Oh, Mr. William, youve overslept again! The bus drivers voice is cheerful but tinged with gentle reproach. Thats the third time this week youve dashed for the bus like a man possessed.
I stagger aboard, breathing heavily, gripping the handrail for dear life. My old anorak is crumpled, my grey hair is all over the place, and my glasses have slipped right down my nose.
Sorry, Andrew I manage to say, finally catching my breath, rummaging in my pocket for a few crumpled pound notes. My clock must be slow, either that or Im getting on a bit
Andrew Jameson everyone calls him Andy has been driving buses for over twenty years, though Id guess hes not much over forty-five. His face is weathered by the sun, a product of all those years driving up and down this route. He knows most of the regulars by name, especially me always polite, always quiet, always travelling at the same time every day.
No need to fret, mate. Hop on. Where to today?
Cemetery Road, as always.
The bus pulls away. I settle into my usual spot third row from the front, by the window with my well-worn plastic bag resting on my knees, holding everything I need for the visit.
There arent many passengers midweek, early morning. A couple of uni girls are chatting away about something or other, a suited man is glued to his phone. The usual routine.
Mr. William, can I ask do you go there every day? Doesnt it get hard? Andy glances at me through the rear-view mirror.
Nowhere else for me to go, I reply softly, staring out at the drizzly streets. My wifes there been gone a year and a half now. I promised Id visit every single day.
I see something change in Andys face. Hes married, adores his wife. I doubt he can even imagine it
Is it far from your place?
Not by bus. Half an hour or so. Walking would take ages legs just arent what they used to be. At least my pension covers the bus fare.
Weeks pass. I become a fixture of the morning route; Andy gets used to expecting me, even waiting a minute or two when Im running late.
Please dont hang about for me I told Andy once, guessing hed lingered for my sake. Theres a schedule for a reason.
Rubbish, Andy grinned, waving me off. A minute or two wont make a difference.
Then, one morning, Im not on the bus. Nor the next day, nor the next. Andy waits, but I dont appear.
That old chap who visits the cemetery hasnt shown up in a while, Andy says to Tamara, the conductor. Hope hes all right.
Who knows, she shrugs. Maybe family visited. Maybe something else came up
The thought clearly bothers Andy. He was used to my quiet presence, the gentle thank you when I got off, the soft, sad smile.
A week passes; still, no sign of me. Andy, worried, decides during his lunch break to take the bus to the last stop near the cemetery.
Excuse me, he asks the lady by the cemetery gate There was an elderly gent, Mr. William silver-haired, glasses, always carried a plastic bag. You havent seen him, have you?
Oh, that one! She brightens. Used to come every single day, rain or shine, visiting his wife.
So he hasnt been in lately?
Not for a week, no.
Do you think he might be ill?
Might be, love. Told me his address once not far, down Rose Lane, number 15. And who are you to him, if you dont mind me asking?
Im his bus driver. Used to bring him every day.
Rose Lane, number 15. Some old block of flats, the paint peeling off the entryway. Andy climbs up to the second floor, knocks on a random door.
A middle-aged man opens the door, looking suspiciously at him.
Who do you want?
Looking for Mr. William Im his bus driver, he was always on my route
Oh, our chap from number twelve, the mans face softens. Hes in hospital now. Stroke, happened just a week ago.
Andys heart sinks.
Which hospital?
City Hospital, up by Victoria Avenue. Was touch-and-go at first, but hes recovering, little by little.
That evening, after his shift, Andy makes his way to the hospital. He finds the right ward, speaks to the nurse.
Mr. William? Yes, hes here. And you are?
A friend, Andy says, not knowing what else to call himself.
Bed six, but be gentle, hes still weak.
Im lying by the window, pale but conscious. When Andy walks in, at first, I dont recognise him; my eyes widen in surprise.
Andy?! How on earth did you find me?
Oh, I went looking, he says, awkwardly smiling, setting a bag of fruit down on the bedside table. I got worried when you stopped coming.
You worried about me? I feel tears sting my eyes. Who am I, after all
What do you mean, who? Youve been my regular for ages. Its not the same without you.
I fall silent, staring at the ceiling.
I havent been to the cemetery in ten days, I whisper, voice trembling. First time in one and a half years. I broke my promise
Dont you worry about that, Mr. William. Your wife would understand. Youre ill that cant be helped.
I dont know Every day Id go, tell her how things were, talk about the weather Now Im stuck here, and shes all alone
Andy sees my distress, and his decision is instant.
How about I go? Ill visit your wife. Ill tell her youre in hospital, that soon youll be back on your feet
I turn to him; in my eyes, hope and disbelief mix together.
Would you do that? For someone whos not your own family?
Dont be silly, Andy waves a hand. Weve seen each other every morning for the last eighteen months. Youre as close as many relations.
The next day, on his day off, Andy goes to the cemetery. He finds her grave the headstone bears the picture of a gentle, kind-eyed woman. Anna Moore. 1952-2024.
He feels a bit foolish at first. But then the words come.
Good morning, Mrs. Moore. Im Andy, the bus driver. Your husband comes to visit you every day Well, hes in hospital just now, but hes getting better. He wanted me to tell you he loves you, and hell come soon…
He talks a little more about what a fine man Mr. William is, how much he misses her, how devoted hes been. He feels silly, talking to a gravestone, but inside he knows hes done the right thing.
At the hospital later, Im sat having a cup of tea. I look healthier already, the colours back in my cheeks.
I went, Andy says simply. Told her everything you wanted.
And and how was it? My voice trembles.
Alls well. Someones brought fresh flowers maybe the plot neighbours. Spotless, well kept. Shes waiting for you to come back.
I close my eyes, tears rolling down my cheeks.
Thank you, Andy. Thank you, son
Two weeks later, Im discharged. Andy meets me outside the hospital and drives me home.
See you tomorrow? he asks as I climb out.
Of course, I reply, nodding. Eight oclock, just like always.
And sure enough, the next morning, Im back in my usual place. But now, something has changed between us more than just driver and passenger.
Tell you what, Mr. William, Andy says one morning, from now on, Ill take you myself on weekends. Not as work just because. Have my own car, its no bother.
Oh, dont trouble yourself
Honestly, its no trouble. And my wife says, If someones that good a person, you help them.
And so it becomes our custom. During the week, its the regular bus. On weekends, Andy picks me up in his car and drives me to the cemetery. Sometimes he brings his wife weve all become friends.
One evening, Andy says quietly to his wife:
You know, I thought this job was all about routes, timetables, passengers But now I see: every single person on that bus has a story, a life.
Youre absolutely right, his wife nods. Its good you didnt just walk on by.
Once, I tell them,
When Anna died, I thought thats it, lifes over. No reason for me to carry on. Turns out people do care. That means a lot.
***
Have you ever watched ordinary people do something extraordinary? Because sometimes, it changes everything.
