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The sun was hot on the back of his neck and the soil was dry and fawn-brown, baked to a fine dust by the heat. It wasn’t good weather to be out working in. It wasn’t good weather for his plants. But there he was, on his knees in the garden, his sleeves rolled up, trying to dig out the dead remains of a rose bush.
It was a stubborn thing, holding fast to the soil in spite of having no life left in it. Tough and wiry, cutting grooves into his palms even through his gardening gloves. He’d clipped away the thorny branches, but one fat root was fighting him.
“Sodding roots,” he muttered to himself, yanking hard. “Sodding drought –” The root snapped, most of it coming away in his hand and leaving only a broken end in the ground to tug on. “Fuck!”
He glowered at the root and – with some difficulty – got a new grip on it. “You – horrible thing,” he said, struggling to get purchase. “Will you just – fucking behave.” He tugged on it again. It refused to yield. “Fucking – shit –”
Then his hands slipped and pain flared in his wrist as it grated against the gritty soil. “Fuck!” he exclaimed.
Blood was welling from a graze on his bare wrist, just below the edge of his gloves. “For fuck’s sake,” he said to himself. He put the cut to his mouth.
“Everything alright?”
Sam started, his eyes widening at the sight of Frodo standing in the kitchen doorway. He was in his shirtsleeves, a smile quirking his lips, and Sam had no idea how long he’d been standing there watching.
His arm fell from his mouth. “Oh Mr Frodo, sir!” he said. “I was just, um.” He floundered. He didn’t know how to explain himself. “I was just talking to meself.”
“I know,” said Frodo, still smiling. “I could hear you from the parlour.”
The parlour window was standing open, the lace edge of the curtains drifting in the breeze. Sam hadn’t noticed. He stared at it, appalled.
“You know,” Frodo remarked, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you use that kind of language.”
“I’m awful sorry, sir,” said Sam. “I didn’t know you were listening – not that I’d usually be so crude at work – or, or at all – it’s just –”
Frodo was coming across the lawn to join him. He knelt by the flowerbed and Sam noticed for the first time that the top buttons of his shirt were unfastened, revealing the skin underneath. “Let me see?” He reached for Sam’s injured wrist.
“It’s just a graze,” said Sam as Frodo cradled his hand, inspecting. “I really am sorry, sir.”
“For what?” said Frodo mildly. “Do you need some help?”
Probably he ought to refuse. But he was hot and tired and thirsty, and discombobulated besides. He said, “that’d be nice.”
“What do you need?”
“Here.” He guided Frodo’s hands into the dirt.
Together they got their hands around the root and in a steady heave wrenched it up and out of the ground. “There we go,” said Sam as it snapped and scrunched its way out.
“Good show,” said Frodo. He opened his hands. They were grimy and marked with red lines where the root had dug into them.
“Oh, I’m sorry – I should have thought,” said Sam. “I should have lent you my gloves –”
“It’s nothing.” Frodo dusted his hands off on his nice trousers. “You should clean that,” he said, nodding at Sam’s arm. “Shall we go inside?”
Sam swallowed. “I really am sorry for swearing,” he said. “It won’t happen again – honest, it won’t.”
“Sam.” Frodo took his wrist. “You can say fuck around me if you want. I really don’t mind.”
Sam felt his face heat, and his expression must have been a picture, for Frodo began to laugh.