Dead Babies and Seaside Towns – Alice Jolly

Dead Babies and Seaside Towns is a book from those brilliant people at Unbound. If you haven’t come across this independent publishing house yet, its basic premise is that authors pitch books on the site and if you like the sound of their idea, you pledge to fund the book, buying a copy and possibly other rewards in the process. They’ve had great success in particular with Letters of Note and The Wake by Paul Kingsolver, which was longlisted for the Man Booker Prize in 2014.

I was one of the people who pledged to fund Jolly’s Dead Babies and Seaside Towns. You would probably assume I did so because I wanted to read it but actually I had little intention of ever opening the front cover. I helped to fund the book because I have two close friends who, between them, have suffered miscarriages, a stillbirth and an infant death. I’ve seen one of them go through multiple rounds of IVF and the other wrestle with depression. Having never been or ever wanted to be pregnant, with no desire to have children of my own (I’m an accidental step-parent: I fell in love with someone who already had a young son and a stepdaughter), I can see what wanting to be a parent means to other people but I only have a limited understanding of it myself. I contributed to the funding because I could see that Jolly’s story was important even if I couldn’t identify with it.

I ended up reading it because Jolly and I have a mutual friend through whom Jolly contacted me and asked if I’d take part in a blog tour for the book. I agreed and then kept forgetting about it. On remembering I’d think, oh goodness, I’m going to have to read it. I put it off until the latest I knew I could get away with and still manage to read the whole thing and write a review in time for my slot on the tour. That was Saturday lunchtime. By the time I went to bed that evening, I was fifty pages from the end, having done little else other than read the book for the rest of the day. Not because I knew I had to but because it’s absolutely bloody brilliant.

Although I’m a writer by profession, I have always felt sure that I would never write a memoir. I do not trust them, never have. Me-me-me, moi-moi-moi. But now our legal team – one law firm in America, two law firms in England and a barrister – have been in touch to say that I need to write a twenty-page statement explaining everything that happened. They need this in preparation for our hearing in the High Court.

The hearing at the High Court is almost the end of Jolly’s story – or at least the end of the one she’s written. Before we get there, she takes us chronologically from the beginning, when her son, Thomas, is two and she is sixteen weeks pregnant. She’s already bled briefly at eleven weeks but it’s begun again and the hospital in Brussels, two miles from their house, tells her to go in for a scan.

There seems to be some delay with the appointments…Apparently there’s an emergency so some routine appointments will have to wait. Stephen and I nod at each other. We are polite and reasonable people, the kind of people who almost relish an opportunity to stand aside and let some other more needy person take our place. Another doctor emerges, peers at me, disappears.

Then I understand. I am the emergency.

The scan reveals that the placenta is partly detached. It’s possible the baby will survive but Jolly is at serious risk of infection. The only thing they can do is wait and hope they don’t lose the baby at six or seven months. Trying to get as much rest as possible while looking after a two-year-old, Jolly continues to bleed regularly.

One night, lying in bed, I hear a loud and rhythmic banging coming from next door. It echoes through the walls of the house and thumps inside my head. It seems odd that our neighbours should start doing building work late at night – and what are they doing which involves this loud and regular hammering? Stephen comes up to bed and I mention that the noise is keeping me awake. He tells me that there is no noise. And I realise that what I’m hearing is my own fear.

I won’t keep quoting at length although it would be so easy to do so. Jolly writes with her novelist’s eyes and ears. The prose is precise and detailed, the sentences rhythmic and often repetitive, highlighting Jolly’s feelings – So this is it then. Our baby has died – and the mundanity of the everyday churning on while she faces such wrenching moments, days, months: I put the washing machine on, hang clothes on the line, load the dishwasher, write a short story, wipe Thomas’ nose.

The detached placenta is only the beginning of the story. A sudden fever strikes Jolly a few days from the twenty-four weeks along she needs to be for her baby to be delivered prematurely. At the point when she thinks the infection is clearing her waters break and her baby, Laura, is delivered stillborn.

Photograph by Sylvain Guenot

Jolly describes the book as ‘Laura’s story’ and she is ever present in the rest of the book as Jolly begins to read the stories of others who’ve had stillborn babies, as she goes through the trauma of being told they should try for another baby soon because of her age, as she has several more miscarriages, as they go through IVF treatment, as they try to adopt, as she sees friends become pregnant and deliver live, healthy babies.

Listed like that, the events that occur in Jolly’s life (at least those she focuses on in the book) sound relentlessly grim. But the book is not. This results from a combination of Laura being alive throughout the book, Jolly’s discussions regarding faith, the hierarchy of grief, the moral arguments around IVF and adoption, her son, her friends, and Jolly’s tone which I can only describe as straight to the point of bluntness. There is no dressing up the continuous horror of losing babies, of the attempts to find a way to have a second child, and neither is it mawkish. Although on the surface we have little in common, I find myself thinking I’d probably like her a lot.

The reason for Jolly writing the twenty-pages for the High Court mentioned earlier is that she and her husband eventually decide to have a baby via a surrogate. This is illegal in the UK so they go through an American agency. This is complicated and costly as well as coming loaded with preconceptions from others. As with the rest of the book, Jolly is precise as to the steps her and her husband go through as well as how she feels at different stages of the procedure. It’s a fascinating story.

Dead Babies and Seaside Towns is an important book; I suspect it could be seminal for women who’ve been through similar losses to Jolly. It is also beautifully crafted and compelling. I’m so glad I did read it, it’s one of the best books I’ve read this year.

Advertisements

25 thoughts on “Dead Babies and Seaside Towns – Alice Jolly

  1. Powerful review, Naomi. Like you, i have no desire to have children but I’ve had a glimpse of the terrible anguish that strikes women – and their partners – when things go tragically wrong. It seems to be something that’s not much talked about which in many ways must make the pain even more difficult to cope with.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Excellent review, Naomi… as ever, you capture the real essence of this book -the powerful context and ‘beautifully crafted’ narrative – but essentially the importance of this book.

    Funding through Unbound was invaluable to get this book to print; it’s quite incredible how many times Jolly was turned away despite the high quality of, & praise for, her writing – sadly reflecting the perceived societal ‘norm’ nobody wants to read about or talk about this subject – which, as Susan identifies, confounds the pain.

    A key element to the book is not just appreciating the dynamics BUT how much people experiencing these losses need it to be discussed far more openly; they need to be supported not shunned.

    I’m ‘punch-the-air’ happy your friend nudged you to open the cover and you’ve reviewed it so eloquently – been seen on a high profile blog will help accelerate awareness of the book and ultimately encourage the much needed discussion.

    Liked by 1 person

    • Thanks, Poppy. For a book I wasn’t interested in reading, it was surprisingly easy to write about!

      Having two friends who’ve been through similar to Jolly I find it really odd that this isn’t discussed more. They are both very clear that they have three children and while one of those children didn’t survive they are very much present, loved and talked about.

      Liked by 1 person

      • It is very odd… especially giving the prevelance of 17 stillbirths a day in the UK and many seeking IVF due to fertility problems.

        I was genuinely horrified how isolated and ‘shuned’ I became by some, especially women – from close friends to school gate acquaintances.

        Like

  3. This sounds fecking amazing, and I plan to recommend it to a dear friend who’s had a similar experience recently. More books like this–and how dare mainstream publishers reject such work for being “insufficiently commercial”. I’m honestly not sure that most publishers actually have any idea of what people want, or need, to read.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Well now! I saw the the title and my heart sank, can’t read THAT then can I? Straight away it jumped right up and exploded into tiny little stars. I’ll read this book because it sounds like the book I’d write if I didn’t hug trees and take anti depressants with gin… to the point, blatant and honest. Cheers mush. 💖

    Liked by 1 person

    • You were one of the people I was thinking of all the way through. I think you’d like it a lot, it’s beautifully written but very straight talking. Oh and I purposely didn’t give away why ‘Seaside Towns’ as it’s explained right at the very end but I think you’ll like that too xx

      Like

  5. Wonderful to find this blog and your comprehensive round-up of women’s stories in the media. This review too was an informative (and harrowing) read. I wanted to ‘follow’ but couldn’t see where to sign up…

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Pingback: Rachael de Moravia – News from the Home Front | The Writes of Woman

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s