Ripe with the promise of the Larkins commencing a relationship with the Jerebohm's, the first part of the book starts off like a new chapter in high summer, but fades into a mundanity that is uncharacteristic of Bates.
Partly the reason for this deflation in enjoyment is the lack of any real presence of the major figures of The Darling Buds, Mariette and Charley figuring only as cameos here, and the sourness of the newcomers. There is a warming evening of drinks with the Brigadier and the ebullient Angela Snow, and the appearance of the blooming beauty of Primrose, but these are interstitial sideshows rather than any developed themes or sub-plots. It is, perhaps, this lack of secondary development that makes Bates's lighter works sometimes too simplistic to thoroughly enjoy, unlike the depth and effect of his serious war novels, The Purple Plain [1944], the harrowing yet compelling The Scarlet Sword [1950], and the superlative Fair Stood The Wind For France [1971]. This was the case with A Breath Of French Air [1959], which was a disappointing follow-up to The Darling Buds. Yet, perhaps, after the utterly Bacchanalian estival (summer) magnificence that was the joy of Kent in high summer among the orchards and strawberry fields, painted with such bright and vivid colour in The Darling Buds of May, it is going to be not only difficult to maintain the exhilaration of its freshness and strength of its structure, but also its resplendent pastoral promise, in successive books.
This book also suffers from something that shouldn't have been allowed to get into print (p.144), and pulled me up short in astonishment. I really don't see the point, nor how it was allowed, and why it was even written.
The title, though, is magnificent - from Blake.