The Right Not to Hurry
The text from the GP arrives as Alice sits at her desk in a bustling London office, finishing off yet another email. She jumps at the vibration of her mobile, lying right next to her keyboard.
Test results are ready. Please come in before six, the message curtly says.
Its quarter to four. The surgery is three stops away on the bus, plus the inevitable queue, the doctors office, and the journey back… Theres another missed call from her son, who promised to drop by if I can, and her manager has already alluded to an extra report this morning. In her bag by her feet, she has paperwork for her mum forms shed promised to sort out in the evening.
Heading out late again, then? her colleague Sarah asks, noticing Alice glance at the clock.
Looks like it, she replies automatically, even as a clammy discomfort spreads under her blouse collar and weariness pulses in her chest.
The workday drags on like thick dough. Emails, phone calls, an endless department group chat. At midday, Alices manager pokes her head round the door.
Alice, listen. One of our contractors needs an update over the weekend, but Im away Saturday. Could you handle it? Nothing major, just pull together a few spreadsheets. Maybe three or four hours, you can do it at home.
Nothing major hangs in the air like a command. The colleague on Alice’s right immediately turns to her screen, willing herself invisible. Alice is about to utter the habitual Of course, when her phone buzzes again, quietly, in her pocket. A reminder from the app she installed last summer after another bout of high blood pressure: Evening: 30-minute walk. Shed set these reminders herself, and then swiped them away, barely looking, for months.
But this time, she doesnt. She just gazes at the prompt, as if its something alive, waiting for an answer.
Alice? her manager repeats.
Alice inhales sharply. Her head throbs, but somewhere deep inside is a quiet, stubborn certainty: say yes, and shell be up late again, her back will ache, Sunday will be spent doing laundry, cooking, dragging her mum to medical appointments.
I cant, she says, and is surprised by how calm the words sound.
Her manager lifts an eyebrow.
Sorry? But you always
My mum isnt well, Alice says, stating the excuse that always explains her lateness but is never allowed to justify saying no. And the doctor advised me to cut back on extra work. Im sorry.
She doesnt add that the advice was offhand and years ago. Still, it was said.
A pause descends. Alice braces for the sigh, the comments about team spirit and reliability.
Fine, her manager says, clearly annoyed, then with a flick of the hand adds, Ill find someone else. Just get on.
Once the door shuts, Alice notices her shirt is damp with sweat. Her hands, clutching the mouse, are trembling. Guilt darts through her mind: its just three or four hours, is it really that big a deal?
But with the guilt sits something else, unsettling and unfamiliar: relief. As if shes set down a heavy load and taken a seat.
That evening, instead of ducking into the shopping centre to pick up a few things for the report, Alice leaves the surgery and doesnt rush for the bus. She stands outside the doors, breathes deeply, and finally realises her legs are aching from the days constant rushing.
Mum, Ill come by in the morning, she says down the line, after waiting in the queue and picking up the results.
Youre not stopping by tonight? Her mothers tone, as always, is tinged with reproach.
Mum, Im exhausted. Its getting late, and Ive still got to go home and have a proper meal for once. Ill pick up your tablets and bring them over first thing, dont worry.
She braces for a lecture but instead hears a sigh.
Suit yourself. Youre not a child.
Not a child, Alice echoes, smiling wryly. Fifty-five, two grown-up children, the mortgage nearly paid off, and she still feels she has to prove shes a good daughter, a good mum, a good worker.
Home is peaceful. Her sons left a message in the group chat saying he wont make it home stuck at work. Alice puts the kettle on, slices some tomatoes. For a moment her hand reaches for the hoover the floors overdue. But she chooses instead to sit at the kitchen table, pour herself a cup of tea, and let it cool while she flicks through the book shed started on her last holiday.
Somewhere, a voice ticks away inside her: laundry needs hanging up, pots to scrub, the report to check, a clinic to find for Mum. But, beneath the endless shoulds, a gap appears. And through it slips a gentle, Maybe later.
She reads slowly, circling back if she misses a line. At some point, she realises shes just gazing out of the window, not hurrying anywhere. Car headlights snake by, the odd passerby tugs a shopping trolley, dogs amble alongside.
Its fine, she says out loud, as though concluding a debate. The house doesnt have to be sparkling.
And it doesnt feel like a crime.
* * *
The next day, its back to the usual spin as if yesterday never happened. At 9am, her mother calls, anxious:
Alice, you will be here before lunch? Doctors doing home visits at eleven, I need my blood pressure checked.
Ill be there, Alice says, already pulling on her jeans with one hand and stuffing the blood pressure monitor in her handbag with the other.
A ping from her son in WhatsApp.
Mum, hi. Its about the flat are you free to talk tonight? His voice is businesslike, slightly distant, as if this were a negotiation and not family.
After seven, yes, Alice shouts, hopping into her shoes. Off to Grandmas now.
Again?
Again, she says, unruffled.
On the bus, someone argues with the driver, grocery bags rustle in the corner. Alice dozes off, hugging the monitor, and wakes already at her mothers block.
Her mother greet her at the door in a dressing gown, looking as exasperated as ever.
Youre late. The place is a tip do that before the doctor gets here, she nods at the jumble of clothes stacked on a chair.
Alice used to snap at times like this, emotions fizzing over: Im running round the houses and youre fussing about a messy flat? Then would come guilt and exhaustion.
Today, she pauses on the threshold, sets her bag down, breathes in. She can picture their whole routine words, resentments, sighs and knows where it ends: her, wiping her eyes on a tissue outside, coming up with excuses to her own children for being in a foul mood again.
Mum, she says softly. I know youre worried. Lets set up for the doctor first, then Ill deal with the tidying. Im not superhuman.
Her mum scowls, opens her mouth to argue, but perhaps sees something different in Alices face: not anger, nor pleading just steady calm.
All right, she grumbles. Set up your machine.
When the GP leaves, Mum gingerly ties her dressing gown and, in a voice quite unlike the one she uses for berating TV news, admits, Im not trying to be difficult. Its just scary being on your own.
Alice stands at the sink, rinsing mugs. The washing-up liquid stings her fingers. Something inside her thaws and aches at once.
I know, she replies quietly. Sometimes I get scared too.
Her mum snorts, as if brushing it off, and turns her attention to the telly. But theres a new ease in the room, as if an invisible thread has been gently loosened.
* * *
On her way home that evening, Alice pops into the chemist on her street. Ahead of her in the queue is her neighbour Ruth, usually seen hurrying past with a twin buggy and shopping bags. But today theres no buggy, and Ruth looks lost.
Never sure which vitamins to get for my husband, she mutters, clutching a notebook. The doctors written down two names, but there are discounts on, and I get confused.
Alice would once have just nodded, buried herself in her phone. But today, seeing that familiar bewilderment at the counter, she feels a spark of connection. Her mum had recently begged for a medication list because she kept muddling things up herself. Just last winter, Alice herself had stood here with a scrap of paper, trying to make sense of it all.
Let me have a look, Alice offers.
They stand to one side while she puts on her reading glasses and deciphers the note, checks with the pharmacist, and points out the right box.
Oh, thank goodness. I was at my wits end, Ruth says. Youre good with this stuff, since your mums not well.
Alice grins. I just have a bit of experience now.
Outside, Ruth hesitantly asks, Do you mind if I ask for help now and then? My husbands stubborn, hell never ask himself.
In years gone by, Alice would have said: Anytime, pop round whenever, and then fumed when the doorbell rang at nine. Now she pauses, listening for a familiar anxiety: am I taking on too much again?
Give me a ring, she answers, after a moment. But, best try during the day, if you can. Evenings are… for my own things.
Saying that, shes surprised at how natural my own things sounds; as if offering her evening as a legitimate excuse, for once.
Ruth just nods, unfazed, which gives Alice a quiet sense of victory even more than thanks.
* * *
In the evening, Alice cooks a simple supper. She doesnt drag out every pan as if feeding a family of ten its just for her, and perhaps her son. She boils some pasta, fries a bit of chicken, slices some cucumber. The kitchen is a touch cluttered, her sons shirt draped over a chair, a laundry basket in the corner begging to be sorted. Ten years ago, she wouldnt have let herself eat before tidying away the last sock.
Now, she just pushes the basket aside with her foot.
Her son calls, voice edged.
Mum, its getting tricky. The banks offered us a mortgage, but the deposits huge. We wondered if you could help again. I know youve already chipped in, but…
Alice closes her eyes. These chats always strike a raw nerve: Failed as a parent; Didnt earn enough; Set a poor example. And buried deep: the regret about sinking savings into her then-husbands doomed business, the guilt that never fades.
How much? she says, leaning on the kitchen table.
He names a sum. Not enormous, but it would bite money shed been scraping together for her one day plans: a holiday at the seaside, a new fridge, dentures for her mum.
In her chest, memories rustle like old banknotes. Not only numbers, but the self-reproach for not living, not moving to Brighton for work as a young woman, not doing her university dissertation on what she loved, staying with her husband too long and yet, in the end, leaving anyway.
Mum, well pay you back, I promise, he rushes.
I know you mean to, she says; and she knows, too, that she wont see that money again. She never has before.
Shes silent for a heartbeat just long enough for her son to think shes hesitating. In that space, she sees everything: his first shoes bought on credit, birthdays with no father, the way he clung to her those scary, lonely nights. And her own hopes, laid away for years like old jumpers on top shelves.
Ill help, she says, finally. But not all of it. Half. You and your wife find the rest.
Hes disappointed. Mum?
Ben, Alice replies, rarely using that tone. Im not a cash machine. I have my own life to live too.
Silence. She listens to her own heartbeat, waiting for the familiar spike of guilt. But it doesnt come. Yes, shes nervous. Shes a little ashamed. But mostly? She feels calm.
Alright, he concedes. Well work something out. What youre giving is a huge help.
They chat about work, his sisters news, what theyre both watching on telly. When they hang up, the ticking clock sounds loudly in the kitchen.
She sits on the stool beside the laundry basket, stares at it, surprised by a peculiar contentment. Its as if her younger self frantic, apologetic, never enough is sitting beside her.
Well, Alice thinks to that thirty-five-year-old version, yes, weve missed out on things, weve made mistakes. But its no reason to punish ourselves for another twenty years.
Its not sage wisdom, just a gentle truce. She folds one T-shirt, then another, stops, and leaves the rest for tomorrow. She permits herself to forgo perfection tonight.
* * *
On Saturday, her first with no extra work in ages, Alice wakes without the alarm. At first her body tries to leap up: must dash out, need to cook, more washing. Instead, she holds herself in bed for ten more minutes, listening to footsteps scraping outside.
Later, tea in hand, she tidies the room, then pulls out a little notebook. Her daughter gave it to her at Christmas, beaming:
Mum, write things you want just for you!
Back then, Alice just smiled and tucked it away, blank inside. Shed thought, what would she ever write? What could a woman with work, a mother, and an elderly mum of her own ever want for herself?
Now she opens its clean page. Her pen hovers. She doesnt have grand plans. No round-the-world trip, no sudden career change. She realises with relief she doesnt want another project.
Instead, she writes: Would like to go for an occasional evening stroll, just for pleasure. And beneath: Sign up for computer basics at the local library.
Not Spanish, not pottery, nothing fancy for social media. Just the confidence to book appointments and shop online, without having to ask her son for help.
She slips the notebook in her handbag. Leaves her flat and, instead of the usual pavement to Sainsburys, veers into the back gardens. Havent walked here in years. Everythings calm, a few old trees shade the benches. Two women, about her age, sit nattering about prices, medicines and their kids the same things Alice always does.
She walks on. Not fast, not slow, in her own tempo. Something in her chest feels light, like a cupboard newly cleared of all its long-hoarded junk.
Shes hardly a changed woman. Shell still lose her temper, struggle to say no, fret and fuss. But now, a little space has opened up where she can pause, and ask herself: Do I actually want this?
On her way home, she pops into the library shes walked past for a decade without entering. The place smells of well-thumbed books and dust. A lady in a hand-knitted vest greets her from behind the desk.
Can I help?
I wanted to ask about classes for adults, really. Id like to get better with computers.
The librarian beams. We have sessions twice a week in the evening. Theres space in the new group. Shall I sign you up?
Yes, please, Alice says.
As she writes her age fifty-five on the form, the number no longer feels a sentence. Just a marker: shes reached the stage where shes earned the right not to hurry.
Back home, the frying pan is still waiting in the sink, her sons shirts still tossed over the chair, her mums blood test results and yet another work email sit on the table.
Alice puts down her bag, takes off her coat, walks to the window and stands there for a couple of minutes, breathing steadily. She knows shell wash up, ring her mum, reply to the email in due course. But now she also knows: in between those jobs, she owes herself a little window a cup of tea, a page of her book, a quick walk round the block.
And knowing that, quietly, matters more than anything else.
