Mr. Arthur, overslept again, did you? The bus drivers voice is warm but tinged with gentle reproach. Third time this week Ive seen you running after the bus like a man on a mission.
An elderly man, his jacket rumpled, leans heavily on the rail, his breath coming hard. His silver hair is tousled, and his glasses have slid down his nose.
Sorry, Simon he manages to say as he catches his breath, pulling out a handful of crumpled pound notes from his pocket. My watch must be slow Or perhaps its just me getting slower
Simon Clarke now theres a veteran driver if Ive ever seen one, tanned from years behind the wheel, perhaps forty-five or so. Two decades on the route around the outskirts of Oxford have made him familiar with most faces. But he particularly remembers Mr. Arthur always polite, soft-spoken, turning up at the same time every morning.
No worries, Arthur, hop in. Where to today?
To the cemetery, as usual.
The bus pulls away. Arthur Young settles into his favourite seat third row from the front, by the window. He clutches a worn carrier bag filled with assorted odds and ends.
Few passengers at this hour a weekday, early. A trio of young girls chatter about coursework, a man in a suit is absorbed in his phone. The normal morning shuffle.
Arthur, if you dont mind me asking Simon says, glancing up at him in the rearview mirror do you go there every day? Isnt it difficult?
Got nowhere else to be, the old man murmurs, gazing out at the passing hedgerows. My wifes there… Been a year and a half now. I promised Id come every day.
Simon feels a pang. He loves his own wife dearly can hardly imagine such absence.
Is it far from home, then?
Not really. Half an hour by bus, a good hour on foot, but my legs just arent up to it anymore. My pension covers the bus fare, at least.
Weeks slip by. Arthur Young becomes a fixture of the morning route. Simon starts looking out for him even waiting an extra few minutes when the old man is running late.
You shouldnt wait on my account, Arthur says, twigging onto the game. A timetables a timetable.
Dont worry about it, Simon waves him off. A couple of minutes never hurt anyone.
Then, one morning, Arthur Young isnt there. Simon waits maybe hes just caught up. But theres no familiar figure hurrying up the pavement. Nor the next day. Nor the next.
Tamara, have you seen the old gent who always rode to the cemetery? he asks the conductor. Arthur. Been a week now, not a sign.
Havent a clue, love, she responds with a shrug. Maybe family came to stay, maybe hes unwell
But Simon cant shake this sense of unease. Hes grown attached to Arthurs gentle thank you and the sad little smile as he disembarks.
After a week, Simon makes up his mind. On his lunch break, he rides to the end of the line, to the cemetery on St. Marys Lane.
Excuse me, he says to a woman tending the gate you know an old chap, comes by each day, Arthur Young? Silver hair, glasses, always with a plastic bag. Have you seen him lately?
Of course! the woman brightens. Used to come every day for his wife.
Hasnt been recently?
Not for a week.
Maybe hes ill?
Hard to say. He mentioned once where he lived somewhere nearby on Rose Crescent, house number 12. Why are you looking for him, love?
Im the bus driver. Took him here every single morning.
12 Rose Crescent a block of old council flats, peeling paint on the entrance. Simon knocks on the first door he can find.
A man of about fifty, looking a bit gloomy, opens the door.
Yes?
Im looking for Arthur Young. Im the bus driver, he used to ride with me all the time…
Oh, the old gentleman from flat twelve, the neighbours face softens. Hes in hospital. Had a stroke a week ago ambulance came and took him.
Simons heart sinks.
Which hospital?
St. Margarets, up on High Street. It was touch and go for a bit, but Ive heard hes slowly getting stronger.
That evening, after his shift, Simon heads to St. Margarets. He finds the right ward and asks the nurse on duty.
Mr. Young? Yes, hes under our care. And you are?
Just a friend Simon hesitates, unsure how to explain.
Hes in bed six. Hes still pretty weak, so short visits only, please.
Arthur Young lies by the window, pale but lucid. When he sees Simon, he doesnt recognise him at first; then his eyes widen in surprise.
Simon? What how on earth did you find me?
I went looking, Simon manages, awkwardly placing a bag of fruit on the nightstand. You disappeared, and I got worried.
You you worried about me? Arthurs eyes glisten. But Im nobody special…
Of course you are. My regular passenger. I look forward to seeing you every morning.
Arthur is silent, staring up at the ceiling.
I havent been not to the cemetery. First time Ive missed it in a year and a half. Broke my promise
Dont think like that, Arthur. Your wife would understand. Being ill isnt your fault.
Maybe he shakes his head. Every day Id tell her how things were going, what the weather was doing Now Im just lying here, and shes there, all alone
Simon can see how deeply Arthur is suffering, and the solution comes to him in a heartbeat.
If you like, Ill go in your place. I can tell her youre in hospital, on the mend Wont be long till youre by her side again.
Arthur turns towards him both hope and disbelief flicker in his eyes.
Youd do that? For someone who isnt even family?
Youre not a stranger, Simon chuckles. After all these mornings together, youre closer than half my own relations.
The next day, his day off, Simon heads to the cemetery. He finds the grave the headstone shows a photograph of a kind-faced woman, her eyes gentle and young. Anne Young, 19522024.
He feels self-conscious, but words slowly come:
Good morning, Mrs. Young. Im Simon, the bus driver. Your Arthurs been riding with me every day to visit you. Hes in hospital at the moment, but recovering. He wanted me to tell you he loves you, and hell come back soon
Simon stands in quiet reflection, sharing a few anecdotes how much Arthur loves her, how faithfully he kept his promise. He feels a bit foolish, talking alone at a grave, but something deep inside tells him its the right thing to do.
Back at the hospital, Arthur is sitting up, sipping his tea, the colour returning to his cheeks.
I went, Simon tells him, keeping it short. Told her everything you wanted.
And how was it? Arthurs voice trembles.
Just as it should be. Someone brought fresh flowers, probably the neighbouring families. All tidy and peaceful. Shes waiting for you to come back.
Arthur closes his eyes, tears streaming softly over his face.
Thank you, lad. Thank you
Two weeks later, Arthur is well enough to go home. Simon is waiting outside the hospital, ready to drive him back.
Shall I see you tomorrow? Simon calls, as Arthur gets off the bus outside his block.
Absolutely, Arthur nods. Eight oclock sharp, like always.
And sure enough the next morning, Arthur sits in his usual spot. But somethings changed between them, something unspoken. Not just driver and passenger any more its something more.
Arthur, Simon says one day, what if I give you a lift at weekends? Not as your driver just as a friend. I have my own car, its no trouble.
Oh, theres no need
I insist. My wife said, Anyone so lovely deserves a hand. Ive got used to our mornings together.
And so it goes. Weekdays, its the bus. Weekends, Simon drives Arthur to the cemetery in his own car, sometimes bringing his wife along. They become proper friends.
You know, Simon confides to his wife one night, at first I thought this was just a job. Schedules, routes, fares. Turns out, every seat on that bus its someones life, someones story.
Youre right, she nods. It matters, noticing that.
And one day, Arthur says to them:
After Anne passed, I thought life had ended. What use was I, really? But now now I know there are people who care. And thats worth more than anything.
***
So, what about you have you seen how everyday folk can quietly do the most remarkable things?
