**Shame on the Minibus**
Eleanor Whitmore hurried towards the bus stop, clutching her small handbag against her chest. The rain had just stopped, leaving the pavement slick under the dull October sky. Inside her bag were twenty pounds—all she had scraped together for her husband’s medicine. Alfred Whitmore had been complaining about his back again, and the doctor had prescribed pills so expensive her pension barely covered half the cost.
The minibus pulled up with a squeal of brakes. Eleanor climbed aboard and handed the driver a five-pound note.
“Eight,” he grunted without looking up.
“Eight? It was six yesterday,” she said, confused.
“Eight today. Prices change,” he snapped, drumming his fingers on the wheel.
Eleanor hesitated. Eight pounds meant even less for the medicine. Maybe she should walk? But the chemist was nearly two miles away, and Alfred was at home, suffering…
“Move along, love,” someone called from the middle of the bus. “You’re holding up the queue.”
Her face burned. She fished out another three pounds and dropped them in the driver’s tray.
“Cheers,” he muttered, still not looking.
She shuffled inside. No seats. A lad in headphones stared at his phone. A girl beside him typed away, equally absorbed. Near the middle, a young mother rocked a fussing baby, humming a lullaby. She looked exhausted.
“Take my seat,” the mother said suddenly, nodding at the empty spot. “I’m standing anyway—he won’t let me sit.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t—”
“Go on,” the woman insisted. “You look done in.”
Eleanor sank into the seat with relief. The baby blinked up at her with wide eyes and suddenly grinned.
“What a sweetheart,” she murmured. “How old?”
“Eight months. Teething,” the mother sighed. “Off to the doctor’s, see if they’ll give him something.”
“I’m headed to the chemist too—my husband’s back’s playing up.”
“I know how it is. My mum’s the same—arthritis.”
The minibus lurched to another stop. An elderly woman with a cane hobbled on, slow and unsteady. The driver tapped the wheel impatiently.
“Come on, Nan, time’s money!”
She glanced around—no seats. The lad in headphones didn’t even look up.
“Young man,” Eleanor said gently, “would you mind letting her sit?”
He tugged out one earbud. “What?”
“Your seat. For her.”
“Oh. Right.” He stood, eyes still glued to his screen.
The old woman gave Eleanor a grateful nod as she sat. “Ta, dear. Kind souls still about.”
Eleanor flushed. She hadn’t noticed the woman either, too wrapped up in conversation.
The minibus braked sharply at a light. The baby wailed.
“Careful!” the mother snapped.
“Blame the roads,” the driver shot back. “Don’t like it, take a cab.”
“Not all of us can afford cabs,” the old woman murmured. “I’ve a clinic appointment. Can’t walk it.”
“Same here,” Eleanor agreed. “Prices rising, pensions staying put.”
“Aye,” the young mother nodded. “I’m on leave, husband’s the only wage. Every penny counts.”
A quiet understanding settled over the bus. Passengers exchanged glances, nodding. Each knew the others were just as stretched.
“Remember when buses had conductors?” the old woman mused. “Polite, gave you a ticket, proper change…”
“Different times,” Eleanor agreed. “Prices didn’t jump overnight.”
“It’s not just prices,” a woman by the window added. “Decency’s gone. No respect.”
The lad in headphones suddenly looked up. “Maybe we’re the problem,” he said. “Eyes glued to screens, ignoring each other.”
Eleanor blinked. She hadn’t expected that.
“Spot on,” the old woman nodded. “My grandson’s the same. Always on his laptop. No time for his nan.”
“Tell us a story, then,” the lad said, pocketing his phone. “About the old days.”
She brightened. “Oh, well… Fancy hearing how I met my husband? On a bus, back in ‘57. Handsome thing in uniform. Bus stopped sharp, I stumbled, he caught me. Sixty years we had.”
“Lovely,” the young mother smiled.
“Met mine in a bread queue,” Eleanor said. “He turned round, smiled. Asked to walk me home.”
“Lucky, having someone,” the window-seat woman sighed. “I’m alone now. Kids moved away.”
“They’ll come back,” the mother said, shifting the baby. “Mine moaned I never visited. Now I bring her grandson.”
“Grandkids are a blessing,” Eleanor smiled. “Mine visits summers. Asks about my school days.”
The minibus neared the town centre. Eleanor stood, pressing a fiver into the mother’s hand.
“For ice cream when his teeth settle.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Please. He’s a darling.”
The woman took it, eyes glistening. “God bless you.”
“Next stop,” the driver called.
“Where’s the nearest chemist?” Eleanor asked.
“Right off the stop—green cross sign,” the window-seat woman said.
“Pricey, though,” the lad added. “Cheaper one round the corner.”
“Ta.”
She stepped off into sunlight. The rain had cleared. Her pocket held enough for the medicine, her heart warmed by strangers’ kindness.
The lad’s tip was right—the corner chemist’s prices were lower. She bought the pills and even had enough for a chocolate bar for her granddaughter.
Walking home, she marvelled at how a day could turn. That morning, she’d been crushed by the fare hike. Now she felt lighter. It was the people. You could ride in silence, buried in phones. Or you could talk, share, connect.
Alfred greeted her at the door. “Get the medicine?”
“Yes,” she beamed, handing it over. “Even saved a bit.”
“You’re chipper. What happened?”
“Kind people on the bus. The world’s not all lost.”
He studied her face—she hadn’t looked this bright in ages. “Tell me.”
So she did. About the half-hour journey where strangers became friends. About the power of a simple conversation.
“True,” Alfred nodded. “We forget everyone’s fighting their own battles.”
“Exactly. Today I learned there’s no shame in it. We’re all struggling. But if we help each other, it’s easier.”
She made tea, fetched biscuits. Sunlight streamed through the window. Tomorrow, she’d ride the minibus again—but without fear. She knew now: kindness was there, if you only reached out first.
That ride had taught her something precious. Warmth and care didn’t cost a thing. The richest gifts were a smile, a word, a moment’s attention. And anyone could give them, no matter how light their purse.
