She had reached Kew's Temple of Arethusa and it was getting chilly. She was drawing close now, in her recollections, to the end of her relationships with Freddie, with Albert, and with Patrick and his artist friends, too.
It had been in June 1970, towards the end of dinner on what would turn out to be the last time that Rosemary would see Patrick or Derek, that the latter had begun: 'I can't see why you'd want to put yourself through the harrowing task of being in the Workers Revolutionary Party, or is it the International Socialists?' Rosemary had responded swiftly, 'WRP... the one that sells the Worker's Press' then added, more vehemently, 'I just need to see a vision of "something else"I'm going to Russia for the Lenin Centenaryat least there I'll see a different social order from our crazy bourgeois decadence'.' Was she on a soapbox already? She couldn't easily explain to them why she was moving so rapidly away from her "privileged" lifestyle, to one of ideological strife and uncertainty. All she knew then was that she was beginning to find her own feet; she had felt good about the fact that she seemed to know more about left wing philosophy than either Patrick or Derek! Whilst they enjoyed sending it all up for various reasons, Rosemary knew that in reality they would have to agree with her assertion that "society had to change", not least because of the new 'Gay Liberation Movement' and much more besides. She had hesitated to
continue with her rather defiant stance...'A society' without an elite group at the top deciding how the lower classes should live their lives will...' Patrick had switched off, but she knew Derek had been keeping journals for years, in which he explored political themes, already a central motif in his art. However, he wasn't to be impressed by notions of class struggle: 'But that's just what has been going on in the Soviet Union ever since 1917...there's no "personal" freedom thereand certainly, as, yet, only the same old "hetersoc!" Passionately, he went on, 'No men walking hand-in-hand over thereeverything goes on under cover of being POLITICALLY CORRECT... I think you'd hate it. For God's sake don't do it!' he had almost shouted at her.
Equally passionate, she had remonstrated 'I'm not siding with the Stalinists...the Far Left, from the Trotskyist viewpoint, is something that has to be lived, so that you can see life from a worker's point of view... I need to give myself that chance of understanding how society could be ethically better and less corrupt!' Books and the opinions of others were no substitute for some first-hand experience in a communist state, even if it was only going to be for two weeks through Intourist.
'But it would be such a colossal self-sacrifice. How can you give yourself a chance to become a painter, as you've recently talked about, if you become someone who can't operate as an individual?' pleaded Derek. Rosemary hadn't seen any of it in terms of self-sacrifice; she just needed a broader political education. In all probability, fulfillment for her, as a woman, was not going to be found amongst the male artists she had encountered; at that point in time she lacked the confident framework that informed their specific male output; that's why she had been looking for something else. She had to find a way of breaking out of a circle where she didn't belong as an equal. It might mean moving to another city or retraining in Fine Art, but of course, more importantly, it meant commitment to revolutionary politics in a total, life-trans forming way. Rosemary had given herself just two weeks in Russia to get a future perspective in place; but she knew that it was only a start and that there would be a lifetime ahead of getting to grips with some important theoretical and practical concepts.
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After listening to Derek it no longer seemed that odd that she could find no one else who wanted to go to Moscow with her, and if she couldn't be \\ith Freddie, who was always, in any case, psychologically elsewhere, then at this point in time she would rather just go on her own. But there was no way of even remotely convincing Derek of the sense of her actions, and he had the final say on that score, yet again: 'The far left is full of actors who adore any opportunity for a free public appearanceanything for an audience', he shook his head in mockery. She tried to laugh it off, but she imagined she could handle that part of the task ahead, were she to become immersed in an environment with "socialist values". Rosemary intended to find the courage to prove that Derek was wrongafter all, Trotskyism meant 'permanent revolution' and she had the rest of her life to find her way in it all. She didn't expect to see tanks rolling through the streets of London, or a new, Che Guevara-inspired, guerrilla-style leadership! So, for the sake of bringing that difficult conversation to a close she acquiesced: 'I know there will be bits of it I'll hate and that I won't easily fit in...perhaps really I'm more keen on the theory of radical socialism than the practice of it.,.but whatever it is, I've got to find out something about it first-hand'.' But she didn't get the final word after all: 'Then get ready to join the armchair and champagne socialist brigade, and don't forget you need to be rich to be a real socialist...that's just the way it works,' roared Derek. 'Rubbish!' she had retorted, smugly feeling that she had already glimpsed some bigger purpose in life that would make sense of all the unavoidable day-to-day trivia so necessary just to keep functioning at all.
Hadn't she already thought about and dismissed what her life might become if she settled into a nine-to-five job, and the prospect of becoming a Sunday painter? After all, there was already the 'model' of Freddie 'in the making' with his grand calling to the world of music! And although his goal, of course, was totally different from hers, he was at least already on the correct path towards realising it.
Back in the present, Rosemary examined the names on the War Memorial plaque on the outer wall of the Temple of Arethusa; the thought crossed her mind that Freddie would one day have a plaque on the wall of his abode, and it gave her a tingling sensation down her spine. It made her smile.
Turning her thoughts to her own situation, she had to keep in mind that she was only a matter of weeks into her graphics job at BBC Television Centre, a simultaneously wonderfuland traumatising experience. Just because she'd decided to compromise on her current idealism, by earning a living, didn't mean she couldn't 'make a difference' in the world, no matter how small. Wasn't that progress, especially for women? Alright, in real terms she was perhaps being extremely romanticbut she was surrounded by people who were already 'idealistic' but who inhabited the very different "mind set" of the Artist, rather than that of the Designer. But surely, it had to be only a matter of a land of psychological juggling feat, so that all those disparate parts of her 'agenda' could be set to work in some measure of equilibrium? These were the land of seemingly unanswerable questions that had run endlessly through her mind, and there she was trying to plead a rational case for Leftist politics with Derek. But she didn't have any of the correct answers and was secretly on very shaky ground that particular evening, she recollected, with her own particular variety of embarrassment. No one who had become a revolutionary had all the answers to their questions at their fingertips at the start. She'd recently read Kafka's Metamorphosis; she had taken the story to have been almost allegorical and had imagined herself 'morphing' intellectually over a period of time, so she'd gather new concepts as time passed and become transformed! But on a more rational level she had remained inspired by John Berger's Permanent Red, where it was clearly stated that all aspects of life and art had to be constantly redefined. The late sixties had been a time of radical action in the arts on all fronts, too, but with one exception: where were all the great women artists? Whilst she was familiar with OP Art and Minimalism, apart from Bridget Riley's work these movements were very 'formalist' in their conception: there was nothing more reactionary than 'art for art's sake' and that was not a path she could go down. All she knew was that for women there was little chance of being 'radical' in the world of London galleries at that moment in time. "The most women can do, unless they are exceptionally talented and went to the Royal College or The Slade, is eat macrobiotic food; wear plastic shoes; and abstain from having babies!' That last tirade Rosemary had managed to drop into the conversation with Patrick and Derek, just before it all petered out completely. Everyone had laughed at this, but Rosemary was feeling scornful and ironic. Behind the mirth was another complex issue that she could not fathom out at all...where would Freddie fit into all that ideology? Seemingly that was a part of her personal jigsaw into which he could never fit! It really did mean having to leave him, and although everything else to date had pointed to the inevitability of this horrendous idea, it was now almost crunch time. In many ways, as a man, he had treated her better than any of the others had, and that was something she would always hang on to. So she had hoped, naively, that they could remain friends; but then she'd had to acknowledge that that would necessarily involve hearing about his new lovers, and that, she knew, was not something she would be able to tolerate. And so she accepted that the end would really be the end, a final and irrevocable parting.
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Then Patrick had pulled Rosemary right back into the here and now of that very issue: 'Where does your friend Freddie fit in with all this?' She had had to be very honest: 'He DOESN'T. It's going to be really difficult but...we're going to have to split up...' She was holding back the tears...'Freddie needs to write his songs and perform...in his own way he's radical already and doesn't need all the "props" I need, to get onto the right path!' Derek was ready to be jovial again: 'From what you've said we're all in for a real treat if he pulls that one off!' he laughed loudly, finishing off his wine.
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Anyway, part of Rosemary knew that, left to his own devices, Freddie would become fully immersed in his music. She had no wish to see him sad, knowing he'd be lonely until he found a 'mate' who could really harmonise with him. Still walking around the temple, she was struck by how the seeming permanence of Architecture contrasted with the fleeting everyday experience of life as it was lived. It helped her get some perspective on what was transitory in the world of emotions and brought her back down to earth for a while.
Apart from their divergent ideologies, and trying to understand all his many complexities, she simply couldn't handle the reality of Freddie's sexuality. At least Derek and Patrick could see that the time for making changes had arrived for her, and in some ways were empathetic despite their differences of opinion on what it meant to be 'radical'. 'Can't wait to see a performance of Freddie's,' said Patrick as he reached out to Rosemary and squeezed her hand gently...'never have understood women, darling' sighed Derek, getting up and yawning...'Who's that French philosopher who said that women don't need to become something as they already are it?' She had had no answer to that one! But she had wanted to conclude the conversation on a positive note and so had interjected 'Don't say that, please! It reminds me of my mothershe thinks that women should just float about and look good...' Everyone laughed, except her. But she did feel more relaxed, having given voice to her decision to leave Freddie; the thought had been forming for a long time, and now that it was out in the open she wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. It was now only a matter of breaking the news to the man himself! Was that cold-blooded of her? It was a relief that Patrick and Derek proved close enough friends at that time for her to be able to confide at least some of the complexities that she had drawn to herself, all in the name of the 'quest for identity'!
Sitting on the bench beneath the bronze plaque in the Temple of Aretlmsa's portico, Rosemary realised she was still in the midst of extreme change; it was reflected all too clearly around her in the dying leaves of the trees at Kew, and she knew that she, too, was now ready for one of Nature's seasonal transformations.
The Final Split
As she walked back towards the Victoria Gate Exit, Rosemary reflected again on the difficult decisions she'd had to make recently in her personal and emotional life. She recalled the grave complexities that had unfolded after her return from Russia; there, she'd had a whole fortnight to Inwardly prepare a 'Freddie, I'm going to leave you!' kind of conversation, a conversation she needed to have before she would be free to confront the world anew. But of course she'd also had to face up to the situation with Albert Muller.
Her mind raced back to when she had first arrived in Moscow and later Leningrad via Intourist, just eight weeks ago. Despite the language problems, the food queues and the grim domestic architecture, it had been an intensely interesting experience. The Intourist guide had taken her to places of historical importance, and she had loved the fact that it was possible to sketch anything and anyone there without being stared at; there was lots of political discussion, too, \\ith some Americans in the group, which carried on into shared meal times in the huge hotel restaurants, where everyone was served with the same food. Rosemary often thought how much Freddie would have disliked it, and she smiled to herself, imagining his reactions. She remembered finding herself wistfully drawing an imaginary portrait of him wearing an antique, military helmet-then she'd laughed out loud and done one of him as the Tsar, whilst she toured the Hermitage. 'That's much more him', she had thought to herself.
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The time had raced by with a week in Leningrad and a long train journey back to Moscow before the return flight to Heath row. Ironically, she had enjoyed the Picassos at the Hermitage as much as anything else she saw there, and this put her into a deep reflective mood about the relationship between art and politics, which in reality she was never to resolve!
Once back in London, she acted swiftly on the difficult decision she'd made in Russia on the need for a final separation from Freddie. Leaving her bags in the Mini-Van, which she'd left parked near the airport, she went straight over to Barnes to see him. Rosemary knew he wasn't alone in the Ferry Road flat, and she wanted to be discreet so as not to embarrass him. She told him quickly and quietly in the living room, Freddie pacing anxiously up and down as she talked. 'I don't believe you are really going,' he had blurted out. 'We could still befriends,' she offered, un convincingly. Freddie was furious: 'No, we can'tI'm not even allowed to meet most of your friends, so how can I be one of them?' She felt that trying to offer objective reasons for their split would have been an absurd cliche. They'd known they were incompatible for the best part of a year, so what good would it do to bring it all up again now, to justify her decision?
She just said, blandly: 'I didn't want things to turnout this way...but I think it's for the bestwe're just incompatible.' Beneath the surface, of course, the ever-present fear of loneliness was raising its ugly head for both of them. In whom would he now confide about his true sexual identity? How would he get through the next hours and days? Rosemary wanted to be as altruistic as possible in the circumstances, because any negative aftermath would be a horrible ending to the almost two years of shared intimacy. In the end she'd just had to start moving away from the sofa, crying as she went.
Freddie had run after her, unable to hold back the tears: 'I just don't want to be on my own,' he sobbed. Rosemary looked deep into his eyes 'You're not on your own...you've got the whole world at your feet... you'll see.' She tried to laugh, adding coyly you old queen!' By then they were both really crying; she just stood and hugged him tightly for several minutes, before finally leaving. She had tried, foolishly, to make light of it, feebly attempting to raise a laugh with the 'old queen' jibe, but only a very small part of her thought this was an acceptable parting. Although their relationship might have had elements of tragicomedy about it at times, ending it was no joking matter.
She'd just managed to get herself into the parked up Mini-Van, still weeping, when one of Freddie's housemates came running after her and got into the passenger seat. Tin sorry, I overheard some of what's just happened... I know this is unlikely, but if you're not going out with Freddie, could we remain friends?' She was mortified. 'No, we cannot!' she retorted furiously, emotionally shocked and distraught. Somewhat abashed he got out of the van and went back indoors. Rosemary could not contemplate friendship with Freddie's friends if no longer in an intimate relationship with him herself! She drove off with tears running down her cheeks.
She drove away from Ferry Road towards the river, parked up and went for a walk along a quiet path on the Thames near Hammersmith. She had been in no fit state to go straight back to Westbourne Grove; in any case she was emotionally drained and not looking forward to yet another ordeal ahead of her. Rosemary could imagine Albert laughing about the whole episodehe'd always said right from the start that there was no future in her relationship with Freddie. Mien she did finally get back to their flat, he wasn't in, so she quickly got undressed, drew the bedroom curtains and fell into bed. Her Russian holiday luggage was still in the van, but she was utterly exhausted and hadn't had the energy to unload it. She sobbed herself to sleep. When she woke up it was dark outside, and Albert was home.
'Well, what happened in Russia?' he enquired, sitting down on the bed. 'Nothing much...' She could not think of anything to say about it; she felt barely conscious. Then, like an automaton, the words came out; 'I have left Freddie...' He was quiet for a moment, then said in a very matter of fact way, 'You know, Freddie may be hugely relieved, deep down.' Rosemary hesitated to say anything more, and just curled up tighter in the bed, wishing she could just blank everything out. But she couldn't get back to sleep. She felt as though, on some subconscious level, she had decided that whatever happened to her from now on just didn't matter. She was just too deeply despondent; she wanted to be instantly and deeply anaesthetised, but had no desire to get drunk or become maudlin. Her world seemed to have come to an endshe could not feel any worse about what she had so irretrievably done that day. It was as though she had no 'good tomorrow' to look forward to. She was aware of a need in her psyche for some kind of dramatic grand-finale to end the tragicomedy she was living through. Perhaps she needed punishing? She was after all the 'guilty party' in leaving Freddie. Suddenly, a masochistic urge entered her distraught mind: she would ask Albert to beat her on the buttocks, only very briefly, and only if he was in the mood to do so! 'He should beat me, and I should willingly acquiesce!'
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Rosemary suddenly thought how preferable physical pain would be to the mental pain afflicting her. She was prepared to gamble on it, anyway. Thinking about that episode again from the safety of her circular walk in Kew Gardens, she recognised it to have been a deep need for an instant "ejection from normality"; an act that would close the door between her past and her future by banishing symbolically all that had happened up to that precise moment, as a form of rite of passage.
She had called to Albert in the next room: 'Albert.... just come in here and give me a good smack with your leather belt!' He hadn't been able to take it in, so she had repeated her request. He smiled as if to himself, then grinned widely and became quite elated. Rosemary started to cry softly. 'I've been a real bitch] I really did love him, you know,' she had blurted out. Albert seemed not to hear. 'My God, is that what you really want?' He stood over her, waiting. Then he pulled his belt from his jeans: 'Is this by way of a "gesture" to put the past behind us?' he had whispered. But his voice sounded faint to her ears, as she swooned with the rapid sensation of pain from his belt. Rosemary was psychologically transported back to boarding school; caning on the buttocks was something she'd had to get used to there; it was nothing new. So she submitted stoically to Albert's lashings, the pain of which left her tingling from head to toe. All her muscles were achingly sore and she was totally spaced out. It was like travelling at speed to the end of the universe and back in a few hoursor was it minutes? She didn't know! Her speech trance-like, Rosemary muttered: 'I want to be totally authentic from now onI've got to kick this attraction for trying to fathom the 'the male psyche'/
She fell into a light slumber but woke again quickly, with the thought: 'At least Freddie didn't think of me as just "his chick" like most blokes...' Then she shut off all outward attempt at 'communication' and just cried again. God, that she could even find the words to reflect on what had happenednot the few minutes of being beaten, by choice, with a belt, but what it had really meant to her to know Freddie! Her subconscious certainly held much that needed expression..,though consciously, in those next few hours, she felt like a zombie and barely alive. Why had she become so strongly fused with her former, unavailable lover? Rosemary just needed to speak about himanything at allwhatever came out: 'We really covered some groundhis androgynous side showed me a different side of normal', she had mumbled. But Albert wasn't listening...In his own way Albert had been fond of Rosemary. They'd given each other the space to explore their individual needssocial, sexual and psychologicalduring their three years under the same roof. Not everyone could say they'd done that much for their close contemporaries, even in 1970! She supposed that kind of libertarianism was something she'd grown up with, her parents having maintained their oral variety of open marriage, an extremely bohemian lifestyle choice for the forties and fifties.
She must have fallen asleep again at some stage, because her next memory was of waking up suddenly, aware that someone else was in the flat.
It had long been one of Albert's desires that he should "make love" to her and another woman, simultaneously. Even in the hedonistic circles in which they moved such desires were the stuff of fantasy and not actualised in reality for most people, but Rosemary had an impression that Albert was one of those who had experimented with group sex. At that very moment, one of his other girlfriends, Andre a Lock, was in the next room; she'd been seeing Albert for a while, despite being officially the girlfriend of Jeremy Salford, at Central School of Art. Before Rosemary had time to even think about it, Albert had brought Andrea into the bedroom and invited her to get into bed with her. 'Join the club, darling,' Albert whispered to Andrea...'I love you both, anyway,' he said, almost demurely, as he stripped off his jeans and got into bed with them. After finishing off his joint, he started to kiss them both, and the comfort of it all brought the perfect 'frisson' to round off the shambolic events of that unforgettable day. At times, she saw flashes of the film Performance in front of her! Were they re-enacting some of those erotic scenes? But she just didn't give a damn anymore...and in that hedonistic hour she wanted the whole thing never to end. 'You are both such beautiful creatures...! adore you totally...' Albert was ecstatic; his dream had come true! It was dawn when Rosemary finally woke up. What had actually happened? She was in a complete dazethe others were still asleep. But, like the aftermath of a car crash, it all came flooding back to her: she had dumped Freddie; asked to be beaten, and then made love simultaneously to two people of different genders! What next? It all came mentally tumbling out faster than she could think. But there was still one much bigger thing to be done, and it had to be done then and there. 'I must just MOVE OUT! Now\' she had muttered to herself. She had to do it at once, before she lost her nerve...it was Sunday and she was starting her new job at the BBC the following morning, so she had better get on with it. She made a cup of tea and looked round the rest of the flat to see what belongings were hers. But where was she going to stay? She had no idea; it was only eight o'clock in the morning'hardly a moonlit flit', she observed, and smiled to herself, recalling the many such moves that she'd experienced with her parents when she was still a child. Rosemary could always go home and admit defeat over her wonderful free-style life, but then her mother had recently moved back to Suffolk, so that wouldn't be near enough to the new job. She'd better think of crashing at someone's pad for a few days. But it was far too early in the day to ring anyone up or just turn up on someone's doorstep. At all costs, she had to find the presence of mind to get some stuff together whilst the others were asleep. Once stirred they might talk her out of it! That was unthinkable; it was definitely one of those moments to strike 'whilst the iron was hot', or it would probably never happen. There was no time for sadness or reflection either; that would have to wait until later: Rosemary would make it into a purely practical event, thinking on her feet. 'At least it's not as bad as yesterday' she mused to herself whilst picking up odds and ends. In comparison with the tragic-feeling events of the day before, it was actually something of a farce; she'd pack up the van, then go back, wake Albert and Andrea, and tell them of her decision. Grabbing a few more belongings and shoving them into some bin liners, the whole thing was completed in twenty minutes.
"What are you doing up?' came a voice from the bedroom. Tm leaving...' Rosemary called back; silence followed. They were probably still too stoned to take it in. She looked again for her phone book which she had deliberately not packed...suddenly realising that, being a Sunday, at least everyone she had in her book would probably be in, even if they were still asleep...it seemed a matter of life and death that she should have somewhere to go later that day, even if she had to hang about in Kensington Gardens or somewhere whilst she was waiting. Having found the address book she started at the initial 'A' in the book and decided to phone everyone she knew who might possibly take her in for a few days, working through the alphabet. The others had clearly gone back to sleep, so this gave her a break to make the phone call that at that moment seemed the most important one she had ever made. But it was hopeless; Rosemary worked her way right through to the initial T and still no one had answered! OK, it was a London Sunday morning, what could she expect? Then suddenly there was a 'Hello?' at the other end of the phone... someone had answered. 'It's Rosemary Pearson,' she said, half whispering...'Can I come and crash at your place for a few days?' 'Cool, man!' came the reply from a guy called Tariq.
It turned out that Tariq was living at Netting Hill Gate, not too far from where she would be working at Shepherd's Bush; she had no idea that this particular bit of 'controlled folly' was to transform her life thereafter into a much deeper shade of red! At that precise moment in time it was just a great relief; Rosemary wouldn't need to rush... I`ll be round in an hour or so,' she said without further ado. Then it was definitely time to speak to Albert and Andrea, so she went into the bedroom and shook them awake. 'I've got something to tell you...I'm moving out... NOW! 'They rubbed their eyes and looked at her in shock. 'I'm going to give you two some space... I'm only going to be up the road... it's not a big deal...' Before they had time to respond Rosemary had been out of the door. She kept her keys and would go back when everything had calmed down to sort out any remaining details. The main thing was that she would have a roof over her head for that all-important night before she was to start her job in Graphic Presentation at BBC Television Centre.
Rosemary never got to find out what happened to Freddie in the days that followed their separation, but she never stopped wondering how it had gone for him then. She imagined he would have been sad, but that the others would have told him to get a grip of himself and that, anyway, there were plenty more fish in the seathat sort of thing. It would probably have set off a fresh musical surge in him. He'd eventually find 'the love of his life'. He would receive his share of ecstasy to balance out the agony, of that she was sure.
Could Rosemary say that Freddie had been the love of her life, or she his? What had happened between them had been just one formative experience among the myriad aspects of their individual development as young adults in search of their destinies. Looking back she saw that she'd been attracted to Freddie because of his single-minded creativity, his exotic orientalism and his open honesty, which she had valued above all else. They had grown up in such different worlds: he was pursuing the very glamour and bohemianism from which she, because of her background, was desperate to escape. In the end Freddie had taught Rosemary several life-changing lessonsto be fearless; to ignore notions of personal limitations; never to accept prosaic conventions; to be passionate about whatever she was engaged in; to keep on moving forward and never to be demeaned by the negative views of others. Almost at the exit now, she still had to resolve the question that had been her other task for the day: how could she work as a BBC TV Graphic Presentation Designer yet also become a Fine Artist? Considering this problem brought about a complete BLANK in her inner vision; she looked for an empty bench and sat down. The answer came to her at once: she would work for a year in her new job and then apply for a place on a BA Fine Art course for the autumn term of 1971! This would give her time to plan a new portfolio in her spare time and save up some cash. She hesitated no longer and moved quickly through the Victoria Gate Exit and then on towards the station to start her homeward journey, as it was now rush hour. 'Home?' she thought wistfully...she no longer had one to go to...only the use of a sofa in a Netting Hill Gate commune. But Rosemary had fulfilled her quest travelling full-circle, around Kew Gardens and in memory, she had revisited her whole life in a day. Now both the past and the future had become clear.
The End
ENDNOTE
Rosemary Pearson did a BA and a PhD in Fine Art, but after 1971 rejected the fervour of the avant-garde and the division between Art & Design. In the Sixties she had wanted to make a revolution in the streets, but by 1975 did so only on her canvases. However, remembering the words of John Berger in Permanent Red: '....after 1920 it was no longer possible to consider yourself a revolutionary without committing yourself politically', Rose Rose [Deed Poll name change 1981] remained irresolute both politically and aesthetically. Instead she embraced the multifarious concepts of family; alternative medicine; and romanticised painting.
http: / /www.roserose. co. uk
Cover Image:
Interior Rock and Roll by Rose Rose: 1986. [Purchased by Arts Council of England: SheffieldArt Galleries].
14 Chapter Illustrations by Rose Rose: 1970
Rosemary Pearson: 1970
