Getting ready was a terrible business. After supper Frau Brechenmacher packed four of the five babies to bed, allowing Rosa to stay with her and help to polish the buttons of Herr Brechenmacher’s uniform. Then she ran over his best shirt with a hot iron, polished his boots, and put a stitch or two into his black satin necktie.

“Rosa,” she said, “fetch my dress and hang it in front of the stove to get the creases out. Now, mind, you must look after the children and not sit up later than half-past eight, and not touch the lamp—you know what will happen if you do.”

“Yes, Mamma,” said Rosa, who was nine and felt old enough to manage a thousand lamps. “But let me stay up — the ‘Bub’ may wake and want some milk.”

“Half-past eight!” said the Frau. “I’ll make the father tell you too.”

Rosa drew down the corners of her mouth.

“But… but….”

“Here comes the father. You go into the bedroom and fetch my blue silk handkerchief. You can wear my black shawl while I’m out—there now!”

Rosa dragged it off her mother’s shoulders and wound it carefully round her own, tying the two ends in a knot at the back. After all, she reflected, if she had to go to bed at half past eight she would keep the shawl on. Which resolution comforted her absolutely.