made love with a man, once, and wondered what the fuss was about. When he rolled her over onto her front, she thought for a split second she remembered someone saying, giggling, that only certain types of girls did it that way. But it was too late to turn around then. When he’d finished doing his thing, he’d spoken. “Rosebud,” he’d said, “you are just wonderful.” “My name is Rose,” she’d replied crisply. She told Mel to say she was out when he arrived at the door or telephoned. He gave up after two weeks and she never heard from him again. Sometimes she’d think back and smile to herself; at least she had loved, somehow. She’d become set in her ways; everything had its place and its time. It calmed her to know the order of things, to know what was next, but in the last few weeks before her father died she’d felt restless. The chaos of the floral patterns or navy and white stripes on her new dresses expressed her dawning confusion. * The sisters slept for almost four hours. Rose swung into action first. She’d made a To Do list before sleeping: Ring the papers Sign the forms Ring relations Register the death Call the doctor Buy a headstone Buy ham for the sandwiches When Rose woke, she tut-tutted to herself; she’d have to put an order on that list, although, she smiled, she had still managed to cover the essentials in her exhausted state. She put on her fluffy lilac dressing gown and went into the bathroom where she washed her face with lukewarm water. She thought she should wash her father’s face. But first things first; she always brushed her hair before breakfast. She looked at her reflection as she passed the bristles through her hair. The flowery pattern on the back of the brush was almost completely faded
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