On the 3rd of February a small band of readers braved the snowy weather and met at the Children’s Centre in Leominster, where we discussed The Memory Keeper’s Daughter by Kim Edwards. This tells the story of the consequences of a moment’s impulsive action, when Doctor David Henry, having delivered his wife of a twin boy and girl, sees the signs of Down’s Syndrome in the girl and gives her to a nurse to place in a care home, while telling his wife that she had in fact died. His wife, Norah brings up the boy, Paul in a haze of grief and puzzlement at his lack of grief, and their lives develop an emptiness at their core as the effects of the lie become deeper and deeper felt. The nurse, meanwhile, cannot bring herself to leave the baby girl, Phoebe, in an institution, and leaves Kentucky for Pittsburgh to reinvent herself as the mother of the child.

I read this novel last year, and must admit to having been carried along somewhat by the emotive content. As Julie said on her comment on the blog, it’s plot-heavy and emotional in an Oprah-ish way but gripping reading just the same.

Our discussion on Tuesday went along the same lines, quickly giving way to criticism of the book. We all agreed that while it’s an engaging read, it’s the sort of book you’re nearly embarrassed to have read; why that is I’m still not sure. I’ve just come across an interesting review in the Guardian, by Joanna Briscoe, which might throw some light on the subject; she calls it “a skilfully packaged debate-provoker that is perfectly attuned to the era of the book club,” citing novels by Jodi Picoult and Anita Shreve as being cut from the same cloth. In fact Gill mentioned Jodi Picoult at the Babe in Arms discussion as being similar to Edwards, in that she disliked her style in the same way she dislikes Edwards’, and based on the single Picoult book I’ve read (My Sister’s Keeper), I’d agree that such books could have been designed with book groups in mind. So perhaps it’s this fact that grates a bit...are we being fed discussion fodder with this type of literature? Surely all novels should be discussable, not just those that tick certain boxes, such in this case issues concerning Practical Ethics. Maybe we feel just a tad patronised, and could do with a bit more showing and a bit less telling.

Those of us who discussed this book on Tuesday agreed that the discussion brought to the fore opinions we had that we hadn’t really analysed privately, which shows the value of group discussion. Gill felt that she didn’t feel any need to get to grips with the ethical issues raised in the story because for her none of the characterisations worked. Norah, for example changed from being an untouchable female ideal, a very old-fashioned concept of a lady with few responsibilities to being a shoulder-padded eighties executive type who had lots of affairs. Real life issues don’t really gain traction on this kind of environment. Kathy agreed with this and said that for her the characters were all too successful – David is an amateur photographer, but his photography is exhibited and acclaimed, and on top of this he is a successful medical practitioner. Norah runs a hugely successful travel agency and jet sets around the world. Caroline, the nurse who raises Phoebe, becomes a successful advocate for the rights of children with Down’s Syndrome.

While I agree with all of the above, I also couldn’t help being swayed by the discussion fodder, the actual crux of the novel; what happens when a child with Down’s is given away, and why it would be assumed that this would be the best thing to do in the first place. Edwards says of the book that many people have verified for her some of the more shocking aspects of the story, for example the casual assumption that crops up time and time again that Phoebe would be better off dead, and Caroline would prefer it that way also. In Can Any Mother Help Me? we read an account of the gradual diagnosis of a child with Down’s Syndrome, the almost brutal way that the mother was told, and the negative effect of her husband’s reaction. The child lived it seems from then on in an institution. This particular woman’s story was heartbreaking in that she seemed to be suffering from real mental anguish without knowing it, and surely the callous way most of the medical profession and goodness knows who else dealt with her child had something to do with it. It all seems like a long time ago, but disability, particularly mental disability is a thorny, stigma-ridden, guilt-ridden subject that very infrequently gets discussed.

I do agree, however, with the others, that the story continued well past its natural conclusion and dragged towards an ending replete with loose ends being tied up as well as pointless coincidences. Was there really a necessity to have any family reunion with or without David? And was it necessary for Norah and Paul to discover what was empty about their lives? It certainly cleared things up for all concerned, but it seemed a bit trite as Gill pointed out that within a week of their meeting Paul had overcome any difficulty he had with dealing with his sister; it seemed less and less grounded in reality to have an Oprah-like closure to every issue. From what I think was a promising premise; an uncomfortable facing-up to the way society can let down its most vulnerable members, the novel degenerated to a redemptive, mostly happily ended crowd-pleaser.

For next month we are reading The Road Home, by Rose Tremain, available as usual from Leominster Library.