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Fordogrim Chubb
Fordogrim ate his Luncheon in silence, as he did not know what to say. Harold’s praise of his “bravery” in standing up to Marcho had pleased him, but he knew better than to show any real pleasure at the compliment. He had merely grunted that “someone had to make that crack-brain see some sense at least once a day” and settled down to the important business of eating his meal. May sat beside him in an equally quiet mood, and Fordogrim wished that he and she could have some time alone to talk things over. He had been distressed to see her making amends with Sarah, for if she became reconciled to this trip then Fordogrim would have no real allies left! He had begun to realise, however, that her opposition to the trip was not really founded on any great desire to stay in Bree – quite the reverse. It was simply that May, like her father, resented the Whitfoots for forcing them to move. This reaction baffled Fordogrim. He neither liked nor disliked the Whitfoots, as he had long ago come to regard the family that owned his land as a force of nature rather than as individuals. One did not get angry with the frost that destroyed the early fruit buds, or rail against an untimely thunderstorm during the harvest. All one could do was accept the fact of inclemency and move forward.
The necklace that Harold had acquired for Sarah had been an eye-opener, and Fordogrim had made a mental note to mention it to Prim in his next letter. He had never really thought of his son as being a sharp wit with money, but then, there had never really been a lot of money to be sharp with. Fordogrim watched his son as they ate and noted how Harold kept looking at his wife with the kind of feeling that was only a memory for Fordogrim now. As he watched them, Sarah moved her head to one side and pulled a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth. Fordogrim’s heart almost stopped – for in that movement she looked almost exactly like Primrose. Fordogrim’s eyes grew wide as he looked at Sarah. Had her eyes always been that shade? And her nose, the shape of it was the image of Fordogrim’s beloved wife. . . Unlocked by that single gesture, it was as though he were looking at his daughter-in-law for the first time. How could he have missed it before? The resemblances were few, and subtle, but definite. Fordogrim shook his head to clear his mind of such fancies. In an attempt to regain his equilibrium he said, to no-one in particular, “A nice necklace is a fine thing, but there’s other things that’s needed for a trip like this.”
Harold looked up at his father with the closest thing to anger that his mild spirit could allow, and Fordogrim saw a sharp retort forming on his son’s lips. But then May let out a yell and pointed at the cart where a daring vixen was attempting to steal their chickens! Fordogrim roared with the fury that comes only to a hobbit who sees his provender threatened and, with a speed and agility that belied his age, rose to his feet brandishing his cane. The vixen emerged from the cart with one of Sarah’s deliciously roasted chickens in its mouth and raced off toward the brush. Fordogrim aimed a blow at its head that missed by only a whisker. He whirled in his anger to dash the cane down again, but his foot caught on a tussock and he stumbled backwards, teetered for a moment on the edge of balance, before falling backward into a small hedge.
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