**Shame on the Bus**
Margaret Dawson hurried to the bus stop, clutching her handbag tightly to her chest. The rain had just stopped, and the pavement glistened with wet patches under the grey October sky. In her bag were twenty pounds—all she could scrape together for her husband’s medicine. Edward had been complaining about his back pain again, and the doctor prescribed tablets so expensive that her pension barely covered half the cost.
The bus pulled up with a squeal of brakes. Margaret stepped inside and handed the driver a five-pound note.
“Eight pounds,” he muttered without looking up.
“Eight? It was five yesterday,” she said, confused.
“Prices went up,” he snapped, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
Margaret hesitated. Eight pounds meant less for Edward’s medicine. Maybe she should walk? But the chemist was nearly two miles away, and Edward would be waiting, suffering…
“Love, are you moving or what?” someone called from the middle of the bus. “There’s a queue behind you.”
Her face flushed. She dug into her bag, pulled out another few coins, and handed them over.
“Cheers,” the driver mumbled, still not looking at her.
She shuffled down the aisle. No seats left. A young lad in headphones was glued to his phone. Beside him, a girl typed away, just as distracted. Near the middle, a tired-looking woman rocked a fussy baby, humming softly.
“Take my seat,” the mother offered suddenly, nodding at the empty spot. “I’ll stand—he won’t let me sit anyway.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t—”
“Go on,” the woman insisted. “You look done in.”
Grateful, Margaret sat. The baby blinked up at her with big eyes, then broke into a gummy smile.
“What a sweetheart,” she murmured. “How old is he?”
“Eight months. Teething, poor thing,” the mother sighed. “Off to the GP, see if they’ll give us something.”
“I’m heading to the chemist too—my Edward’s got awful back pain.”
“I know how it is. My mum’s the same—arthritis.”
The bus lurched to another stop. An elderly woman with a cane shuffled on, slow and unsteady. The driver tapped the wheel impatiently.
“Come on, love, haven’t got all day!”
The old lady scanned the bus—every seat taken. The lad in headphones didn’t even glance up.
“Young man,” Margaret said gently, “would you mind letting her sit?”
He tugged out one earbud. “What?”
“This lady could use your seat.”
“Oh. Right.” He stood, still staring at his screen.
“Thank you, dear,” the old woman said softly as she sat. “Kind souls still exist.”
Margaret flushed. She hadn’t noticed the woman at first either—too wrapped up in conversation.
The bus braked hard at a light. Everyone jolted forward. The baby wailed.
“Careful!” the mother snapped. “There’s a baby here!”
“Blame the roads,” the driver shot back. “Don’t like it? Take a cab.”
“Not all of us can afford cabs,” the old woman murmured. “I’ve a doctor’s appointment—can’t walk that far.”
“We’re all pinching pennies,” Margaret agreed. “Prices up, pensions frozen.”
“Tell me about it,” the young mother sighed. “I’m on maternity leave—just my husband working. Every penny counts.”
A quiet understanding settled over the bus. People exchanged glances, nodded. Everyone knew the struggle.
“Remember when buses had conductors?” the old woman mused. “Polite, gave proper change…”
“Those were the days,” Margaret said. “Prices didn’t jump overnight.”
“It’s not just prices,” a woman near the window added. “People were kinder. More respect.”
The lad in headphones looked up, listening.
“Maybe we’re the problem,” he said suddenly. “Everyone’s buried in their phones, ignoring each other.”
Margaret blinked. Didn’t expect that from him.
“He’s right,” the old woman nodded. “My grandson’s the same—always on his laptop. No time for me.”
“Tell us a story, then,” the lad said, pocketing his phone. “About the old days.”
The woman brightened. “Well… fancy hearing how I met my husband? On a bus, back in ’57…”
She spun the tale—how he’d caught her when she stumbled, how they’d been married sixty years. The bus grew quiet, everyone lost in their own thoughts.
“I met Edward in a bread queue,” Margaret shared. “He kept smiling at me. Offered to walk me home.”
“Lucky, having someone,” the woman by the window said softly. “I’m alone now. Kids live miles away.”
“They’ll come back,” the young mother said, shifting her baby. “Mine did.”
“Grandchildren are a blessing,” Margaret smiled. “My daughter’s in Manchester, but my granddaughter visits summers. So clever—always asking about my schooldays.”
The bus neared the high street. Margaret stood, turning to the young mother.
“Thank you for the seat. Here—” She pressed a five-pound note into her hand. “For ice cream when his teeth come through.”
“Oh, I can’t—”
“Please. You’ve a lovely boy.”
Touched, the woman took it. “God bless you.”
Margaret asked the driver to stop, then checked with the others: “Where’s the nearest chemist?”
“Right off the stop—green cross sign,” the window-seat woman said.
“That one’s dear,” the lad added. “Cheaper one round the corner on Elm Street.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said warmly.
Stepping off, she felt lighter. The sun had broken through. The money in her pocket would stretch further now—enough for Edward’s tablets and a little chocolate for her granddaughter.
Walking to the cheaper chemist, she thought about the morning. The sting of the fare hike had faded. It was people that changed things—talking, sharing. You could sit in silence, glued to screens, or you could connect.
Edward was waiting when she got home. “Get the medicine?”
“Yes, and saved a bit too.”
“You’re cheerful. What happened?”
She told him about the bus—strangers becoming friends for half an hour. How a kind word could lift you.
“Aye,” he nodded. “We forget everyone’s got their own battles.”
“Exactly. And there’s no shame in it. We’re all just getting by. But helping each other makes it easier.”
She made tea, the autumn light spilling through the window. Tomorrow, she’d take the bus again—but without dread. Kindness was still out there. You just had to look up and reach out.
That ride had taught her something. Warmth didn’t cost a thing. The best gifts were a smile, a listening ear—things anyone could give, no matter how thin their wallet.
