[Primrose Bolger]

Ginger and one of the other helpers spent the morning ironing the long white cloths that were to grace the tables where the food and drink were to be put out. Another of the tables, the one with the mathoms on both ends and the lovely, luscious cake in the center had also a long white table cloth to cover it, but over the white was a light blue lacy tablecloth that complimented the color of many of the sugared violets on the cake. It had been Ginger’s job to get that all done nicely, with no scorching, if you please, Cook had admonished her.

A number of the lasses from Bywater and Hobbiton helped Ginger get the cloths placed just so, then some piled the mathoms on the center table while the others put out the plates and cups and tableware that would be needed for the party.

Several of the older Hobbits, gammers by the looks of them, had persuaded a couple of the young bucks to haul over a water tight oaken vat into which they were now pouring several buckets of fresh, sweet water from the Inn’s well. They had picked a spot under the shade of the trees and had gotten several of the younger female helpers to bring them chairs. Ginger wandered over, sidling as close as she dared to the women to see what they were doing. One of the gammer’s grandson’s had unloaded a number of crates of maywine from his cart and was now uncorking it. At their urging, he poured it all into the vat; its golden shimmer adding a glimmer of inner light to the water.

One of the old Hobbits stuck her finger into the solution and plopped it in her mouth. ‘More!’ she cried, pouring another bottle of wine or two or four or more into the concoction. When they’d gotten it just right, the oldest of the ladies, hoisted up a large crockery jug that stood next to her feet. Granny Oldbuck, Ginger thought to herself, seeing the wrinkled little face beneath the silvered curls. The heady scent of dark cherries crept out of the jug and enticed the noses of those who stood near. Cherried brandy, the Oldbuck women’s secret recipe. It poured heavily into the vat, sinking down at first, and then as they stirred it with their wooden paddles, the color dispersed throughout, giving the liquid a deep rosy hue.

‘Just about done,’ Granny Chubb declared, dipping the silvered tasting cup she bore on a ribbon at her waist into the brew and savoring a hearty swallow. Out of her apron pocket came a light green bottle filled with a thin sweet liquid . . . rosewater. And that from the wild roses that grew along the hedgerows lining her little burrow.

Ginger’s mouth watered at the delicate scents issuing from the vat. Her nose leading as she sniffed appreciatively at the smell of the brew, she crowded up between Granny Chubb and Granny Oldbuck, straining to see into the vat. ‘Oh, well now, look here,’ said Granny Chubb to Granny Heathertoes. ‘We’ve got our first customer.’ Granny Oldbuck chuckled, a dry, light sound, and pushed Ginger closer to the vat.

‘Here, give her a cup,’ said Granny Chubb, dipping one of the squat little mugs into the liquid. Ginger reached for it thirstily, but before she took it from the older Hobbit’s hands, one of the others had floated a rose petal on it. Very pretty . . . she thought then. Very tasty, too she learned as she finished off the cup of punch . . . and held out her cup for another.

‘Careful,’ cautioned Ruby, who’d come up for a cup herself. ‘Best pace yourself on the Grannies’ brew.’ She downed her cup and nodded to each of the women, saying she believed this was the best one so far. ‘It’s called Maiden’s Blush Punch,’ she whispered to Ginger as other lasses and older women gathered round the vat giving their opinions. ‘Brings a glow to your cheeks and puts a tingle in your toes for dancing . . .’