Brandywine River, Frodo couldn’t help but think of his parents.
   “Hullo there!”
   Frodo spun to face the Ferry Master. “Morning, Master Goodchild.”
  “Looking for a ride are ‘ee?”
  “I… I’m not sure.” 
  “Hm.” Tiller Goodchild understood the reluctance evident in Frodo’s voice. “Ferry’s safer     than a boat,”  he reassured .
  “Today, a boat would be a welcome friend.”
  “My, my, we are in a sombre mood,” Master Goodchild jibed. “Why’s that, lad-hm?”
  Raising his dark-haired head, Frodo replied: ”Seredic.”
  “That’d be your cousin.”
  “It is.”
  “He don’t often come this way; he prefers Bree and the rough folk who frequent the Inn.”
  Frodo found a smile. “Why do you suppose I come here?”
  Tiller Goodchild laughed , “Good for you! Hungry?” he asked.
  “I am now.”
  “Then come inside; there’s some bacon left and fresh bread.”
  “Thank you,” and he walked briskly to the cottage. Just as he passed the threshold, the Ferry-   Master spoke again.
  “My brother’s wife and daughter are visiting today. The lass is about your age.”
  Frodo blinked. The door closed and the smell of bacon wafted into his nostrils.
  “Seems you need a friend,” Tiller went on.
  Taking stock of the interior kept Frodo silent, but his brain was busy. He didn’t want to    sound ungrateful so  didn’t respond, but he didn’t need a lass as a friend; not even the niece of his only friend.
  “ I’ve mentioned you afore; never expected you to turn up the day she’s due though,   fortuitous that”
Frodo doubted it.

TO BE CONTINUED...…

Buckleberry Ferry

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt
Part 7

The morning had all but gone; Tiller Goodchild had regaled young Frodo Baggins with stories he’d heard whilst plying his trade. He told of the time a party of dwarves had passed by; of the wizard with many names who had visited Bilbo in ‘forty-nine.
   “My uncle Bilbo?” Frodo queried.
   “Uncle? Cousin more like; but Hobbit lineage is a complicated business. You ever meet Bilbo Baggins?”
   Frodo shook his head. “If I did I don’t recall.”
   “Hm. Tricked into going adventuring he was. Well, that’s how I heard it.” 
   It piqued Frodo’s curiosity. Bilbo Baggins sounded an intriguing sort of a Hobbit. Few had ventured as far as he had so it was no small wonder that tales of his adventures were repeated so often.
   Snow began to fall. Tiller went outside to make sure the ropes were tight and lanterns secure on the Ferry. It wouldn’t do for the precious vessel to come adrift if the weather worsened. Often, the river was the only means of communication, and the twenty miles between the Ferry and the Brandywine Bridge had to be kept open. A small boat kept on the west bank could be used for such a journey when the roads were impassable; it was a direct route in times of adversity.
   Frodo looked out of the small window onto a new vista of white land. Just beyond it, the grey waters of the Brandywine shone cold in the late-morning light. Nevertheless, he was a handy little Hobbit so donned his coat again and went outside. Master Goodchild, may I help?” he called out.
   Beaming at the lad, Tiller nodded. “If ‘ee’ve a mind to. “ Ere, grab this rope,” and he slung a thick length of the twine straight at Frodo.  It all but knocked him backwards. However, Tiller smiled to see how the lad grappled with it; held on and then wrapped it around his waist. The youngster had some intelligence! “Well caught!” praised the Ferry-Master. “Now tie it to that post there,”  pointing to a thick stump almost as tall as Frodo.
   It took a deal of effort but Frodo completed his task. “Are we to cross?” he asked excitedly.
   “I think it best-under the circumstances. My brother’s wife’ll ‘ave ‘er ‘ ands full with the young ‘un!” and he sniggered. “Never mind needing to grapple with the ferry on a day like this. Comin’ then? And he held out a hand to Frodo.
    He didn’t need twice inviting; his sturdy feet were on the boards of the Ferry almost before Master Goodchild had stopped speaking.
Proud to be an ‘assistant’, he copied everything the Master did; though the steering was beyond him, he pretended to punt and soon the west bank grew larger and the boat-house loomed above. Once on dry-if frozen-ground, Frodo and Tiller moored the Ferry and took shelter in the boat-house to await the arrival of Mistress Goodchild and daughter. It was a long wait.
   An hour or so had passed without a sign of the females. Tiller lit a fire in the hearth and he and Frodo huddled beside it. Every few minutes the Ferry Master got up and peered up the lane, anxious to see some sign of life upon it. He hoped his sister-in-law would see the smoke from the chimney and now she had an escort to cross to the Buckland bank.
   Around mid-day, Tiller gave a shout. “They’re comin’!” and dashed out into the newly-settled snow. “Jade!” he shouted, waving his arms.
    Frodo stood on the doorstep and watched as two female Hobbits struggled down the Lane. The taller of the two had a protective arm around the smaller, whose head was bowed and body hunched against the weather-though the snow had ceased to fall by then. She looked fragile and his heart stirred in sympathy.
   “Jade!”  Tiller called out again, hurrying through the snow. “Mercy be praised;  you’re safe!” He reached his kin and swept up the little one in his brawny arms. “Bless me, but you’re cold, lass,” he observed. “Good thing I got a fire goin’. We’ll soon get ‘ee warm again.” 
Holding her tightly; her face against his shoulder, Tiller shambled back to the boat-house. “Warm up some of that goat-milk, Frodo, there’s a good lad,” he smiled down.
   Nodding, Frodo went back inside; removed his coat and set a pan of milk over the fire. Just as he turned back, Tiller was setting down a lass and divesting her of her sodden cloak. She raised her face to Frodo’s gaze. He didn’t say a word, merely offered her a smile and dragged up a stool for her mother.
   “Who’s the lad?” Jade Goodchild asked as she busied herself in ridding her aching body of her own wet cloak.
   “The Orphan,”  Tiller replied quietly.
   “Oh.” She smiled sympathically at Frodo.
   “I’m Frodo Baggins,”  he said. “Pleased to meet you, Mistress.”
She giggled. “Polite, in’t he? Mister Bilbo would be proud.”
 It was the second time that morning that Frodo had heard the name of Bilbo Baggins spoken with pride. “Too proud to take me in” muttered the discontent Hobbit; but he’d not been overheard, the adults were too busy attempting to revive the lass, so he took the milk pan off the heat and sat down to await his next instruction.

TO BE CONTINUED...…

Map of the Shire

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt
Part 8

The tap on his shoulder alerted Frodo to the fact that they were to move out of the boat-house.
   “Come on, lad; we’ve got to get the lass back to my cottage afore she gets too cold. Poor mite; never was too strong,” he added, almost to himself.
   So far, no one had thought to tell the Orphan the name of the Lass and it didn’t seem right for him to ask, so he simply put on his coat; extinguished the fire and followed the adults, back out into the cold. Master Goodchild carried the lass onto the Ferry then placed her in the arms of her mother.. Frodo dutifully closed the boat-house door and stepped onto the Ferry just as the ropes was untied. It was an uneventful journey to the other side.
   On reaching the eastern bank, the young Hobbit dared ask a question at last. “Master Goodchild, do you need me know because I ought to be getting back home?”
   “What? Oh, of course. You get yourself off. Thank ‘ee for your help.”
   Frodo smiled. Praise was rare. “Your welcome. I hope the lass recovers soon,” he said to Mistress Goodchild.
  “ She’ll be as right as rain once we get her inside; but thank you for your kindness,” and she ruffled his dark curls. “Mayhap we’ll see you again?”
   “Yes, Master.” Frodo then scurried away. He’d tell the truth to his Aunt and Uncle once he returned to Brandy Hall but knew that she would still scold him and find extra chores for him. Life was miserable compared to how it used to be; perhaps it was the lot of all orphans.
   Just as he had predicted, Aunt Acacia was less than understandable in regard to Frodo’s lengthy absence. His appearance was immediately met with a clout around the ear and a tirade of half- heard angry words, followed by a list of chores for him to do. Not wishing to challenge his Aunt, Frodo meekly set to work on all that she’d written down but in so doing, missed out on his daily walk; so he didn’t hear any words as to the condition of Master Tiller’s niece. For three days, he was at the beck and call of Aunt Acacia, which also meant coming under the watchful gaze of Cousin Seredic.
   Ever resentful of his young cousin’s occupation of Brandy Hall, Seredic plagued Frodo with constant criticism. He’d not washed up the crockery properly; there were creases in the sheets after the beds had been made; he’d failed to boil the water for tea-and so on.
   “What use are you, lad?” Seredic asked on the third morning. “Too puny for labouring and too clumsy for household tasks. Ma, why do we keep him? “he questioned.
   Acacia eyed her son and cast a furtive glance at his father. Shaking her head, she put a finger to her lips then leaned to whisper into Seredic’s ear. “There has to be an inheritance somewhere.”
   “Oh, “ Seredic responded.
   “He’s a Brandybuck,” she said louder.  “Arent’ you, Frodo?“
   “ I’m a Baggins,” contradicted the Orphan.
   “By name alone,” she snapped; her meaning being quite clear. “None of them wanted you- did they she emphasised.
   Unable to bear it any longer, Frodo fled from the room-straight into the arms of Uncle Saradas.
   “Whoa, there, young Frodo! Where’s the fire, lad?”
   “N-nowhere…I…I just…”
   Saradas knelt. “Pay them no never-mind,” he said quietly. “Let’s me and you go to the study, I got books there, books as you might like to see-all about Elves,” and he winked; stood up and took Frodo’s hand and led him away.

TO BE CONTINUED…...

-ALONE AMONGST MANY-
by Frances Barratt

Part 9

The snow had thawed by the time Frodo was able to return to his sanctuary at the Ferry. After three days away from it, he doubted that Mistress Goodchild and her daughter would be still at the cottage, he reasoned that they would be on their way home as he was  on his way to the Ferry. Then he began to wonder just where they came from; somewhere in the Shire obviously, for the Mistress knew of Bilbo Baggins; he of Bag End at Hobbiton. Frodo’s memories of that place were dim, he’d only been a bit of a lad at the last visit; which led his thoughts back to the ‘why’ of his predicament. Had there been some family quarrel and his father –Drogo Baggins- driven out of Hobbiton? They’d only ever come visiting to Brandy Hall. So many questions and he felt sure that Bilbo had the answers. He had to speak to him, or at least get a message to him.
   Mud splattered over his feet as he trudged towards Tiller Goodchild’s cottage. Smoke plumed straight up from its chimney and someone was singing within; it sounded too high a pitch for the Ferry-Master! Hope shot into Frodo’s heart like an arrow from a bowstring. If Mistress Jade hadn’t left for home then she might well take a message on his behalf, back to Bag End. Quickening his pace, the eager Hobbit came to the door and hammered on it with a clenched fist. It opened within seconds and the familiar face of Tiller Goodchild peered down at him.
   “Bless me, if it in’t the Orphan. See Jade, the lad ‘as come back! Come in, come in, Frodo, ‘an welcome too ‘ee.”
   “Good morning, Master Goodchild and thank you, I will come inside.”
   As Frodo was welcomed by his friend-his coat taken and hung on a peg by the door; a seat offered to him by the fire and a second breakfast set on the table for him- the lad found himself searching anxiously around the room for signs of Mistress Jade. “ I heard singing,” he said, turning to face Tiller.
   “ Ah, that’d be the lass. Sweet voice she’s got an’ no mistake.”
   “ She’s well then?”
   “ Indeed. She’ll be out in a minute; she’s gettin’ ready to go ‘ome’.”
   “Oh, and it came out as a disappointment.
   Tiller smiled . “You two ‘aven’t yet met,” he recalled. “Never mind, it won’t take a minute. Sit yourself down, lad.”
   Sitting on a stool, Frodo waited. A door opened at the furthest end of the room and from the room it concealed emerged Jade Goodchild and here daughter. Frodo blinked; never had he seen a lass with such dark hair. Lots of Hobbits were dark-haired, like himself, but she… Well, he couldn’t compare it  with anything other than charred wood. 
   “Jessamine, come an’ meet my young friend,” Tiller invited. 
   At last, a name!  He stood up ready to shake hands but the lass was overcome with bashfulness and blushed, dropping her eyes from his. She was about his own age-or so he believed- but it didn’t seem likely he’d ever make a friend of her. Still, polite as ever, he held out his right hand. “Pleased to meet you- I’m glad you are well.”
   Jessamine giggled. Her mother pushed her forward, encouraging her to take the hand offered in greeting. “Hello,“ she managed.
“Thank you.”
   “I’m Frodo.”
   “Jessamine.”
   “I know,” but he smiled to reassure her. 
“Friends call me Jess,” she informed.
 Frodo giggled too. “May I?” he asked. 
 She shrugged. “Spose so.”
“Jess! Where’s your manners?” her mother admonished. “The poor lad hasn’t got a mother or father, no friends to speak of and you act all hoity-toity!”
   “She didn’t- “ Frodo was about to excuse.
   Jade Goodchild raised her hand. Our family’s in service to the Bagginses, so you being one of them deserves our respect.
  “But I’m only-“
  “-our Mister Bilbo’s cousin-of sorts,” she concluded.
  “Around here I’m a Brandybuck,” Frodo said sourly.
  “No,” said Jade, shaking her head. “You’re a Baggins and no mistaking it. What say you Tiller?”
   “You knows ‘em better’n me,” he said.
  “Mm.  Baggins,” she repeated, “or my name’s not Jade Goodchild that never was a Proudfoot!”
   “In that case,” Frodo began, “ would you tell my uncle… cousin...er… Bilbo, that I would dearly love to meet him-please?”
   Jade looked askance at the young Hobbit. “You would?  Ah, well- that might be a mite awkward.”
   “Why?” Frodo asked, suddenly emboldened by hurt and anger.
   “Um,” Jade hesitated, “You’re not his responsibility.”
   “I know. I just want to speak with him”
   She looked from Frodo to Tiller; he merely shrugged; then to her daughter. “Come on Jess, we’d best get going,” and she bustled out of the door. At the threshold she paused, swivelled around and said to Frodo: “I’ll mention to Mister Bilbo that I’ve spoken to you and see what his reaction is. He’s been told…”but she thought better of saying anymore. “It was nice to meet you Frodo.”
   For his part, Frodo stood dumbstruck as mother and daughter walked to the Ferry, followed closely by Tiller. Than a remarkable thing happened: Jessamine came back!
   “I’ll speak for you,” she told him. “ I want to be your friend,” and she offered him her hand.
   “Thank you,” he said, beaming his delight as he shook hands. “I’m sure we can be friends-  as long as your mother doesn’t mind.
   “When are you coming back?”
   “Next week..”
   “I’ll be here.”
   Jessamine grinned, nodded then skipped away. Just before boarding the Ferry, she waved her farewell to Frodo Baggins. He wouldn’t know it, but she too had been alone amongst many and the Orphan’s vulnerability had struck a chord with her.
As he watched her departing, Frodo at last saw a glimmer of hope in his grey world.

THE END…OF THIS EPISODE

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