Mr. William, overslept again! The bus drivers voice is kindly, though tinged with gentle reproach. Thats the third time this week youve been running after me like a madman.
The pensioner, sporting a rumpled tweed jacket and wild white hair, leans hard against the nearest pole, breathless. His glasses sag dangerously on the tip of his nose.
Sorry, Daniel he pants, fishing crumpled pound notes from his pocket. My clock must be behind, or Im just not what I used to be…
Daniel Thompson, a seasoned driver of about forty-five, is tanned from years behind the wheel on the rural route to Chislehurst. After two decades driving the 27 to Bromley, he knows most regulars by sight. This particular old chap he remembers especially always polite, quietly spoken, catching the same bus every morning.
Dont fuss. Hop in. Where are you headed today?
The churchyard, same as always.
The bus lurches into motion. William settles into his usual spot third row behind the driver, pressed up against the window. He clutches a shabby plastic bag, something clattering inside.
Not many aboard weekday, early morning. A pair of students chatter in the back, a man in a charcoal suit stares into his mobiles blue light. The familiar tableau.
Through the rearview mirror, Daniel asks, Tell me, Mr. William, do you visit the cemetery every day? Isnt it hard?
William stares out at the passing hedge. Where else am I to go? he murmurs. My wifes there… its been a year and a half. I told her Id be there every day.
Daniel feels a pang in his chest. Hes married, adores his wife cant imagine it…
Far from home? the driver tries.
Oh no, half an hour by bus. An hour on foot, if my legs were up to it. My pension just covers the fare.
Weeks pass. William becomes the morning fixture. Daniel starts anticipating their daily meeting. Sometimes the old man is a minute late Daniel lingers at the stop for him on purpose.
No need to wait for me, William says once or twice, cottoning on. Youve a timetable.
Dont be daft, Daniel waves it off. A couple minutes wont break the world.
One morning, William isnt there. Daniel waits, but no sign. The next day nothing. Another. Three days.
Odd, the old gent who went to the churchyard isnt showing up, Daniel mentions to Maureen, the ticket lady.
Could be hes fallen ill, she says with a shrug. Or perhaps family came to visit… who knows?
But the absence grates on Daniel. Hes grown used to that gentle word of thanks, that melancholic smile.
Over a week passes; still no William. In his lunch break, Daniel takes the bus to the end of the line, beneath the looming yews of St. Marys.
He approaches the iron gate, where the custodian knits. Excuse me, Daniel says. Im looking for an older fellow Mr. William, white hair, glasses, always with a little bag. Ever see him lately?
Oh, him! Yes, I know who you mean, the woman perks up. He came every single day, to his wifes grave.
And? He hasnt turned up?
Not for a week, love.
Has he been ill?
She shrugs. Could be. Told me his address once nearby, Elm Road, number seventeen. And you are?
His bus driver. Drove him every morning.
Elm Road, 17. Victorian terraces, paint peeling around the letterboxes. Daniel climbs to the upper porch and rings the bell.
A dour-faced man, about fifty, cracks the door. Yes?
Im looking for Mr. William. I drive the bus he always caught…
The old gent from Number 12, you mean, the neighbours features soften. Hes in hospital, mate. Ambulance last week bad stroke, so they said.
Daniels heart sinks. Which hospital?
St. Georges, I believe. Wasnt good at first, but hes coming round slowly now, so they say.
That evening, after his shift, Daniel catches a bus to St. Georges Hospital in Lewisham, finds the right ward, speaks to the nurse on duty.
Mr. William? Yes, hes in Bed Six. Are you family?
An old friend Daniel fumbles.
Dont overtire him. Hes still very delicate.
William lies by the window, pale, conscious, eyes watching the corridor in a bleary way. When Daniel enters, at first he doesnt seem to know him. Then his eyes widen in astonishment.
Daniel? Is it really you? How?
I looked for you, Daniel admits awkwardly, putting a paper bag of apples on the bedside. You didnt come to the bus for days. I was worried.
You worried for me? Something wet glimmers in Williams eye. But Im nobody
What dyou mean, nobody? Youre my regular! I expect to see you every morning.
William stares at the ceiling, lost. I havent seen her not for ten days, he murmurs. First time Ive broken my promise
Dont fret your wife will understand. No one blames illness.
I used to tell her every day how the garden looks, what the weathers like Now I lie here and shes all on her own
Daniel watches his pain and the solution arrives on its own.
Shall I go for you? he asks softly. To pay your respects, let her know youre in hospital, getting better?
A strange conflict distrust and hope flickers on Williams face.
Would you? For someone not kin?
Daniel shrugs. Youre hardly a stranger. For a year and a half weve seen one another each day. Familys what you make it.
The next Sunday, Daniel takes flowers and finds the grave: Margaret Williams, 19522024 reads the neat stone. The pictured womans smile is gentle and kind-eyed.
Feeling silly, Daniel begins: Good morning, Mrs. Williams. My names Daniel, I drive the bus. Your husbands in hospital getting well, promises to visit soon. He loves you very much
He chatters on: how William misses her, how loyal he is. The words seem clumsy, but deep down, something says its right.
He finds William sipping weak tea next time. The difference is remarkable colour in his cheeks, hand steadier.
I went, Daniel says shortly. Told her everything you wanted.
And was it alright? The old mans voice breaks.
Just fine. Someone left fresh flowers perhaps a neighbour. Everything tidy, peaceful. Shes waiting for you, William.
The old man closes his eyes. Tears trickle down.
Thank you, lad. Thank you.
A fortnight later, William is discharged. Daniel meets him at the hospital, sees him home.
Will I see you tomorrow? Daniel asks as the old man gets off the bus.
Of course, William nods. Eight, as always.
The very next morning, William sits in his usual place once more. But now, something between him and Daniel has shifted. Not just driver and passenger something more.
You know what, Mr. William, Daniel says one day, on weekends, let me give you a lift in my car, no charge. My wife says, A good man deserves a bit of help.
Oh, you neednt
I want to. Im used to you by now.
So it becomes custom. On weekdays, its the bus; on Sundays, Daniel drives William to the churchyard himself, sometimes bringing his wife Mary along theyve become friends.
You see, Daniel confides to Mary one rainy evening, I used to think: timetable, route, passengers just a job. But it turns out, everyone on the bus has their own life, their own story.
Youve got it right, Mary smiles. Glad you didnt just walk on by.
William tells them once, When I lost Margaret, I thought thats it, nothing left. Who would care if I vanished? Turns out, people really do care. That means an awful lot.
***
And you? Have you ever noticed how ordinary folk can do remarkable things in the most unlikely ways?
