The two greatest living Irish short-story writers are William Trevor and Claire Keegan. Foster won the Davy Byrnes Irish Writing Award 2009 and was subsequently expanded for publication as a stand-alone story.
In his study of the form, The Lonely Voice, Frank O’Connor wrote that “the short story has never had a hero” but instead has a “submerged population group,” dreaming always of escape.
The dream of escape in Foster is that of a small girl brought to stay on a farm belonging to her “mother’s people,” away from parents whose attitude to rearing children is avoidance rather than actual neglect. Over the months of her stay, the girl becomes closer to the married couple she’s staying with and learns of a secret that has eaten away at both of their lives.
There is a deep lyricism to Keegan’s writing. Her stories are delicate and exquisite, with a quietness also. Such is its preciseness that Keegan’s writing gives the impression that if a word was misplaced or removed the entire story would shatter – a fragility matched by the vulnerability of her characters’ thoughts. Early in Foster, the girl is greeted by “the woman” (she is never referred to by name):
‘The last time I saw you, you were in the pram,’ she says, and stands back, expecting an answer.
‘The pram’s broken.’
‘What happened at all?’
‘My brother used it for a wheelbarrow and the wheel fell off.’
She laughs and licks her thumb and wipes something off my face. I can feel her thumb, softer than my mother’s, wiping whatever it is away. When she looks at my clothes, I see my thin, cotton dress, my dusty sandals through her eyes. There’s a moment when neither one of us knows what to say. A queer, ripe breeze is crossing the yard.
Frank O’Connor was correct when he stated that someone can be a great novelist yet an inferior writer, but that a great storyteller cannot be so. I would argue that many attempts at the story are mere vignettes – ‘days out’ for the writer – and therefore fail in their intent as stories, although they may be pleasant enough to read. There is a need, nonetheless, to differentiate between deliberate and accidental vignettes. Margaret Atwood’s vignettes are an accomplished and deliberate example of the form.
What Claire Keegan demonstrates is the ability, as Frank O’Connor described it, to combine exposition and development in a way that overcomes the challenge of time – that challenge being a frame of reference that can never be the totality of a human life but merely a selective point of entry. The difference between a great storyteller and a novelist masquerading as a storyteller is that the storyteller understands that narrative is mere pattern and that the pattern is human life as universally experienced, “nostalgia and disillusionment and a fresh nostalgia sharpened by experience,” in O’Connor’s words.
There can be no fantastical event in the story – no slaying of dragons – because the form won’t permit it. But neither is the short story restrictive. Each new generation of storyteller is not so tied to convention as to be prevented from writing afresh. O’Connor argued, correctly, that the story has no essential form, that the point of entry into a life is different each time and that the submerged population of one storyteller – Chekhov’s doctors and teachers, for example – differ vastly from the submerged population of another – Maupassant’s prostitutes, by contrast.
The shorter version of Foster appears on The New Yorker website. Claire Keegan’s collections of stories are Antarctica and Walk The Blue Fields. To mark the publication of Foster, Keegan gave an interesting interview to The Guardian.