[Primrose Bolger]

Miz Bracegirdle is served her supper . . .

Ginger cut a large wedge of mushroom pie and putting it on a plate, popped it into the warming oven above the stove. Next came a bowl of steaming chicken stew filled with plump pieces of meat and good sized chunks of carrots and taters and onions and green peas. That, too, got put in the warmer while she sliced off a couple of thick pieces of warm crusty bread to put in a small cloth covered basket.

A small pot of sweet cream butter and another of thick, sweet/tart gooseberry jam were placed on a tray, along with a mug of cold apple cider, the bread, and the tableware wrapped in a clean napkin. She was just about to get out the hot food out when a little voice pulled her attention toward the kitchen door.

And there was Ferdy, standing just across the room from her, smiling a foolish smile. At his side was the source of the words. One of the little lads from the common room. He was looking up at Ferdy and nodding his head. ‘They are real purty, her reddish curls and all. But I still can’t see her freckles.’ He peered up at Ginger as she came closer to them, wiping her hands on the towel that hung on her apron. ‘He says you’re his “heart’s own”, Ferdy did,’ said Willi taking a good look at her. ‘I never saw one of those.’ Now it was Willi’s turn to flush a little as Ginger smiled at him and reached out to tousle his curls. ‘But, gosh, I guess he’s right about it.’

There was an awkward moment of silence as Ginger smiled at Ferdy. Then, Ginger took the little boy’s hand and marched him over to where she was putting together Miz Bracegirdle’s supper. ‘Ferdy,’ she said, ‘if you’ll help him wash his paws up a bit, he can help me with this last order. Then maybe we can sit down and share a cup of cider ourselves.’

Face and hands washed, curls pushed back from his red-cheeked face, and his shirt tucked in so he looked like a proper server of the Inn, Willi took the small plate that held the square of spice and raisin cake solemnly in his two chubby hands. Ferdy held the door for them as Ginger led the way with the tray of hot, savory food. Ferdy followed up with the mug of cider in hand.

The stew and mushroom pie were placed in front of the old Hobbit along with the basket of bread, the pots of butter and jam readily at hand. Ferdy plunked down the mug of cold cider, saying he hoped she would enjoy her supper. Last came Willi who carefully slid the cake plate onto the table and nudged it toward Thistle. ‘Yes, ‘njoy,’ he echoed. ‘And especially the cake,’ he whispered. ‘Got more raisins’n a anthill got ants.’ He turned a bit shy and backed off, intending to let the lady eat.

His eye caught her substantial cane leaning against a chair near her at the table. It reminded him of the stories his Da had told him of when the ruffians made trouble right here in Bywater. It was a grand story . . . exciting and scary at the same time, even though he knew in the end the Hobbits would win out.

‘Ooh! Nice cane, Miz Bracirdle!’ he said enthusiastically. ‘Bet you gave those old ruffians a good thump when they was here . . . you and Master Merry and Master Pippin . . .’