The town looks out to sea, its back braced against a low hill, a site that accurately reflects its indifference to the country behind and its interest, at least once, in old mother England. It has a stern and grey demeanor, like an ancient spinster, perhaps one who enjoys rapping her cane to make sure everyone is listening. The town had originally been named Whalers’ End, a tribute to the original source of its income. After a maritime accident—the wreckage of which still provides stalwart divers with adventure—the name had been considered bad luck and had been changed to the more sedate Rosemount. There still weren’t many roses, although the hill behind could have been said to be a mount. A little one. Maybe a dowager’s hump. Boston had once been so far away as to be effectively of another world, and there were still residents who would prefer it stayed that way. The automobile had changed Rosemount, just as it had changed the rest of America.
