It was that he was lying alone in the centre of a large flat green field. A cold storm was raging about him. Overhead drummed peals of thunder. Agony taught him some minutes later that the thunder rolled from somewhere inside his own head and that the field was the billiard table, from which he was about to fall. He got up off the table and groped with uncertain agony about the semidarkened room, white hands limp at his sides, stringy and strengthless, like portions of tired celery. He was wearing Mariette’s pyjamas, which were silk, of a pale blue colour, with a pattern of either pink roses or carnations all over them – he was too distraught to tell which. He could not remember putting the pyjamas on. He could only suppose Mariette had put them on. He could not remember that either. Presently, after managing to pull on his trousers over his pyjamas, he groped his way out of the billiard room. In the kitchen the apparition of Ma, now wearing a parma-violet jumper instead of the salmon one, overrode all other objects, like a circus elephant.
What do You think about The Darling Buds Of May (1958)?
