Rosemary stood in front of her mother and looked out of the Parlour window. From her viewpoint barely two foot above ground, she was fascinated. There was quite a to-do going on in Pringle Square and her mother was obviously something to do with it because she had been forced to have a bath and now she was having her hair brushed. It wasn"t a joyful hair brushing either. When she had her Sunday bath in front of the nursery fire, her mother would sit by her bed and brush her hair out and sing to her or tell her stories as she put it in plaits. It was the one time in the week she knew she would get to spend some time with her mother and she would have her complete attention. During the week, her mother existed as a cloud of pleasant, and sometimes not so pleasant, smells that wafted into the
