Genre Fiction
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Maureen: A Harold Fry Novel
"A touching tale about heartbreak and healing . . . If you loved The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fryand The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy, make time to read this finale to the trilogy."-Good Housekeeping
Ten years ago, Harold Fry set off on a six-hundred-mile walk to save a friend. But the story doesn't end there. Now his wife, Maureen, has her own pilgrimage to make.
Only she can finish the journey her husband started.
Maureen and Harold Fry have settled into a quiet life, but when an unexpected message from the North disturbs their peaceful equilibrium, Maureen realizes that it's now her turn to make a journey. But she is not like her affable, easygoing husband. By turns outspoken, then vulnerable, she struggles to form bonds with the people she meets-and the landscape she crosses has radically changed. Maureen has no sense of what she will find at the end of the road. All she knows is that she has to get there.
A deeply felt, lyrical, and powerful novel, Maureen explores love, loss, and how we come to terms with the past in order to understand ourselves a little better.While this book stands alone, it is also the extraordinarily moving finale to a trilogy that began with the phenomenal bestseller The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and continued in The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy. Like those beloved books, Maureen has all the power and weight of a classic.
Ten years ago, Harold Fry set off on a six-hundred-mile walk to save a friend. But the story doesn't end there. Now his wife, Maureen, has her own pilgrimage to make.
Only she can finish the journey her husband started.
Maureen and Harold Fry have settled into a quiet life, but when an unexpected message from the North disturbs their peaceful equilibrium, Maureen realizes that it's now her turn to make a journey. But she is not like her affable, easygoing husband. By turns outspoken, then vulnerable, she struggles to form bonds with the people she meets-and the landscape she crosses has radically changed. Maureen has no sense of what she will find at the end of the road. All she knows is that she has to get there.
A deeply felt, lyrical, and powerful novel, Maureen explores love, loss, and how we come to terms with the past in order to understand ourselves a little better.While this book stands alone, it is also the extraordinarily moving finale to a trilogy that began with the phenomenal bestseller The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry and continued in The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy. Like those beloved books, Maureen has all the power and weight of a classic.
Editorial Reviews
"A beautiful novella about motherhood, grief and the power of forgiveness. . . . Prickly and wary of strangers, Maureen is nonetheless portrayed with compassion and tenderness by Joyce, and the novel's conclusion is deeply moving and life-affirming."-The Observer
"This slim novella . . . contains a world of emotion . . . The kindness of strangers is Joyce's theme, as well as forgiveness and grief. No one writes difficult feelings better."-The Daily Mail
"A real treat . . . A story about belonging and understanding."-Prima
"A gorgeous read."-The i Paper ("40 Best Books to Read This Autumn")
"I was enthralled from the first page of this short, powerful book. We all have some Maureen inside us, and so the journey we take with her across England and into her own personal tumult is a satisfying, visceral one."-Ann Napolitano, New York Times bestselling author of Dear Edward
"This book is a perfect gem. Fans of Olive Kitteridge and Eleanor Oliphant will love Maureen Fry, and it's a brilliant coda to the Harold Fry series."-J. Ryan Stradal, bestselling author of The Lager Queen of Minnesota
"This is a quiet miracle of a book. Rachel Joyce is a master at mixing humor and pathos, and at showing hard truths about life that nonetheless make us grateful to be here."-Elizabeth Berg, author of The Story of Arthur Truluv and Earth's the Right Place for Love
"Profoundly moving and deeply human, this story of self-discovery and forgiveness is essential reading. I loved every word."-Bonnie Garmus, New York Times bestselling author of Lessons in Chemistry
"I adored Harold and Queenie, but who knew Maureen waited in the wings to steal my heart? A testament to just how exquisitely Rachel Joyce ...
"This slim novella . . . contains a world of emotion . . . The kindness of strangers is Joyce's theme, as well as forgiveness and grief. No one writes difficult feelings better."-The Daily Mail
"A real treat . . . A story about belonging and understanding."-Prima
"A gorgeous read."-The i Paper ("40 Best Books to Read This Autumn")
"I was enthralled from the first page of this short, powerful book. We all have some Maureen inside us, and so the journey we take with her across England and into her own personal tumult is a satisfying, visceral one."-Ann Napolitano, New York Times bestselling author of Dear Edward
"This book is a perfect gem. Fans of Olive Kitteridge and Eleanor Oliphant will love Maureen Fry, and it's a brilliant coda to the Harold Fry series."-J. Ryan Stradal, bestselling author of The Lager Queen of Minnesota
"This is a quiet miracle of a book. Rachel Joyce is a master at mixing humor and pathos, and at showing hard truths about life that nonetheless make us grateful to be here."-Elizabeth Berg, author of The Story of Arthur Truluv and Earth's the Right Place for Love
"Profoundly moving and deeply human, this story of self-discovery and forgiveness is essential reading. I loved every word."-Bonnie Garmus, New York Times bestselling author of Lessons in Chemistry
"I adored Harold and Queenie, but who knew Maureen waited in the wings to steal my heart? A testament to just how exquisitely Rachel Joyce ...
Readers Top Reviews
Terrie D. Robinso
The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry is where this series begins telling Harold's story of walking 600+ miles to hand deliver a letter to Queenie Hennessy who's gravely ill and spending her final days in hospice. Harold believes if he delivers his letter, Queenie will live long enough to receive it. The Love Song of Miss Queenie Hennessy tells Queenie's story of her days in hospice. Queenie knows Harold is on his way to visit her and realizes she must confront the past she left behind twenty years ago. She writes a poignant letter to Harold while he walks to deliver his letter to her. Both books have concurrent timelines, so while Harold is walking, Queenie is writing. Now it's ten years later, and time to hear from Maureen, Harold's wife. She's about to take a journey of her own and, in the mix, gives her perspective of all that's happened before and after Harold's journey to visit Queenie. What I love about this book is how vague the synopsis is, allowing readers to go in blind. It's an intensely personal journey for Maureen and you feel her pain the entire way. You realize how lost she is from herself, how out of control she feels in her life, and how different she feels from Harold and everyone else. You will get to know Maureen intimately, warts and all. The main difference in this book from the other two is the length. This is a novella and although I thoroughly enjoyed this read, it did feel noticeably short. I wanted as much of Maureen as the author wrote of both Harold and Queenie. With that said, what was written about Maureen was both revealing and satisfying. What I find most amazing about this author and her series is how well she knows each of her main characters, Harold, Queenie and now Maureen, and how openly and honestly she presents them to her readers. This is definitely a series that needs to be read in sequential order and each book has its own uniqueness, yet the total package is a complete journey. I can't wait to see what this author comes up with next and look forward to meeting more of her characters! I highly recommend this book and series! 4.5 stars! Thank you to NetGalley, Random House, and Rachel Joyce for an ARC of this book. It has been an honor to give my honest and voluntary review.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
Winter Journey
It was too early for birdsong. Harold lay beside her, his hands neat on his chest, looking so peaceful she wondered where he traveled in his sleep. Certainly not the places she went: if she closed her eyes, she saw roadworks. Dear God, she thought. This is no good. She got up in the pitch-black, took off her nightdress and put on her best blue blouse with a pair of comfortable slacks and a cardigan. "Harold?" she called. "Are you awake?" But he didn't stir. She picked up her shoes and shut the bedroom door without a sound. If she didn't go now, she never would.
Downstairs she switched on the kettle, and while it boiled, she got out her Marigolds and wiped a few surfaces. "Maureen," she said out loud, because she was no fool. She could tell what she was doing, even if her hands couldn't. Fussing, that's what. She made a flask of instant coffee and a round of sandwiches that she wrapped in clingfilm, then wrote him a message. She wrote another that said "Mugs!" and another that said "Pans!" and before she knew it, the kitchen was covered with Post-it notes, like small yellow alarm signals. "Maureen," she said again, and took them all down. "Go now. Go." She hung Harold's wooden cane from the chair where he couldn't miss it, then slipped the Thermos into her bag along with the sandwiches, put on her driving shoes and winter coat, picked up her suitcase and stepped out into the beautiful early morning. The sky was clear and pointed with stars, and the moon was like the white part of a fingernail. The only light came from Rex's house next door. And still no birdsong.
It was cold, even for January. The crazy paving had frozen overnight and she had to grab hold of the handrail. There were splinters of ice in the ruts between stones, and the front garden was no more than a few glass thorns. She turned on the ignition to warm the car while she scraped at the windows. The frost was rough, like sandpaper, and lay as far as she could see, slick beneath the street lamps of Fossebridge Road, but no one else was out. It was a Sunday, after all. She waved at Rex's house in case he was awake, and that was it. She was going.
Road-gritters had already passed through Fore Street, and salt lay in pink mats all the way up the hill. She drove north past the bookstore and the other shops that would be closed until Monday, but she didn't look. It was a good while since she'd used the high street. These days, she and Harold mostly went online, and not just because of the pandemic. The quiet row of shops became night-lit rows of houses. In turn they became a dark emptiness with a closed-down petrol station somewhere in the middle. She passed the turning for the crematorium that she visited once a month and kept driving. Now that she was on the road, she felt not excitement, but more a sense that, even though she didn't know how to explain it, she was doing the right thing. Harold had been right.
"You have to go, Maureen," he'd said. She had come up with a list of reasons why she couldn't but in the end she'd agreed. She'd offered to show him how to use the dishwasher and the washing machine because he sometimes got confused about which buttons to press and then she wrote the instructions clearly on a piece of paper.
"You are sure?" she'd said again, a few days later. "You really think I should do this?"
"Of course I'm sure." He was sitting in the garden while she raked old leaves. He'd done up his coat lopsided, so that the left half of him was adrift from the right.
"But who will take care of you?"
"I will take care of me."
"What about meals? You need to eat."
"Rex can help."
"That's no good. Rex is worse than you are."
"That is true, of course. Two old fools!"
At this, he'd smiled. Only, something about the completeness of his smile made her miss him without even going anywhere, so that he could be as sure as he damn well liked, but she wasn't. She had put down her rake. Gone to him and redid his buttons. He sat patiently, gazing up at her with his delft-blue eyes. No one but Harold had ever looked at her like that. She stroked his hair and then he lifted his fingertips to her face, and drew her down to his, and kissed her.
"Maureen, you won't feel right unless you go," he'd said.
"Okay, then. I'm going. I'm going, and nothing will stop me! Though, if you don't mind, I won't walk. I'll take the more conventional route, thank you very much. I'll drive."
They'd laughed because they both knew she was doing her best to sound bigger than she felt. After that she went back to raking the leaves and he went back to watching the sky, but the silence was filled with all the things she did not know how ...
Winter Journey
It was too early for birdsong. Harold lay beside her, his hands neat on his chest, looking so peaceful she wondered where he traveled in his sleep. Certainly not the places she went: if she closed her eyes, she saw roadworks. Dear God, she thought. This is no good. She got up in the pitch-black, took off her nightdress and put on her best blue blouse with a pair of comfortable slacks and a cardigan. "Harold?" she called. "Are you awake?" But he didn't stir. She picked up her shoes and shut the bedroom door without a sound. If she didn't go now, she never would.
Downstairs she switched on the kettle, and while it boiled, she got out her Marigolds and wiped a few surfaces. "Maureen," she said out loud, because she was no fool. She could tell what she was doing, even if her hands couldn't. Fussing, that's what. She made a flask of instant coffee and a round of sandwiches that she wrapped in clingfilm, then wrote him a message. She wrote another that said "Mugs!" and another that said "Pans!" and before she knew it, the kitchen was covered with Post-it notes, like small yellow alarm signals. "Maureen," she said again, and took them all down. "Go now. Go." She hung Harold's wooden cane from the chair where he couldn't miss it, then slipped the Thermos into her bag along with the sandwiches, put on her driving shoes and winter coat, picked up her suitcase and stepped out into the beautiful early morning. The sky was clear and pointed with stars, and the moon was like the white part of a fingernail. The only light came from Rex's house next door. And still no birdsong.
It was cold, even for January. The crazy paving had frozen overnight and she had to grab hold of the handrail. There were splinters of ice in the ruts between stones, and the front garden was no more than a few glass thorns. She turned on the ignition to warm the car while she scraped at the windows. The frost was rough, like sandpaper, and lay as far as she could see, slick beneath the street lamps of Fossebridge Road, but no one else was out. It was a Sunday, after all. She waved at Rex's house in case he was awake, and that was it. She was going.
Road-gritters had already passed through Fore Street, and salt lay in pink mats all the way up the hill. She drove north past the bookstore and the other shops that would be closed until Monday, but she didn't look. It was a good while since she'd used the high street. These days, she and Harold mostly went online, and not just because of the pandemic. The quiet row of shops became night-lit rows of houses. In turn they became a dark emptiness with a closed-down petrol station somewhere in the middle. She passed the turning for the crematorium that she visited once a month and kept driving. Now that she was on the road, she felt not excitement, but more a sense that, even though she didn't know how to explain it, she was doing the right thing. Harold had been right.
"You have to go, Maureen," he'd said. She had come up with a list of reasons why she couldn't but in the end she'd agreed. She'd offered to show him how to use the dishwasher and the washing machine because he sometimes got confused about which buttons to press and then she wrote the instructions clearly on a piece of paper.
"You are sure?" she'd said again, a few days later. "You really think I should do this?"
"Of course I'm sure." He was sitting in the garden while she raked old leaves. He'd done up his coat lopsided, so that the left half of him was adrift from the right.
"But who will take care of you?"
"I will take care of me."
"What about meals? You need to eat."
"Rex can help."
"That's no good. Rex is worse than you are."
"That is true, of course. Two old fools!"
At this, he'd smiled. Only, something about the completeness of his smile made her miss him without even going anywhere, so that he could be as sure as he damn well liked, but she wasn't. She had put down her rake. Gone to him and redid his buttons. He sat patiently, gazing up at her with his delft-blue eyes. No one but Harold had ever looked at her like that. She stroked his hair and then he lifted his fingertips to her face, and drew her down to his, and kissed her.
"Maureen, you won't feel right unless you go," he'd said.
"Okay, then. I'm going. I'm going, and nothing will stop me! Though, if you don't mind, I won't walk. I'll take the more conventional route, thank you very much. I'll drive."
They'd laughed because they both knew she was doing her best to sound bigger than she felt. After that she went back to raking the leaves and he went back to watching the sky, but the silence was filled with all the things she did not know how ...
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