Mr. Harold, missed the bus again! The bus drivers voice is friendly, but theres a hint of gentle reprimand. Thats the third time this week youve been dashing after it like youre in a race.
The pensioner in the wrinkled raincoat stands breathing heavily, clutching the rail. His silvery hair is dishevelled, glasses perched loosely on the tip of his nose.
Sorry, Michael he wheezes, fishing a handful of crumpled pound notes from his pocket. I think my watch is slow. Or perhaps Im just getting on a bit
Michael Carter, the driver, looks about forty-five, his skin tanned from years on the route. Hes been ferrying people round the city for two decades, and recognises many faces. This old man stands out though always polite, always quiet, always on the same morning bus.
Dont worry, hop on. Where to today?
The cemetery, as usual.
The bus pulls away. Harold settles into his usual spot third row from the driver, by the window. In his hands is a battered plastic bag stuffed with odds and ends.
Its a weekday morning, so there aren’t many passengers. A few university girls chatter away in the back, a man in a suit is glued to his phone. All standard fare.
Tell me, Mr. Harold, Michael says, glancing in the rear-view mirror, do you go there every day? Isnt it tough?
Nowhere else to be, comes the quiet reply, eyes fixed on the view outside. My wifes there been gone a year and a half. Promised her Id visit every day.
Something tightens in Michaels chest. Hes married himself and adores his wife. He cant imagine
Is it far from home?
Not really, half an hour on your bus. Would take me an hour to walk nowadays my legs arent what they were. My pension just about covers the fare.
Weeks pass, as they do. Harold becomes a fixture on the early run. Michael grows accustomed, even fond of him. If the old fellow is ever late, Michael lingers a few minutes at the stop on purpose.
You mustnt wait for me, Harold says one time, cottoning on that the drivers held back for him. Schedules a schedule.
Oh, dont worry, Michael waves it aside. A couple of minutes wont hurt.
One morning, Harold doesnt show. Michael waits perhaps hes running late but theres no sign. The next day, still nothing. And the day after.
Listen, that old chap who used to go to the cemetery, hasnt turned up for a while, Michael remarks to Sandra, the conductor. Think hes fallen ill?
Who knows? Sandra shrugs. Maybe family came, or something else happened
But Michael cant shake the worry. He misses the quiet thank you as Harold gets off, the sad little smile.
A week goes by. Still no Harold. During his lunch break, Michael sets off for the final stop, near the cemetery.
Excuse me, he asks a woman by the gate, an elderly gentleman called Harold used to come every day. Silver-haired, glasses, always with a carrier bag. Have you seen him lately?
Oh, him! The woman brightens. Of course, I know him. Came every single day to see his wife.
And has he not been around at all?
Not for about a week.
Perhaps hes unwell?
Who can say He gave me his address once lives nearby. Oak Lane, number 18. And you are?
Im the bus driver. He was on my route, every morning.
18 Oak Lane. An old red-brick block of flats, paint peeling on the door. Michael heads up to the second floor and knocks at the nearest flat.
A man about fifty opens, his expression guarded.
Who are you after?
Looking for Harold. I drive the bus, hes a regular
Ah, the old boy from twelve the mans face softens. He was taken to hospital last week. Stroke, Im afraid.
Michael feels his heart drop.
Which hospital?
St. Georges, on Churchill Road. Heard he was bad at first, but seems hes doing a bit better now.
After his shift, Michael makes his way to the hospital. He finds the right ward and asks at the nurses desk.
Harold? Yes, hes here. And you are?
A friend, Michael says, not sure what else to call himself.
Bed six, but hes still quite weak. Try not to tire him out.
Harold lies by the window, pale but conscious. At first, he doesnt recognise Michael, but then his eyes widen with surprise.
Michael? Is that you? How on earth
Just thought Id check up, Michael smiles awkwardly, putting a bag of fruit down on the side table. I noticed you hadnt come, worried a bit.
You you were worried about me? Harolds eyes glisten. Im nobody special, you know
Course you are, Michael insists. Youre my regular. I expect you each morning.
Harold falls quiet, gazing at the ceiling.
I havent been to the cemetery in ten days, he murmurs. First time in a year and a half. Ive broken my word
Dont be silly, Mr. Harold. Your wife would understand. Youre ill. That matters.
Im not sure, the old man shakes his head. I always came, told her whats new, about the weather Now Im stuck here and shes all alone
Michael watches him suffer and makes a decision.
Would you like me to go? To your wife, I mean. Tell her youre in hospital, and getting better
Harold turns to him, hope and disbelief mingling in his worn features.
Would you really? For a stranger?
What stranger? Michael shakes his head. After all this time, youre more than that now.
Next day, on his day off, Michael goes to the cemetery. He finds the grave the headstone bears the photo of a woman with kind eyes. Anne Frost. 19522024.
Hes awkward at first, but the words come.
Good morning, Mrs. Frost. Im Michael, the bus driver. Your husband is one of my regulars always coming to see you. Hes in hospital at the moment, but hes on the mend. Asked me to tell you he loves you hell be here soon himself
He says more about what a loyal, gentle soul Harold is, how much he misses her, what a devoted husband. He feels a bit foolish, but something inside tells him its the right thing to do.
Back at the hospital, Harold is nursing a cup of tea. He looks stronger, colour returning to his cheeks.
I went, Michael says simply. Gave her your message, just as you asked.
And? How is she? His voice trembles.
Everything is as it should be. There were fresh flowers, probably from nearby families. It looked tidy, well cared-for. Shes waiting for you to come home.
Harold shuts his eyes, tears tracing silent lines down his face.
Thank you, lad. Thank you so much
Two weeks later, Harold is discharged. Michael meets him at the hospital and gives him a lift back home.
Will I see you tomorrow? he asks, as Harold steps off the bus.
Of course, Harold nods firmly. Eight oclock sharp, as always.
Sure enough, the next morning Harold is back in his seat. But now, something has shifted between him and Michael. Theyre no longer just driver and passenger now theres a true connection.
Do you know what, Mr. Harold, Michael says one day, why dont I drive you out at weekends? Not for work just because I can. Ive a car at home, and its no trouble.
You really dont have to
Oh, but I want to. Besides, my wife says, If someones that decent, youve got to help out.
And so it goes. On weekdays Harold takes the bus, at weekends Michael chauffeurs him in his car. Sometimes his wife comes along, and soon the three of them are friends.
You know, Michael tells his wife one evening, I used to think it was just a job. Timetables, routes, faces. But every person on that bus thats a whole life, a story of their own.
Youre right, his wife nods. Im glad you didnt just walk away.
Harold says to them, once, over tea,
After Anne died, I thought my life was over too. Whod need me now? But as it turns out there are still people who care. And that truly means the world.
***
And what do you think have you ever witnessed ordinary people do extraordinary things?
