NATIONAL BESTSELLER • LONGLISTED FOR THE MAN BOOKER PRIZE • NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY THE WASHINGTON POST Meet Harold Fry, recently retired. He lives in a small English village with his wife, Maureen, who seems irritated by almost everything he does, even down to how he butters his toast. Little differentiates one day from the next. Then one morning the mail arrives, and within the stack of quotidian minutiae is a letter addressed to Harold in a shaky scrawl from a woman he hasn't seen or heard from in twenty years. Queenie Hennessy is in hospice and is writing to say goodbye. Harold pens a quick reply and, leaving Maureen to her chores, heads to the corner mailbox. But then, as happens in the very best works of fiction, Harold has a chance encounter, one that convinces him that he absolutely must deliver his message to Queenie in person. And thus begins the unlikely pilgrimage at the heart of Rachel Joyce's remarkable debut. Harold Fry is determined to walk six hundred miles from Kingsbridge to the hospice in Berwick-upon-Tweed because, he believes, as long as he walks, Queenie Hennessey will live. Still in his yachting shoes and light coat, Harold embarks on his urgent quest across the countryside. Along the way he meets one fascinating character after another, each of whom unlocks his long-dormant spirit and sense of promise. Memories of his first dance with Maureen, his wedding day, his joy in fatherhood, come rushing back to him-allowing him to also reconcile the losses and the regrets. As for Maureen, she finds herself missing Harold for the first time in years. And then there is the unfinished business with Queenie Hennessy. A novel of unsentimental charm, humor, and profound insight into the thoughts and feelings we all bury deep within our hearts, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry introduces Rachel Joyce as a wise-and utterly irresistible-storyteller. Advance praise for The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry "When it seems almost too late, Harold Fry opens his battered heart and lets the world rush in. This funny, poignant story about an ordinary man on an extraordinary journey moved and inspired me."-Nancy Horan, author of Loving Frank "There's tremendous heart in this debut novel by Rachel Joyce, as she probes questions that are as simple as they are profound: Can we begin to live again, and live truly, as ourselves, even in middle age, when all seems ruined? Can we believe in hope when hope seems to have abandoned us? I found myself laughing through tears, rooting for Harold at every step of his journey. I'm still rooting for him."-Paula McLain, author of The Paris Wife "Marvelous! I held my breath at his every blister and cramp, and felt as if by turning the pages, I might help his impossible quest succeed."-Helen Simonson, author of Major Pettigrew's Last Stand "Harold's journey is ordinary and extraordinary; it is a journey through the self, through modern society, through time and landscape. It is a funny book, a wise book, a charming book-but never cloying. It's a book with a savage twist-and yet never seems manipulative. Perhaps because Harold himself is just wonderful. . . . I'm telling you now: I love this book."-Erica Wagner, The Times (UK) "The odyssey of a simple man . . . original, subtle and touching."-Claire Tomalin, author of Charles Dickens: A Life From the Hardcover edition.
Showing 1-2 of the 2 most recent reviews
1 . Wonderful book
Posted February 11, 2013 by Ralph McGraw , ChattanoogaAlthough it started slowly, I just some how wanted to continue. By the last half of the book I was just captured and stayed up late finishing. It was the type of book that left me sad that it was over.
Posted August 03, 2012 by Brenda P , ArkansasThis was a fascinating book to me. The characters were real and I found myself engrossed in their world.
Cry at endings? Me? Never! Ok, maybe just this once. I loved this book.
July 23, 2012
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Excerpt from The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce
Harold and the Letter
The letter that would change everything arrived on a Tuesday. It was an ordinary morning in mid-April that smelled of clean washing and grass cuttings. Harold Fry sat at the breakfast table, freshly shaved, in a clean shirt and tie, with a slice of toast that he wasn't eating. He gazed beyond the kitchen window at the clipped lawn, which was spiked in the middle by Maureen's telescopic washing line, and trapped on all three sides by the neighbors' stockade fencing.
"Harold!" called Maureen above the vacuum cleaner. "Post!"
He thought he might like to go out, but the only thing to do was mow the lawn and he had done that yesterday. The vacuum tumbled into silence, and his wife appeared, looking cross, with a letter. She sat opposite Harold.
Maureen was a slight woman with a cap of silver hair and a brisk walk. When they first met, nothing had pleased him more than to make her laugh. To watch her neat frame collapse into unruly happiness. "It's for you," she said. He didn't know what she meant until she slid an envelope across the table, and stopped it just short of Harold's elbow. They both looked at the letter as if they had never seen one before. It was pink. "The postmark says Berwick-upon-Tweed."
He didn't know anyone in Berwick. He didn't know many people anywhere. "Maybe it's a mistake."
"I think not. They don't get something like a postmark wrong." She took toast from the rack. She liked it cold and crisp.
Harold studied the mysterious envelope. Its pink was not the color of the bathroom suite, or the matching towels and fluffed cover for the toilet seat. That was a vivid shade that made Harold feel he shouldn't be there. But this was delicate. A Turkish Delight pink. His name and address were scribbled in ballpoint, the clumsy letters collapsing into one another as if a child had dashed them off in a hurry: Mr. H. Fry, 13 Fossebridge Road, Kingsbridge, South Hams. He didn't recognize the handwriting.
"Well?" said Maureen, passing a knife. He held it to the corner of the envelope, and tugged it through the fold. "Careful," she warned.
He could feel her eyes on him as he eased out the letter, and prodded back his reading glasses. The page was typed, and addressed from a place he didn't know: St. Bernadine's Hospice. Dear Harold, This may come to you as some surprise. His eyes ran to the bottom of the page.
"Well?" said Maureen again.
"Good lord. It's from Queenie Hennessy."
Maureen speared a nugget of butter with her knife and flattened it the length of her toast. "Queenie who?"
"She worked at the brewery. Years ago. Don't you remember?"
Maureen shrugged. "I don't see why I should. I don't know why I'd remember someone from years ago. Could you pass the jam?"
"She was in finances. She was very good."
"That's the marmalade, Harold. Jam is red. If you look at things before you pick them up, you'll find it helps."
Harold passed her what she needed and returned to his letter. Beautifully set out, of course; nothing like the muddled writing on the envelope. Then he smiled, remembering this was how it always was with Queenie: everything she did so precise you couldn't fault it. "She remembers you. She sends her regards."
Maureen's mouth pinched into a bead. "A chap on the radio was saying the French want our bread. They can't get it sliced in France. They come over here and they buy it all up. The chap said there might be a shortage by summer." She paused. "Harold? Is something the matter?"
He said nothing. He drew up tall with his lips parted, his face bleached. His voice, when at last it came, was small and far away. "It's--cancer. Queenie is writing to say goodbye." He fumbled for more words but there weren't any. Tugging a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, Harold blew his nose. "I um. Gosh." Tears crammed his eyes.
Moments passed; maybe minutes. Maureen gave a swallow that smacked the silence. "I'm sorry," she said.
He nodded. He ought to look up, but he couldn't.
"It's a nice morning," she began again. "Why don't you fetch out the patio chairs?" But he sat, not moving, not speaking, until she lifted the dirty plates. Moments later the vacuum cleaner took up from the hall.
Harold felt winded. If he moved so much as a limb, a muscle, he was afraid it would trigger an abundance of feeling he was doing his best to contain. Why had he let twenty years pass without trying to find Queenie Hennessy? A picture came of the small, dark-haired woman with whom he had worked all that time ago, and it seemed inconceivable that she was--what? Sixty? And dying of cancer in Berwick. Of all the places, he thought; he'd never traveled so far north. He glanced out at the garden and saw a ribbon of plastic caught in the laurel hedging, flapping up and down, but never pulling free. He tucked Queenie's letter into his pocket, patted it twice for safekeeping, and rose to his feet.
Upstairs Maureen shut the door of David's room quietly and stood a moment, breathing him in. She pulled open his blue curtains that she closed every night, and checked that there was no dust where the hem of the net drapes met the windowsill. She polished the silver frame of his Cambridge portrait, and the black-and-white baby photograph beside it. She kept the room clean because she was waiting for David to come back, and she never knew when that would be. A part of her was always waiting. Men had no idea what it was like to be a mother. The ache of loving a child, even when he had moved on. She thought of Harold downstairs, with his pink letter, and wished she could talk to their son. Maureen left the room as softly as she had entered it, and went to strip the beds.