The Golden Perch Inn

[Celuien]

Rowan sailed out into the common room, leaving Primrose in the kitchen to laugh at the idea of fighting tooth and nail over the ostler. Poor Will. It seemed that Rowan was going to enjoy playing the part if she got the chance.

Primrose, on the other hand, was a little bit uncomfortable. Will's plea (a joke, she was sure), made her blush. Why? She was used to banter about weddings. It was almost a tradition among her sisters, cousins and friends. She felt her ears burn again with the sudden realization that Will hit a little too close to home with his teasing - Primrose wouldn't have minded being mentioned as an eligible lass in one of his letters.

Now you stop that, Miss Primrose Smallburrow, she chided herself. You're being naught but a silly goose. She hoped that Cela wasn't serious about her plan. If so, it would be terribly uncomfortable for her to play her role. Primrose frowned. Then again, maybe there was no better cure for her silliness than to play at being one of Will's prospects. It would show her just how ridiculous she was.

Looking a summer thunderstorm, Primrose began mixing another batch of biscuit dough. As she cracked an egg into a little mound of flour, she asked Cela, "Did you really mean it? About Will, I mean." She kept her face down, studying the flour in the bowl, determined to keep her composure. Fold and knead, knead and fold. If she concentrated on the biscuits, maybe Cook wouldn't notice her discomfiture.

[Firefoot]

“Sure, I really meant it,” answered Cela, completely unaware of Primrose’s discomfort. “I’m rather looking forward to it, myself. It’s just the sort of thing I would have done when I was about your age. I only wish I might be a bit younger so as to take part…” She laughed. “But I’ll have to content myself with watching. It’s time for my old bones to step back for you young ones to enjoy yourselves.” As she spoke, she bustled about the kitchen, checking on another batch of nearly-done biscuits and heaping another couple plates with bacon and eggs.

“Of course,” she added, “it’s really up to Will whether he goes through with it; I seem to have quite embarrassed the poor lad. I daresay he can be a bit too serious at times. He’ll think it over, and I’m sure he’ll come around. There’s really not much else he can do. And after all, I’m not actually asking him to court you lasses. It’s just a bit of play-acting.” Cela suddenly realized just how quiet Primrose had been and how very focused she was on kneading that dough. Perhaps Will wasn’t the only one not quite comfortable with her plan. “It really isn’t so serious, dear,” said Cela. “It will only be for a few days, I’m sure, and it will only have to be enough to put on an act for Will’s mum and sisters-in-law. Nothing to get worried about. Look at Rowan, there, treating it all as a great game. That’s all it is.”

But Primrose had continued to knead her dough, even more fiercely if that were possible. “Or perhaps it’s just the opposite problem?” suggested Cela blithely. “You don’t want it to be just a bit of play-acting? You don’t need to be shy, lass. Speak up if you don’t like it. Nothing you say here will reach Will’s ears from my mouth.”

[Celuien]

Primrose gave the dough a particularly hard push, flattening it into the counter. Cela had come very near to the truth. She was caught now. If she tried to lie, Cela, knowing her well for these past several years, would surely know that she wasn't being truthful. But she would have to speak carefully. Though cornered, there was no need for her to embarrass herself any more than necessary.

Primrose rubbed her hands on her apron. "Opposite problem?" Careful, careful. "Yes and no. I don't know." Stay focused. Calm down. She balled up the bits of dough still clinging to her fingers. It flaked. A bit too much flour in the batter, perhaps. "I'd never thought any such thing, not in all the years I've been here, and Will working right outside. But this morning...This morning when he teased about finding a wife...I don't know!" Primrose stared pleadingly at Cela. "It upset me a bit, though not in an unpleasant way, if you take my meaning, and just now, I found myself thinking…I found myself thinking that it would be nice to be someone to write home about." There. It was done.

She looked at the ground. Not hearing a reply, and not daring to look at Cela's face again, Primrose went on in a low voice, "But if Will wants to go along with your plan, I'll play too. Nothing better to cure my silliness than some playacting, I think."

[Durelin]

Griffo had remained intent on setting up his chess pieces while a small figure had inched its way beside him, and only turned when the figure decided to speak. He found himself looking at a young hobbit lad with curly brown hair. An inquisitive young lad if I ever saw one…or heard. Seems sharp enough., the old hobbit thought, sizing the boy up a bit. Looking intently at the boy, he kept his face very stern for a moment, though not harsh.

"Checkers?" he questioned sternly, "Checkers is a game for children and old men who've lost most of their wits. You look like a sharp young man, so perhaps its time you learned about this game, for it is altogether different from checkers." He paused for a second or two, turning back to the playing board before him. When the boy didn't move, he gestured with a wave of his hand, beckoning to him. "Come around and have a good look."

Once the boy was standing at the edge of the table, now more in front of Griffo, the old gaffer spoke again. "This is a chess board. And unlike simple checkers, each kind of piece has its very own purpose. And though I can't really tell you if that's just how we play it in Stock or not, I have only played it one way. And the same goes for checkers. Where you from, boy, if not Stock?"

[Folwren]

Dick turned to go back into the kitchen to finish his breakfast and a last word with the cook. He entered the room as Primrose was still speaking. “Nothing better to cure my silliness than a little play acting,” she said.

Dick took his seat at the table and picked up his fork again. He grinned broadly as the two hobbit ladies looked over at him, noticing his entrance for the first time. “Play-acting what? Is there going to be a prank or something done? Did I hear Will mentioned as I was coming in?”

He looked inquisitively at the two cooks, his eyes shining brightly with the expectation of fun. In the short pause that followed wherein they tried to decide what to say, Dick began to eat again.

“Bring me a couple biscuits, Miss Brandybuck,” he said. “And some of the butter and honey. Then tell me what’s going on while I eat.”

[Firefoot]

“Of course, Master Dick,” answered Cela. If she could have, she would have turned him around right there and marched him out of the kitchen for a few more moments while she finished her chat with Primrose. Now that her thoughts had caught up with her tongue, she wondered if she hadn’t pushed Primrose too far and made her more uncomfortable still. As it was, she contented herself with a whispered, “Not silliness at all, dear,” as she passed Primrose to fetch Dick a plate of biscuits.

“Our Will seems to have gotten himself in a spot of trouble,” she explained as she heaped his plate with biscuits, adding a pat of butter and a small tin of honey on the side. “You see, he has been writing to his mother about the four lovely lasses that he has been courting, so to speak. He's just received a letter saying his mother and sisters-in-law are coming to visit sometime soon, and of course they want to meet these marriage prospects of Will’s…” She chuckled. A tale like this only grew better in the telling. “He made his lasses up.”

Cela paused for Dick to register this before outlining the rest of her plan. “…So provided that Will wraps his head around the idea, he has no farther to look for a couple of lasses than right here in this inn. Rowan and Primrose, at least, seem quite delighted over the idea.” When Dick wasn’t looking, Cela shot Primrose a quick wink and a smile. We cooks, we keep our secrets…

[Tevildo]

When Tollers saw how eagerly his guest was going through the platter of food, he made sure to slip off a biscuit or two and stuff them into his back pocket. No sense going hungry, he reasoned, especially when this stranger had such a hearty appetite. Still, he was not overly worried. The day was proceeding better than expected. The Innkeeper had given him the nod so that he could go back into the kitchen and load up again if that's what was needed.

All in all, Tollers was beginning to warm up to this stranger, and he responded in a cordial tone. "So glad to meet you, Jack Greymoss. My name's Tollman Burrows, but everybody calls me Tollers. That is everybody except my sisters. I have seven of those at home, and I won't even tell you what they call me!"

"The food is pretty good around here," added the hobbit, nodding his head enthusiastically. " Cela Brandybuck's the Cook, and most of the time she does alright by us." Tollman thought it best not to mention those few occasions when the Cook got a little pig-headed and decided to do some fancy dishes of her own. Those silly foods did not always match up to Miss Cela's daily fare, but he would never have told that to her face.

"So you like to work odd jobs and spend your time rambling on the road? Well Jack, I can't say as I blame you. That kind of life sounds fine to me, and I would take off myself, only my mum would be mighty upset. You see, she and my da think I should get married and settle down, especially with seven sisters still at home. They say it's my duty to find a hobbit lass who has a lot of brothers who'd take up with my sisters."

"But that's enough of me and my folks. What about you? If you want to pick up an odd job or two, I am thinking the Innkeeper might be willing. I mean you are a mighty big fellow, and there's not too many your size that we see around these parts. There is an occasional Elf about, but they seem to have nothing to do with good honest work. They are always into stories and songs and herbs and such. I did hear something about the Innkeeper wanting to get some big jobs done, and you might be just the man for that. If you'd like, I can talk with him."

"Plus, you and me could do some fishin' on the side. I have a fine boat tied up across the yard on the bank of the Brandywine. I think it is big enough that even you could fit inside. If you ever want to borrow it, just say the word and it's yours for the askin' for an afternoon or even a nightime fishin' expedition."

[Lilly]

Taffy stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His fingers were itching to touch the pieces he saw on the board. ‘Well, sir,’ Taffy began, ‘we’re from up north, on the Brandywine.’ He looked away from the board and up at Griffo, wondering if the gaffer would know the place. ‘Girdley Island, actually.’ That’s my family over there at that table. My mother and little sister. My dad . . .’ he craned his neck about, and pointed toward the counter. ‘He’s over there getting something to drink.’ He remembered his manners and introduced himself. ‘I’m Taffy . . . Taffy Sandybanks.’

He shifted from foot to foot, his interest drawn back to the game. Temptation won out against his better manners and he reached for one of the white painted pieces. ‘Look at this one! It’s got a crown, doesn’t it?’ He placed it carefully back on the board. ‘And this here’s got a smaller one on its head.’ He picked up one with a pony carved on it and jumped it playfully over the little piece in front of it and then back again.

Without waiting for an invitation, Taffy climbed up onto the chair opposite Griffo. He settled in on his knees and leaned in over the table, looking from one side of the board to the other.

'You know, I have a little knife my father gave me. I’ll bet I could whittle up some figures like these. Well, not exactly like these. I’m not really all that good at it yet. But I could teach my Granpa this new kind of game.’

He looked over at Griffo, his little brows raised in question. ‘So how do you move these little pieces.’ One of his stubby little fingers rested on the head of a pawn. ‘Is it hard to learn? Do you think you could teach me?’

[Arry]

It was a relief to Will as he crossed the yard to the stable to see a cart and horse pull up. A family . . . the Sandybanks, the husband told him. Will had assured him he’d take good care of Marigold, and find a place to pen in the goats.

‘Come on, girl!’ Will urged the pony forward, drawing the little cart beneath the eaves of the stable. ‘Now you wait here a bit, while I bring your friends into the barn. I’ll just get them put away safely, then come for you.’ The two nannies fit in one of the stalls, and were left quite contentedly munching on some fresh hay.

Marigold had waited patiently for him and stood quite still as he removed her harness and bridle. She nickered softly and nosed him in the shoulder as he led her into the stable. ‘How ‘bout a nice nosebag of oats for you? I’ll brush and comb you while you’re eating.’ Will ran his hand over the pony’s back. ‘Been on the road a while, eh?’

As the pony munched on her oats, Will began to brush her. He like to talk to the horses as he groomed them, and she was no exception.

‘Too bad girls can’t be more like ponies, Marigold,’ he began, moving his arm in long strokes with the brush. The pony twitched her ears back toward him as if she were listening closely. ‘You’re so much easier to talk to . . . and you don’t expect much. Or maybe it’s just that I know what you expect and what to do for you.’ She’d finished her oats and he’d removed the bag giving her some time to drink a little of the fresh water he’d brought in to her stall.

‘I’ve got six brothers. What do I know about the lasses?’ Marigold turned her head back and eyed him. She snorted as if urging him to go on. Will switched to the curry-comb and plunged ahead with his one-sided conversation.

‘You see . . . I’ve gotten myself into a little trouble . . .’ He unraveled the story of his letters home to Crickhollow and the impending visit of his mother and sisters-in-law . . . and the plan that Cook had come up with at breakfast.

‘Now how am I going to even look those two in the face?’ he asked in an exasperated voice. Marigold stamped her foot on the packed dirt floor of the stall, sending up hay dust from the layer strewn on ground. ‘Oh, sorry!’ he said, pulling the comb from a tangle he hadn’t noticed. He worked the tangle out with his fingers and went back to using the comb.

‘I mean, I have to work with them!’ He fell silent for a while, letting his hands move gently and efficiently over the pony’s coat. ‘We’re friends, you know. We talk and tease each other and such . . . I just have no idea what else I’m supposed to do . . .’