— Mr. William Evans, you’ve missed the bus again! — the driver’s voice is genial, but carries a hint of reproach. — Third time this week you’ve been racing after the bus like a man possessed. The pensioner, breathless and in a rumpled jacket, leans against the handrail. His grey hair is wild, glasses perched on the edge of his nose. — Sorry, Andrew… — the old man pants, pulling crumpled notes from his pocket. — My clock must be slow. Or maybe I’m just getting on… Andrew Williams is a seasoned driver, about forty-five, his face tanned by years on the route. He’s been at the wheel for over two decades, knowing many regulars by sight. But he remembers this old gentleman in particular — always polite, quiet, takes the same bus at the same time every morning. — Don’t worry, come on board. Where to today? — To the cemetery, as usual. The bus sets off. Mr. Evans takes his usual seat — third row from the front, by the window, a battered carrier bag clutched in his hands. Few passengers aboard — a weekday morning. Some uni students chatter at the back, a businessman is absorbed in his phone. A typical scene. — Tell me, Mr. Evans, — Andrew calls back through the rear-view mirror — you go there every day? Isn’t it hard? — Nowhere else to go, — the pensioner replies quietly, staring out the window. — My wife’s there… been a year and a half. I promised — every day I’d visit. Andrew feels a twinge in his heart. He’s married himself, adores his wife. Can’t imagine… — Is it far from home? — Not really, half an hour by bus. Walking would take me an hour — my legs aren’t what they were. And my pension just about covers the fare. The weeks go by. Mr. Evans is a fixture on the morning bus. Andrew gets used to him, even looks forward to seeing him. Sometimes the old man runs late — Andrew purposefully waits a couple of minutes. — No need to wait for me, — Mr. Evans says one day, realising Andrew has lingered. — The schedule’s the schedule. — Nonsense, — Andrew waves him off. — A few minutes won’t hurt. One morning, Mr. Evans doesn’t appear. Andrew waits — maybe he’s running late. But still, he doesn’t come. Next day, still no sign. And again. — Have you noticed that old chap who used to always go to the cemetery? He hasn’t been on for days, — Andrew remarks to conductor Mrs. Taylor. — Who knows? — she shrugs. — Maybe some family came, maybe he’s ill… But Andrew can’t shake the feeling. He’s grown accustomed to the quiet nod of thanks, the sad little smile. A week passes. No Mr. Evans. Andrew decides to look for him — on his lunch break he heads to the end of the route, near the cemetery. — Excuse me, — he asks the woman on duty at the gate, — an elderly gent, William Evans — grey hair, glasses, always with a carrier bag. Have you seen him at all? — Oh, him! — she brightens. — Came every day to his wife. — Not lately, though? — Not for a week. Maybe he’s unwell. He once gave me his address — doesn’t live far. Garden Close, number 15. And you are…? — Bus driver. Took him every day. Garden Close, 15. An ageing brick block, paint peeling. Andrew climbs to the second floor, knocks on a random door. A man in his fifties, stern face. — Yes? — I’m looking for William Evans. Bus driver, he’s a regular on my route… — Ah, the old boy from flat twelve, — the neighbour’s face softens. — He’s in hospital. Had a stroke last week. Andrew’s heart sinks. — Which hospital? — St. Mary’s, on Queen’s Avenue. It was touch and go, but they say he’s slowly getting better. That evening, after his shift, Andrew visits the hospital. He finds the ward and asks the nurse. — William Evans? Yes, he’s here. And you are…? — A friend, — Andrew hesitates, unsure how to explain. — Room six. He’s still very weak, though. Don’t tire him. Mr. Evans lies by the window, pale but conscious. At first he doesn’t recognise Andrew, then his eyes widen in surprise. — Andrew? Is that you? How…how did you find me? — Just had to look, — Andrew smiles awkwardly, setting a bag of fruit on the table. — You went missing. I was worried. — You…worried about me? — there’s a glimmer of tears in the old man’s eye. — But I’m no one to you… — What do you mean? You’re my regular passenger. I look for you every morning now. Mr. Evans falls silent, gazing at the ceiling. — And the cemetery… haven’t been for ten days now, — he whispers. — First time in a year and a half. Broke my promise… — Please don’t fret, Mr. Evans. I’m sure your wife would understand. Illness isn’t your fault. — Maybe… — the old man shakes his head. — I’d go every day, tell her the news, about the weather… Now I’m here, she’s alone there… Andrew sees how much this weighs on him, and the answer comes on its own. — Would you like me to go? To your wife. Tell her you’re in hospital, that you’re getting better… Mr. Evans turns, hope and disbelief flickering in his eyes. — You’d do that? For someone you barely know? — Aren’t we more than strangers? — Andrew shrugs. — Eighteen months we’ve seen each other every morning. Feels like family. Next day, on his day off, Andrew visits the cemetery. He finds the grave — the headstone shows a youthful woman with kind eyes. “Anne Evans, 1952–2024.” He hesitates at first, but the words come more easily than expected. — Hello, Mrs. Evans. I’m Andrew, the bus driver. Your husband took my bus to see you every day. He’s in hospital now, but recovering. He wanted me to tell you he loves you, and he’ll be back soon… He speaks a little more — of what a good man William Evans is, how much he misses her, how devoted he’s been. He feels rather foolish, but something inside tells him it’s the right thing to do. At the hospital, he finds Mr. Evans at tea. Already stronger, with more colour in his cheeks. — I went, — Andrew says simply. — Told her everything, just as you wished. — And how… how was it? — the voice trembles. — The plot’s neat, there were fresh flowers — probably from nearby families. She’s waiting for you to come back. Mr. Evans closes his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks. — Thank you, son. Thank you… Two weeks later, Mr. Evans is discharged. Andrew meets him outside the hospital, drives him home. — Shall I see you tomorrow? — he asks, as the old man steps from the bus. — You will, — Mr. Evans nods. — Eight a.m., just like always. And sure enough, next morning, he’s back in his usual seat. But something has changed between them — they’re more than driver and passenger now. — Tell you what, Mr. Evans, — Andrew says one Saturday, — why don’t I take you at weekends in my car? No bus, just us. My wife thinks you’re a wonderful chap, says we must help. — Oh no, you needn’t… — Course I do. I’m used to you now — besides, my wife says if someone’s good people, you look out for them. And so it becomes a habit. Weekdays — the regular bus ride, weekends — Andrew takes Mr. Evans in his own car, sometimes with his wife along. They become friends. — You know, — Andrew says to his wife one evening, — at first I thought it was just a job — bus, timetable, passengers. But now I see: every person on that bus has a life, a story. — That’s how it is, — she nods. — It’s good you didn’t just walk on by. And Mr. Evans tells them one day: — After Anne died, I thought that was it — life finished. Who would need me? But it turns out… some people care. That means a lot. *** And what about you — have you ever witnessed ordinary people perform extraordinary deeds?

Mr. William, missed the bus again! The bus drivers voice, cheerful but with a teasing reproach, echoed up the nearly empty High Street. Thats the third time this week Ive seen you running for it like a teenager.

Clutching the cold metal pole, William struggled to catch his breath, his worn raincoat crumpled, his thin grey hair wild, glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.

Sorry, Matthew William managed a weak smile as he rummaged in his pocket, pulling free a handful of wrinkled pound notes. My clock must be slow. Or perhaps its just me these days…

Matthew Brown the driver was a man of forty-five, with sun-kissed skin from years behind the wheel on the Oxford route. Two decades on the Number 17, he knew half his passengers by name. But William, with his impeccable manners and soft voice, always travelling at the same hour, had etched himself into Matthews memory.

Dont worry about it, hop on, Matthew said, waving away the apology. Where to today?

The cemetery, as always.

As the bus pulled away from the curb, William settled into his customary seat third row, window side old carrier bag weighing in his lap, the outlines of garden shears and flowers visible within.

Only a handful of faces filled the bus midweek, early a couple of young women gossiping, a businessman buried in his mobile. Oxford mornings rarely changed.

If you dont mind me asking, Mr. William Matthew glanced back through the mirror you go every day, do you? Is it not too much?

Where else would I be? William answered softly, gazing out at the drizzle beyond. My wifes there, you see been a year and a half now. I promised her Id visit, every single day.

Matthews chest tightened. He thought of his own beloved wife, of all the things he couldnt imagine losing.

Do you live far off?

No, only half an hour on your bus. An hours walk, but my legs arent much use these days. My pension covers the fare, though.

Weeks slipped by. In the quiet dawns, William became as much a part of Matthews days as the whistle of the doors. Sometimes William was late; Matthew took to lingering just a moment longer at the stop.

No need to wait on me, Mr. Brown, William said one morning, picking up on the drivers subtle delays. Timetables are there for a reason.

Oh, dont fret, Matthew smiled. A couple of minutes wont turn the world upside down, eh?

But one morning William wasnt there. Matthew waited, then rolled on in silence. The next morning still no sign. Another passed. Still nothing.

You know, that old chap who always rode to the cemetery? Matthew mentioned to his conductor, Mrs. Edith Clarke. Not seen him lately. Hope hes not unwell.

Could be anything, Edith shrugged. Maybe family visiting, maybe something else.

Yet Matthew couldnt shake the restless worry. He missed the soft thank you as William stepped off, the pained smile that lingered in memory long after the bus was empty.

After a week, Matthews curiosity won out. At lunch, he drove to the end of the line, where the London Road Cemetery sprawled behind its gates.

Excuse me, he asked the caretaker, a kindly woman knitting a scarf at the entrance Theres an elderly gentleman, William, grey hair, glasses, always carrying a bag. Used to come every day. Have you seen him?

Oh, that one! her face brightened. Yes, I know him. Visited his wife daily, bless him.

But youve not seen him this week?

Not for a week, no. Stopped coming. Hope hes alright Oh he once mentioned his address. Close by, Sycamore Lane, number twenty-three, it was. Who are you, if you dont mind me asking?

Im his bus driver. Drove him every day.

Sycamore Lane, Number 23 a block of faded 1950s flats with peeling paint. Matthew climbed to the second floor and knocked at the first door he came to.

A dour-faced middle-aged man answered.

Who are you after?

Im looking for William his surnames Smith, I think. Im his bus driver, took him on my route every day.

The mans expression softened.

Old Mr. Smith, from number twelve? Hes in hospital, mate. Had a stroke last week.

Matthews heart thudded in his chest.

Which hospital?

St. Georges, the city one near the theatre. Tough going at first, but I hear hes improving, bit by bit.

After his shift, Matthew headed for St. Georges. He found the ward, inquired at the desk.

William Smith? Hes with us, yes. Are you family?

Just a friend.

Room six. Hes fragile, mind, please dont stay too long.

William lay by the window, ashen but awake. At first, he didnt know Matthew, then recognition sparked in his pale eyes.

Matthew? How? How did you find me?

I asked around, Matthew said sheepishly, setting down a bag of fruit. You stopped coming on my route. I was worried.

Worried about me? Williams eyes glimmered damp. Why would you

Why? Because Im used to you being there. I expect you every morning.

William turned his gaze to the ceiling, silent.

First time Ive missed a visit in a year and a half, he murmured, barely audible. Broke my promise to her

Oh, come now, Mr. Smith. Your wife would understand. Illness isnt something you choose.

I went every day, told her my news, talked about the weather Now Im stuck here. Shes alone

Matthew felt the old mans pain, and, in that instant, made his decision.

Would you like me to go? To your wife. I could tell her youre unwell, but recovering that youll return soon.

William turned to him, the disbelief and hope mingling visibly in his face.

Youd do that? For someone you barely know?

Youre hardly a stranger, Matthew smiled. Weve seen each other every morning for a year and a half. Thats more than I see of some relatives.

Next Sunday, Matthew drove to the cemetery. He found the plot: a granite stone adorned with a photograph of a poised woman, kindness shining in her eyes. Anne Smith. 1952-2024.

Nervous, awkward at first, Matthew spoke quietly:

Hello, Mrs. Smith. Im Matthew, the bus driver. Your husband came to see you every single day. Hes in hospital now, but hes getting better. He wanted me to say that he loves you, and hell be here soon.

He spoke more told her how special William was, how loyal, how much he missed her. It felt odd, speaking aloud among the gravestones, but inside, he knew it was the right thing.

He found William sipping tea later, a little colour in his cheeks at last.

I went, Matthew said softly. Told her everything you wanted.

And how was it? Williams voice trembled.

Someones left fresh flowers, its tidy neighbours perhaps. Shes waiting for you, no doubt.

William closed his eyes, tears trailing his face.

Thank you, lad. Thank you.

Two weeks later, William was discharged. Matthew waited outside, dropping him at his door.

Will I see you tomorrow? Matthew called as William stepped down.

Of course, the old man nodded. Eight oclock, as always.

And he kept his word. The next morning, William was back in his seat. But something had shifted between the men more than driver and passenger.

You know, Mr. Smith, Matthew said one afternoon why dont I drive you myself on weekends? Not on the bus in my own car. Ive plenty of time, and my wife thinks its the least I can do.

You really dont need to

I want to. Besides, my wife says: If someones that kind, you help them. Simple.

And so it became their routine. Weekdays, it was the bus; weekends, Matthews car. Some weekends, his wife joined them. She and William quickly became friends.

You know, Matthew confided to his wife one night at first, it was all just routine to me. Timetables, routes, the usual faces. But everyone on that bus has a whole life, a whole story.

Youre quite right, his wife said, nodding Good thing you stopped to notice.

One day, William said quietly:

When Anne passed, I thought my life was over. What purpose did I have left? But it turns out, people do care. And that means more than I ever knew.

***

Have you ever witnessed ordinary people performing extraordinary acts?