Published: 2012
On first finishing this book, I decided initially that it
wasn’t for me. Just not my sort of thing. It was only after a few weeks of
reflection that it dawned on me: it’s much worse than that.
I’ll get
to my reasoning for that statement shortly. First, though, it seems only fair
to mention some of the positive things people are saying about The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry,
Joyce’s first novel. The inner jacket is packed with phrases reminiscent of the
reception to David Nicholls’ (similarly insubstantial) One Day. Praise like “this touching and charming novel which made
me laugh and sob” (The Express), or
“almost unbearably moving” (Sunday Times).
Many members of my book group reported similarly, even if not without
criticism.
Gentle,
stiff-upper-lip retiree Harold Fry lives with his wife Maureen in rural
South-West England. Their marriage is past its sell by date, they’ve forgotten
how to talk to each other, and there’s the omnipresent gloomy shadow of their
relationship with their estranged (or so you’re led to believe) son. But one
morning, a letter arrives from Queenie, a former colleague of Harold’s. They
haven’t spoken for years, and now she’s terminally ill in a hospice in far-away
Berwick-on-Tweed. Unable to find the words to respond at first, Harold
eventually pens a suitably uncomfortable response and tells his wife he is
going down the road to post it. But when he reaches the post box, he just keeps
walking. And walking. And walking. 627 miles, in fact, all the way to the
hospice in Berwick, convinced that, by demonstrating such willpower, Queenie
will live.
If all
of this sounds a bit like a Radio Four afternoon play, that’s because it pretty
much is: Joyce has written more than twenty of them, as well as other radio and
TV work. Not to denigrate Radio Four’s plays; many of them are enjoyably
original in concept, much as this novel is. Joyce’s astute understanding of the
way people interact with each other in a variety of situations gives life to
Harold’s journey. Along the way, he
meets some weird and wonderful characters. In a biting criticism of our
celebrity-obsessed, 24-hour media culture, Harold eventually becomes a cult figure himself, unwittingly collecting a
group of hangers-on, other ‘pilgrims’ who want to be a part of his journey for
their own reasons.
In some
respects, Joyce handles Harold’s journey well. The most rewarding parts are the
first few days, when he is still travelling alone. The later hangers-on are
suitably annoying, especially the loathsome Rich Lion, who wants to take over
the pilgrimage in order to win back custody of his estranged children. But
ultimately, I just couldn’t accept the premise. It may be technically possible
for an old man to walk 627 miles in 87 days, but Harold is just about the last
person in the world likely to do it.
It’s
possible to accept this whimsical notion – it is fiction, after all, and
fiction of a decidedly fable-like quality at that. What I found less easy to
accept was the way it dealt with generational issues. The author seems to write
off young people (Harold’s son’s generation) as self-centred, self-indulgent
drug addicts with no respect for their parents. If only they were more like the
moderation-loving, gentle-natured Harold and Maureen! However, it isn’t just
the generational politics per se that were the issue for me – although I’m not
convinced that outward stoicism and an inability to frankly discuss your
feelings are qualities that ought to be extolled. It’s also that, apart from anything
else, these qualities seem misplaced in Harold and Maureen. They’re post-war
baby boomers, the generation that grew up and came of age in a prolonged period
of economic boom and the sexual and social revolutions of the ‘sixties. These
are qualities I would associate far more strongly with the older, war-worn
generation who would have been Harold and Maureen’s parents.
The
story is also overpoweringly cloying and sentimental in places – I can only
imagine how infinitely worse this would have been had the author been American.
Finally, the climax involves a distressingly visceral description of terminal
cancer which, whilst far less shocking than what you can find elsewhere, jarred
severely with the happy-go-lucky tone of the rest of the novel.
As I
said, I was initially prepared to give this book the benefit of the doubt. But
although Joyce thankfully keeps spiritual or religious mumbo-jumbo to a
minimum, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of
Harold Fry peddles some highly suspect morality lessons indeed. I accept,
of course, that it may be that it really is a generational thing – this is an
example of the baby-boomer generation growing old and confronting their own
demons in a way I just can’t appreciate yet: stale marriages, damaged
relationships with their children, and the looming spectre of the Big C. But,
even if Joyce did intend Harold Fry to be in any way representative of his
generation, I’m sure they can do better than this.
