**The Last Pound – For Another’s Child: How a Simple School Bus Driver Changed Lives**
The morning was bitter. Snow stung my eyes, the wind lashed at my face, and the roads had frozen into treacherous sheets of ice. Andrew, the school bus driver from the small Yorkshire town of Westridge, pulled open the door, letting in a crowd of children bundled in scarves, bobble hats, and puffer jackets.
“Hurry up, or my ears might snap off!” he joked with a grin.
“Mr. Andrews, you’re funny!” giggled little Emily, a first-year. “Why don’t you have a scarf? Mums always get scarves!”
“If my mum were still here, she’d have bought me the warmest one,” he replied softly. “For now, I’ll just envy yours, love.”
“I’ll tell my mum to get you one!”
“Deal. Now—hop to it, this ice isn’t messing about.”
Andrew wasn’t just the driver. He was the one who greeted the kids each morning with warmth and a joke. He knew their names, who had a birthday, who had a test. They adored him. But home was another matter.
“Andrew, do you even realise how long we’ll be stuck with this mortgage, thanks to your ‘love for the kids’?” his wife, Claire, would say, her voice tight with frustration.
“I love my job… but I’ll figure something out. Promise,” he’d insist, though guilt twisted in his chest.
That morning, as the bus pulled up to the school, Andrew warned the kids about the icy pavement.
“Mia, no figure skating on the steps, alright?”
Once they’d all dashed off, he headed toward the café, desperate for a hot cuppa to thaw his frozen hands. Then, from the back of the bus—a muffled sniffle.
“Hey, what’s wrong, mate?” he called, walking over.
Huddled on the last seat was a small boy, shivering. Tears glistened in his eyes, and his hands were blue with cold.
“Why aren’t you going in?”
“Too cold…” the boy whispered. “My gloves tore. Mum and Dad said there’s no money for new ones.”
Andrew clenched his jaw. He pulled off his own thick gloves and slid them over the tiny, frozen hands.
“Better? Listen, I’ve got a mate who stitches gloves—sturdy ones. I’ll bring you a pair after school.”
“Really?” The boy’s eyes lit up. “Thank you!”
But Andrew knew—there was no mate. Just a quick lie. He never did get that tea. His last pound went on a pair of gloves and a cheap scarf from the corner shop. And that evening, when the children climbed back onto the bus, he handed them over.
“Here you go, lad. Keep warm. Don’t fret about money—let the grown-ups handle that.”
The boy threw his arms around Andrew’s neck. He held back tears, but his heart ached.
Two days later, the headteacher called him in.
“What for?” he wondered, knocking nervously on the office door.
“Come in, Mr. Andrews,” the head said with a smile. “We heard about what you did for young Oliver. His dad’s an ex-firefighter, injured on duty—now they’re scraping by on benefits. Your kindness didn’t go unnoticed.”
Andrew stayed silent, unsure what to say.
“And then there’s the box by the school gates…”
Turned out, Andrew had left a plastic crate near the entrance with a sign: *“Cold? Take what you need. Stay warm. From your bus driver.”* Inside were gloves and scarves, bought from his meagre wages.
That box changed everything.
Teachers, parents, even the dinner ladies started adding to it—hats, socks, coats. Within a week, a sign went up: *“The Kindness Corner.”*
At the next assembly, Andrew was called up. The school gave him a commendation, a pay rise, and asked him to lead a new programme helping struggling families.
But none of that mattered most.
What did? Seeing the kids rush to hug him each morning. Parents squeezing his hand with quiet thanks. Watching the box stay full—not out of obligation, but because people wanted to help.
“See, Claire…” he said one evening, pointing through the window at the overflowing crate. “I did find a way to make it mean something.”
She just hugged him tight.
So what’s the lesson here? Sometimes, one small act of kindness starts a chain that changes lives. Andrew gave away his warmth—and got far more in return. Not in pounds. But in this: kindness always finds its way back. Always.
