Old Ireland’s struggles associated with being female are narrald in a variety of renowned stories, encompassing works of esteemed authors like Edna O’Brien, Claire Keegan, Sebastian Barry, and Mary Lavin. The narratives often depict an undercurrent of male dominance, voice suppression, constrictions and oppressive circumstances which, disturbingly, may enable exploitation. Anna Fitzgerald’s inaugural novel, Girl in the Making, serves as a notable exposition of the unravelling of such themes; even when the context might seem outdated, a talented author can infuse it with renewed vitality.
Fitzgerald’s narrative, focused on the formative years of Jean Kennedy – a middle-class girl from southern Dublin, effortlessly engages readers from the initial chapter set in 1966. Beginning with Jean at the tender age of three and concluding 15 years later with a hopeful end to her college journey, the beautifully-crafted early narrative displays Fitzgerald’s mastery over style, characterised by the peculiar reasoning of a young child. An intriguing feature of the narrative is the capitalised ‘HE’ whenever Jean’s father is referenced, creating a mounting impression of threat throughout the narration.
The author’s biography offers scant details, revealing only that she is a Dublin native and that Girl in the Making is her literary debut. The novel’s title and themes share a resemblance to Eimear McBride’s modernist debut A Girl is a Half-Formed Thing, but Fitzgerald’s story is more akin to classic storytelling. Her depiction of Jean’s father, dominated by his vanity and his constant but subtly harsh language, vividly encapsulates how a singular parent’s moods can dictate the atmosphere of a household. Jean, who is unusually observant for a child, embodies a touching blend of perception and naivety that echoes comparable traits seen in O’Brien’s The Country Girls.
Anna Fitzgerald claims to be flexible with her writing locations, whether it’s a casual coffee shop or a home kitchen, she is able to create her captivating narratives.
Fitzgerald’s exceptional capturing of voices is the shining element of the novel. As she navigates through the various stages of girlhood, the narrative style exudes nostalgia, richness, intimacy, and genuineness. In regards to her single Aunt Ida’s solitude, Jean observes that the veil over her eyes had deepened. In another instance, her abusive uncle elicits a compelled curiosity from her, resembling the irresistible urge one feels to stare at caged creatures in a reptile exhibit.
Readers will empathise with this perceptive, introspective young character who seems to absorb a large part of the adult world’s sinister side. “Something peculiar happened in my thoughts. I envisioned myself knocking all the dishes off the table and spilling their vino. It was an unusual and unruly sensation.” Despite being constantly burdened as the oldest girl in a large family, Jean consistently presents tolerance and compassion, sometimes to an unrealistic extent, positioning herself as an aspirant sainthood rather than a young girl, always prioritising her siblings.
From her early years, she grasps the gender disparities inherent in Irish society of that era. Initially, it is the preferential treatment that her father shows towards her brother Tom. More profoundly, it is in the desperation inherent in her parent’s marital power dynamic, where he commands absolute authority.
As Jean attempts to break free from the constraints of girlhood, she goes to lengths such as cutting her hair, donning her brother’s attire, and resorting to self-starvation during her adolescence. She savours the androgynous form that it provides and the sense of righteousness that it offers in a world filled with chauvinism and hypocrisy. “I came to a realization that I was enamored with this starvation; it provided me sustenance, and it belonged solely to me.”
Fitzgerald does not delve into the physical or practical aspects of the ailment. Miraculously, Jean manages to sustain even with a single bowl of cereal each day. Ultimately, all her struggles prove futile. One of the tragic patterns she identifies is that as she ages, one harmful man seems to pave way for another, a sequence that could be seen as excessive, except that we know too well that it mirrors reality – predators often prey on the vulnerable.
In “Girl in the Making,” the 1970s and 1980s societal setting of the suburban middle-class Dublin is vividly depicted, complete with home assistants, Switzer’s for shopping, Mosney vacations, and a quintessential Maeve Brennan’s laburnum tree in the garden. While it subtly omits direct references to the harmful environment of the time, Fitzgerald successfully paints a picture of a society valuing the opinions of women less. “I was her diligent assistant. I was always so well-behaved,” Jean confesses at the book’s introduction. The character’s journey, alongside the reader’s, involves realizing that a girl’s purpose or real reason for existing doesn’t rely on pleasing others.