In the Middle of the Fields

by Mary Josephine Lavin

Mary Lavin is ranked amongst the greatest short-story writers of the twentieth century, and remains a titan of Irish literature. First published in 1967, In the Middle of the Fields explores lives that are multi-layered and secretive, peculiar and intimate, and offers a window into the quiet tragedies and joys of human life. This collection is a profound example of Lavin's unique control, insight and subtlety. For the first time in decades, and with an introduction by Colm Tóibín, the Modern Irish Classics series brings this hallmark collection to a new generation of readers.

Genres: Short Stories, Fiction, Ireland, Irish Literature

247 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1967

About the author

Mary Josephine Lavin (10 June 1912 – 25 March 1996) was a noted Irish short story writer and novelist. She is regarded as a pioneering female author in the traditionally male-dominated world of Irish letters. Her subject matter often dealt explicitly with feminist issues and concerns at a time when the primacy of the Roman Catholic Church and its abuses (e.g. the Magdalene Laundries) impinged extensively on Irish society.

Mary Lavin was born in East Walpole, Massachusetts in 1912, the only child of Tom and Nora Lavin, an immigrant Irish couple. She attended primary school in East Walpole until the age of ten, when her mother decided to go back to Ireland. Initially, Mary and Nora lived with Nora's family in Athenry in County Galway. Afterwards, they bought a house in Dublin, and Mary's father, too, came back from America to join them.

Mary attended Loreto College, a convent school in Dublin, before going on to study English and French at University College Dublin (UCD). She taught French at Loreto College for a while. As a postgraduate student, she published her first short story, 'Miss Holland', which appeared in the Dublin Magazine in 1938. Tom Lavin then approached Lord Dunsany, the well-known Irish writer, on behalf of his daughter and asked him to read some of Mary's unpublished work. Suitably impressed, Lord Dunsany became Mary's literary mentor.

In 1943, Mary Lavin published her first book. Tales from Bective Bridge, a volume of ten short stories about life in rural Ireland, was a critical success and went on to win the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction. That same year, Lavin married William Walsh, a Dublin lawyer. Over the next decade, the couple had three daughters and moved to "abbey farm" which they purchased in County Meath which included the land around Bective Abbey. Lavin's literary career flourished; she published several novels and collections of short stories during this period. Her first novel The House in Clewe Street was serialised in the Atlantic Monthly before its publication in book form in 1945.

In 1954, William Walsh died. Lavin, her reputation as a major writer already well-established, was left to confront her responsibilities alone. She raised her three daughters and kept the family farm going at the same time. She also managed to keep her literary career on track, continuing to publish short stories and winning several awards for her work, including the Katherine Mansfield Prize in 1961, Guggenheim Fellowships in 1959 and 1961, and an honorary doctorate from UCD in 1968. Some of her stories written during this period, dealing with the topic of widowhood, are acknowledged to be among her finest.

Lavin remarried in 1969. Michael Scott was an old friend from Mary's student days in University College. He had been a Jesuit priest in Australia, but had obtained release from his vows from Rome and returned to Ireland. The two remained together until Scott's death in 1991.

In 1992, Lavin, by now retired, was elected Saoi by the members of Aosdána for achieving 'singular and sustained distinction' in literature. Aosdána is an affiliation of creative artists in Ireland, and the title of Saoi one of the highest honours in Irish culture.

(from Wikipedia)

Reviews

[Ann (Inky Labyrinth) · Rating 4 out of 5]

Mary Lavin said that a short story should always be "an arrow in flight". That is, a short story should be always moving, and every sentence should add to the story. While the climax of this story is but a conversation, the plot is incredibly precise and gives the reader a submersive view into the world of quiet grief. Surprisingly, perhaps, the story also has an underlying feminist tone - quite a bold position as it takes place and was written in the early 1960's.

In The Middle of the Fields is the story of a woman in rural Ireland -- a widow who lives on her own with three young daughters. The small house they live in, as the title describes, is surrounded by fields with long grass. Having lost her husband, our main character is in need of someone to help her take care of her land, specifically for someone to cut her grass so that it does not seed itself and become impossible for the animals to graze.



During the day, two men visit to discuss arrangements for said job. All is in order for the task to be completed the next day, so our widow locks up the house and shuts herself in her bedroom, as she does every night when the sun goes down. At night, we are told, is when she experiences fear - "unnamed fears," as she calls them. Her bedroom is where she feels safest at night -- safe from unwanted visitors, the outside world, and her own grief. So it is here in her bedroom where we find her, barefoot, brushing her hair, safe -- until she hears a dreaded, unexpected knock at the door.

I will not reveal who is at the door or the conversation and actions that follow, as that is the main part of the story, but it is absolutely brilliant, evenly-paced writing. This is exactly how you write a story with very little action that can still keep the reader intrigued and on their toes.

The hint of feminism aforementioned is very subtle, and could be easily missed, especially without knowing the setting or context of the story. Within this tale is a situation every modern woman knows: trying to get a man to leave you alone, but he just does not take the hint. Even the most gentle of men can strike a bit of fear into a lady, whether he's lingering near you at the bar, or, quite literally, darkening your doorway.

The words shared between our widow and her late night visitor is a conversational power play between man and woman, a tale that has been told over and over again and depicts that position that every woman has found herself in: trying to get rid of man who just doesn’t get it. This story reminds men that they often do not even realize how easily they can frighten women, whether they intend to or not. However, it also boldly states that women, often by words alone, can shift the power back into their own hands and regain control.

I listened to this story on The New Yorker Fiction Podcast. It was read by author Colm Tóibín. He both gave an introduction as well as discussed the story with the host afterwards. Had I not listened to the afterward, I don't think I would have "got it" as much as I do now. An overall excellent reading & discussion. Definitely recommended for those who love classic literature, the Irish culture, and well-written short stories in general.


3.5/5 Stars

(Painting by Martin Driscoll)

[Vera · Rating 4 out of 5]

A long story about a young woman whose husband died recently, leaving her with three young children, in a farm house in the middle of nowhere. It is spread over a few hours of her day, from when her herdsman brings in a neighbour she hardly knew, Mr Crossan, to when Mr Crossan has visited a second time and leaves her, so she is again alone in the house in the darkness. In between these two visits, we see her upstairs in her room where she always retreats as soon as dark falls, fiercely afraid of being alone in such an exposed place. Her grief for Robert, her husband is kept at bay as far as she can do so, and we never learn anything about him, their marriage, his death. At the beginning of the story we hear that she disdains people speaking of him, “I had not thought of him for a minute” – she is trying not to think of him. Alone in the dark, the children sleeping (we never find out anything about them either), she queries her irrational fear. A knock comes to the door, and Mr Crossan disturbs her loneliness. She faces him downstairs with open hair and bare feet. While he wants to excuse himself from doing a job of mowing he’d agreed to do for her, she surprises us with her strength and indignant force; he backs off and agrees to do it. She confides in him how much she is afraid of the dark.

A scene follows where he makes a pass at her – has he come thinking of doing so? – but she turns the potentially frightening situation around and consoles him, now sheepish, by saying to forget it. She only wants him to leave – has been wanting him to leave nearly as soon as he came in, so it’s nothing to do with his pass, and is dismayed at first when he starts talking about his first wife. He had lost her very early when their son had just been born, and his second wife was really just a neighbour who looked after that boy and who had feelings for him, so that he “regularised” their relationship even despite not loving her. He subsequently had more children with her. This is a very tender scene; they have this young grief in common. He leaves, and she goes back upstairs. Will she be so afraid of the dark again? Her worries that she won’t be able to manage (as a woman on her own with a farm) seem to have been overthrown. In that way, the scene could be a turnaround in her life; an epiphany. [I heard this on a podcast read by Colm Tóibín and with commentary by him and Deborah Treisman, New Yorker fiction podcast 2017.]

[T P Kennedy · Rating 4 out of 5]

A nice collection of what's effectively three novellas. A little on the bleak side but masterfully told. It's a great glimpse of a particular moment in Ireland's development. Deeply human story telling.

[Darren · Rating 4 out of 5]

Nicely balanced short story focusing on a conversation between two people touching on themes of loss, love, memory and, ultimately, shared humanity (so packing quite a lot into 19 pages!)

[Ted Farrell · Rating 5 out of 5]

A gem of a book, simple stories, elegantly told, of life in the Irish midlands in the mid-tentieth century.

[Paul Secor · Rating 3 out of 5]

There is some fine writing here, but there is also a cloud of depression hanging over the stories and I felt depressed while reading them. I have no desire to revisit the stories in this book.