— Mr Smith, You’ve Overslept Again! — the Bus Driver’s Friendly Voice Held a Hint of Reproach. — That’s the Third Time This Week I’ve Seen You Chasing the Bus Like the Clappers. The elderly pensioner in his crumpled jacket was out of breath, leaning heavily on the handrail. His grey hair was tousled and his glasses had slid down to the tip of his nose. — Sorry, Andrew… — he gasped, fishing some scrunched-up notes from his pocket. — My watch must be running slow. Or perhaps I’m just getting on… Andrew Grant — the bus driver with over twenty years behind the wheel, in his mid-forties, sun-kissed from the road. He knew most of his regular travellers. But this old chap stood out — always polite, quiet, riding at the same time every day. — Oh, never mind, hop in. Where to today? — To the cemetery, as usual. The bus trundled off. Mr Smith settled into his favourite seat — third row from the driver, by the window, clutching a battered plastic bag filled with odds and ends. There weren’t many passengers — weekday morning. A couple of students gossiped, a suited man scrolled through his phone. Just another ordinary day. — Say, Mr Smith, — Andrew asked, glancing at his passenger in the mirror, — do you really go there every day? Isn’t it difficult? — Nowhere else to go, — the pensioner replied quietly, staring out the window. — My wife’s there… been gone a year and a half now. Made her a promise — I’d come every day. Something tightened in Andrew’s chest. He, too, was married, adored his wife. He couldn’t imagine… — Is it far from your place? — Not really, half an hour by bus. Walking it would take me ages, my legs aren’t what they used to be. My pension just about covers the bus fare. Weeks went by. Mr Smith became a fixture of the morning route. Andrew grew so used to seeing him, he’d even wait a couple of minutes if the old man was running late. — No need to wait for me, — Mr Smith said once, cottoning on to Andrew’s little kindness. — The timetable’s there for a reason. — Oh, nonsense, — Andrew waved it off. — A couple of minutes won’t hurt anyone. One morning, Mr Smith wasn’t there. Andrew waited — maybe he was late. But he didn’t come. Or the next day. Or the one after. — Say, that old gent who goes to the cemetery — haven’t seen him in a while, — Andrew remarked to the conductor, Mrs Turner. — Who knows, — she shrugged. — Maybe family’s come visiting, maybe he’s unwell… But Andrew missed him — his quiet ‘thank you’ as he got off, his sad little smile. A week went by. Still no Mr Smith. During his lunch break, Andrew decided to go to the terminus — the cemetery gates. — Excuse me, — he asked the woman manning the entrance, — there was an elderly gentleman, Mr Smith… grey-haired, glasses, always carried a plastic bag. Have you seen him? — Oh, him! — she said, nodding. — Came every single day, to visit his wife. — He hasn’t been in? — Not for about a week. — Has he taken ill? — Nobody’s said anything… He did mention where he lives once, just up the road — Garden Street, number fifteen. And who are you, if you don’t mind me asking? — I’m his bus driver. Gave him a lift every day. Garden Street, number 15. An old block of flats, peeling paintwork. Andrew rang the nearest doorbell. A man in his fifties opened, looking grim. — Who do you want? — I’m looking for Mr Smith. I drive his bus… — Oh, the chap from flat twelve, — the neighbour’s face softened. — He’s in hospital. Had a stroke a week ago. Andrew’s heart dropped. — Which hospital? — The City Hospital, up on Florence Nightingale Avenue. Bad at first, but they say he’s slowly improving. After his shift, Andrew called in at the hospital, found the ward, and asked the nurse. — Mr Smith? Yes, he’s with us. And you are…? — A friend… — Andrew said awkwardly. — Sixth bed. But don’t tire him. Mr Smith lay by the window, pale, awake. On seeing Andrew, he looked puzzled, then his eyes widened. — Andrew? You? How did you…? — Well, I went looking, — Andrew said, setting a bag of fruit on the table. — When you didn’t come, I got worried. — You… worried about me? — Mr Smith’s eyes brimmed. — But I’m no one special… — Now, don’t say that. You’re my regular. I’ve grown used to you; I look forward to seeing you. Mr Smith lay silent, staring up. — I haven’t been to the cemetery in ten days — first time in over a year and a half, — he murmured. — I broke my promise… — Oh now, she’ll understand — your wife, I mean. Illness is illness. — I don’t know… — he shook his head. — I used to visit her every day, tell her the news, about the weather… Now I’m stuck here, and she’s all alone… At that, Andrew knew what he had to do. — Would you like me to go for you? I could visit your wife’s grave, pass on your news — let her know you’ll be back soon… Mr Smith turned towards him, hope and disbelief wrestling in his tired eyes. — You… you’d do that? For someone you hardly know? — Hardly! — Andrew smiled. — Eighteen months of early-morning bus rides? You’re family by now. The next day, on his day off, Andrew went to the cemetery. He found her grave — a photo on the headstone, a kind-looking woman. “Anne Smith, 1952–2024.” He felt awkward, but the words came anyway: — Hello, Mrs Smith. I’m Andrew, your husband’s bus driver. He’s in hospital at the moment, but he’s recovering, and sends his love. He promised he’ll visit again soon… He added how devoted Mr Smith was, how much he missed her. He felt a bit silly, but knew somehow it was the right thing. Back at the hospital, he found Mr Smith much brighter. — I went, — Andrew said simply. — Passed on your message. — And how… how is she? — the old man’s voice trembled. — Everything’s spotless — someone’s left fresh flowers, probably the neighbours. She’s waiting for you, Mr Smith. Mr Smith closed his eyes and wept quietly. — Thank you, son. Thank you… Two weeks later, Mr Smith was discharged. Andrew picked him up outside the hospital. — Shall I see you tomorrow? — Andrew asked as he dropped him off. — You will, — Mr Smith nodded. — Eight o’clock sharp, like always. And he was, next morning in his usual spot. But now, something between driver and passenger had changed — it was more than just a bus journey. — Tell you what, Mr Smith, — Andrew said one day, — how about I take you at weekends in my car? Just as a friend. My wife says if you’re as lovely as you seem, it’s only right to help. — Oh, I couldn’t ask you— — You don’t need to. We’d miss you otherwise. So it became their tradition. Weekdays — the bus; weekends, Andrew drove him himself. Sometimes his wife came too — they all became friends. — You know, — Andrew said to his wife one evening, — I used to think passengers were just passengers. But every face on that bus is a life, a story. — Exactly, — his wife smiled. — I’m glad you noticed. And Mr Smith told them, one day, — After Anne died, I thought life was over. I thought nobody noticed me. Turns out people do care. And that means the world. *** What do you think? Have you ever seen ordinary people perform extraordinary acts of kindness?

Oh, Mr. Stephen, late again! The bus drivers voice has that friendly tone, but theres just a hint of teasing in it. Thats the third time this week youre sprinting after the bus like youre in the Olympics.

The elderly man, his crumpled anorak bunched up around him, leans against the handrail, a little out of breath. His grey hair is a mess and his glasses have slipped to the edge of his nose.

Sorry, David Stephen finally manages in between wheezes, fishing out some battered pound notes from his pocket. My clock must be slow. Or maybe Im just getting too old for this.

David Clark the bus driver is a seasoned chap, probably about forty-five, his face tan from endless hours behind the wheel. Hes been driving this route for over twenty years, and he recognises most of the regulars by sight. But he remembers this old gent especially well always polite, always quiet, always hopping on at the same hour every single day.

Oh, dont worry about it, come on and have a seat. Where to today?

Cemetery, as usual.

The engine rumbles into life and the bus pulls away. Stephen settles into his usual spot third row from the front, right by the window. Hes carrying a well-worn plastic bag, its contents a mystery.

There arent many passengers its a weekday morning. A couple of young women are gossiping near the back, a man in a suit browses his phone. Just the daily routine, really.

Tell me something, Mr. Stephen David glances at his passenger in the rear-view mirror you go up there every day? Isnt it exhausting?

Well, what else can I do? The old man sighs, his gaze fixed out the window. My wifes there been a year and a half now. I promised Id visit every day.

Something twists in Davids chest. He loves his own wife to bits cant imagine not seeing her every day.

Is it far from home, the cemetery?

Not really, about half an hour by bus. Itd take me an hour on foot nowadays my legs arent what they were. My pension just about covers the fare.

Days drift by. Stephens a fixture of the morning service now, and David gets used to it even looks forward to seeing him. Some days, when the old boys running late, David waits at the stop for an extra few minutes just in case.

Dont wait for me, Stephen chides him once, cottoning on that Davids stalling. You have a timetable to stick to.

Oh, dont be silly, David waves him off. A couple of minutes wont send the world spinning.

Then, one morning, Stephen isnt there. David waits a bit, then carries on. The next day, still no sign of him. And the next.

You know, that old gentleman who always went to the cemetery hasnt been on the bus lately, David says to the ticket inspector, Mrs. Porter. Do you reckon hes poorly?

Whos to say? she shrugs. Maybe got family visiting, maybe something happened

But David cant shake the worry. Hed got attached to Stephen the quiet thank you every morning, the gentle half-smile.

A week slips by, but still, nothing. On his lunch break, David makes up his mind. He rides the bus all the way to the end of the line, where the cemetery sits, tucked behind rows of terraced houses.

Excuse me, he asks the lady tending the gate there was an older gentleman, Stephen grey hair, glasses, always had a little carrier bag. Ever seen him?

Oh, that one! The woman brightens. Of course, dear. Came like clockwork, every single day to visit his wife.

He hasnt been lately?

Not for a week now.

You dont think hes fallen ill?

Could be. He gave me his address once not far from here. Sycamore Lane, number fifteen. And who are you, if you dont mind me asking?

Im his bus driver. Drove him in every day.

Sycamore Lane, Number 15. An old, worn-out block of flats, paint flaking off the entrance. David climbs up to the second floor and knocks at the first door he sees.

A man, perhaps fifty, opens up, looking a bit gruff.

Who are you after?

Im looking for Stephen, the old chap. Im the bus driver, he was always on my route

Oh, the gentleman from number twelve, the neighbour softens. Hes in hospital. They took him in last week after a stroke.

Davids heart drops.

Which hospital?

St. Marys, over on Victoria Road. They said it was rough at first, but I hear hes slowly on the mend.

That evening, after his shift, David heads to the hospital. He finds the ward and checks in with the nurse at the desk.

Stephen Brown? Yes, of course hes been with us a few days. And you are?

Just a friend, David stumbles, not sure what to say.

Room six. Hes still very fragile, so dont tire him out.

Stephens lying by the window, terribly pale but awake. At first, he doesnt recognise David, then his eyes widen in surprise.

David? Is that really you? How on earth?

Oh, I just wanted to check in, David gives a shy smile, setting down a paper bag with some apples and grapes. You disappeared, I got worried.

You you worried about me? Theres a shine in Stephens eyes now, just a blink from tears. Why would you bother

Oh, come on. Youre my regular, arent you? Ive grown used to you. I look forward to seeing you every morning.

Stephen stares up at the ceiling, quiet for a moment.

I havent been up to the cemetery for ten days now, he says softly. First time Ive missed it in a year and a half. I broke my promise

Nonsense, Mr. Stephen. Shell understand. Its no small thing, falling ill.

I dont know the old man shakes his head. I used to tell her everything. How the day was, the weather Now Im stuck here, and shes all alone up there

David watches him, heart aching, and suddenly the answers obvious.

Shall I go instead? To visit your wife, I mean. Ill tell her youre in hospital and getting stronger by the day

Stephen turns, and for a moment theres a mixture of disbelief and hope in his eyes.

Would you really do that? For someone you barely know?

Well, youre hardly a stranger David chuckles. A year-and-a-half, every morning together. Feels like more than half my family.

Next day, on his day off, David takes the trip to the cemetery. He finds the grave the photos of a kind-faced woman, full of life. Anne Brown. 19522024, it reads beneath.

David feels a bit awkward at first, but then the words begin to flow:

Hello, Mrs. Brown. Im David, the bus driver. Your Stephen he came here every day. Hes in hospital now, but getting better. He asked me to say he loves you very much, and hell be back as soon as he can

He stands there for a moment longer, telling her how wonderful Stephen is, how much he misses her, how devoted hes been. He feels odd, but deep down it also feels completely right.

When David visits Stephen later, the old man is sipping tea and he looks noticeably better.

I went up there, David says simply. Did everything you wanted.

How how was it? Stephens voice trembles.

All fine. Someones brought fresh flowers maybe the neighbours. Its tidy, looked after. Shes waiting for you, you know.

Stephen shuts his eyes, tears tracing lines down his cheeks.

Thank you, lad. Thank you

Stephen is finally discharged a couple of weeks later. David picks him up from hospital, makes sure he gets home safe.

See you tomorrow? David asks as Stephen climbs off the bus.

Of course, he nods. Eight in the morning, just like always.

And sure enough, next morning, Stephens back in his regular seat. But now, theres something different between him and David. Not just driver and passenger any more something deeper.

Tell you what, Mr. Stephen, David says one day why dont I give you lifts at weekends? Not work-related, just a favour. Ive got my car, and its no trouble.

Oh, you dont have to

I want to. Honestly. And besides, my wife says, Anyone as lovely as him, youd be mad not to help.

So it becomes a thing. Weekdays, its the usual bus; weekends, David picks Stephen up in his car and takes him to see Anne. Sometimes Davids wife tags along and before long, they all get to know each other.

You know David says to his wife one evening, I used to think this job was just a job. Timetable, route, passengers But every person on that bus, each has a life, a story.

Youre absolutely right, she nods. Good on you for not just letting it all pass by.

And one day, Stephen tells them,

After Anne passed away, I really thought my life was over. Couldnt see the point anymore. But turns out it matters to someone. It really matters.

***

What about you? Have you ever seen ordinary people do something truly extraordinary?