**Shame on the Bus**
I hurried to the bus stop, clutching my small handbag close. The rain had just stopped, and the pavement glistened under the grey October sky. Inside my bag were twenty pounds—all I could scrape together for my husband’s medicine. Arthur had been complaining about his back again, and the doctor prescribed pills so expensive that my pension wouldn’t cover even half the cost.
The bus pulled up with a screech of brakes. I climbed aboard and handed the driver a five-pound note.
“Eight pounds,” he muttered without looking at me.
“Eight? It was only six yesterday,” I said, confused.
“Prices went up,” he snapped, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
I hesitated. Eight pounds meant even less for Arthur’s medicine. Should I walk? But the chemist was a good mile and a half away, and Arthur was waiting at home, in pain…
“Love, d’you mind moving along?” a voice called from the middle of the bus. “You’re holding up the queue.”
My face burned. I fumbled in my bag, pulling out another two pounds.
“Cheers,” the driver said flatly, barely glancing at the coins.
I shuffled inside. No seats left. A lad in headphones was glued to his phone, and beside him, a girl typed away without looking up. Near the middle, a young mum rocked a whimpering baby, exhaustion lining her face.
“Here, sit down,” the mother offered, nodding to her seat. “I’m standing anyway—he won’t let me sit.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t,” I protested.
“Go on,” she insisted. “You look done in.”
Grateful, I sank onto the seat. The baby peered at me with big, curious eyes—then suddenly grinned.
“What a sweetheart,” I couldn’t help but smile. “How old?”
“Eight months. Teething, so he’s grumpy,” she sighed. “Off to the doctor’s, see if they’ll give him something.”
“I’m heading to the chemist—my husband’s back’s playing up.”
“I know how it is. My mum’s got arthritis, suffers something awful.”
The bus lurched to another stop. An elderly woman with a walking stick slowly climbed aboard. The driver huffed, glancing in the mirror.
“Come on, love, we haven’t got all day!”
The old woman scanned the bus—every seat taken. The lad in headphones didn’t even look up.
“Young man,” I said, “would you mind giving up your seat?”
He tugged out one earbud. “What?”
“For her,” I nodded to the woman with the stick.
“Oh. Right.” He stood, eyes still glued to his screen.
The old woman smiled gratefully as she sat.
“Ta, love,” she said to me. “Nice to see some kindness left.”
I flushed. I hadn’t noticed her straight away either, too busy chatting.
The bus braked sharply at a light. Everyone lurched forward; the baby wailed.
“Careful!” the mum snapped. “There’s a child here!”
“Blame the roads,” the driver shot back. “Don’t like it? Get a cab.”
“Not all of us can afford cabs,” the old woman murmured. “I’ve got a hospital appointment—can’t walk it anymore.”
“We’re all pinching pennies,” I agreed. “Prices go up, pensions stay the same.”
“Too right,” the young mum said. “I’m on maternity leave—just my husband working. Every penny counts.”
A quiet understanding settled over the bus. Passengers exchanged glances, nodding. We were all in the same boat.
“Remember when buses had conductors?” the old woman sighed. “Polite, gave you a ticket, proper change…”
“Different times,” I agreed. “Prices didn’t change overnight.”
“It’s not just prices,” a woman by the window chimed in. “Manners have gone. No respect.”
The lad in headphones looked up, listening.
“Maybe it’s us,” he said suddenly. “Maybe we’re all just stuck in our phones, ignoring each other.”
I blinked—hadn’t expected that from him.
“He’s right,” the old woman nodded. “My grandson’s the same—always on his laptop. Never talks to me.”
“Tell us a story,” the lad suggested, pocketing his phone. “About the old days.”
Her eyes brightened. “Well… I met my husband on a bus, back in ’59. He was in uniform—handsome as anything. The bus jerked, I stumbled, he caught me. Sixty years we had together.”
“Romantic,” the young mum smiled.
“Met mine in a bread queue,” I shared. “He kept smiling at me—ended up walking me home.”
“It’s good, having someone,” the window-seat woman said softly. “I’m on my own now—kids live far away.”
“Don’t fret,” the mum said, shifting the baby. “They’ll come back. Mine hardly visited—now they bring the grandkids.”
“Grandchildren are a blessing,” I agreed. “My daughter’s up north, but my granddaughter visits summers. Bright as a button—always asking about my school days.”
The bus neared the town centre. My stop was coming. I stood, handing the mum a fiver.
“For an ice cream when his teeth settle.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Please. He’s a lovely boy.”
Touched, she took it. “God bless you.”
I thanked the others—the lad even pointed me to a cheaper chemist.
Stepping off, the sun broke through. The air felt lighter. I’d saved enough for Arthur’s pills—and even a little chocolate for my granddaughter.
Walking home, I thought how quickly a day could turn. That morning, I’d been upset over bus fares. Now, I felt lifted. People made the difference. You could sit in silence, glued to screens—or you could talk, share, help.
Arthur greeted me at the door.
“Got your medicine?”
“All sorted,” I smiled. “Even saved a bit.”
“You’re cheerful. What happened?”
“Kindness, Arthur. Strangers on the bus—felt like family for half an hour.”
He listened as I told him—how a simple chat had warmed the journey.
“True,” he nodded. “We forget everyone’s got their battles—and their joys.”
I made tea, the autumn light streaming in. Tomorrow, I’d take the bus again—but without fear. There’d always be good souls aboard. You just had to reach out first.
That ride taught me something: warmth doesn’t cost a thing. A smile, a word, a moment’s attention—anyone can give those, no matter what’s in their pocket.
