The Shame on the Bus
Eleanor Whitaker hurried towards the bus stop, clutching her small handbag tightly. The rain had just stopped, and the pavement gleamed with wet patches under the grey October sky. In her bag were twenty pounds—all she had managed to scrape together for her husband’s medicine. Edward Whitaker had been complaining about his back again, and the doctor had prescribed such expensive pills that her pension hardly covered half the cost.
The bus pulled up with a squeal of brakes. Eleanor stepped aboard and handed the driver a pound coin.
“Two fifty,” he grunted without looking up.
“Two fifty?” she faltered. “Yesterday it was only two.”
“Prices went up today,” he muttered, drumming his fingers impatiently on the wheel.
Eleanor hesitated. Two fifty meant even less for Edward’s medicine. Perhaps she should walk? But the chemist was nearly two miles away, and Edward was waiting at home, in pain…
“Excuse me, love, are you going in or not?” came a voice from inside the bus. “There’s a queue behind you.”
Eleanor’s face flushed. She fumbled in her bag, pulling out another pound and fifty pence.
“Cheers,” the driver mumbled, still not looking.
She moved down the aisle, glancing around. No seats were free. A young man in headphones sat glued to his phone, while a girl beside him tapped away on hers. Further back, a weary mother rocked a fussing baby, humming a lullaby.
“Here, sit down,” the mother said suddenly, nodding to her seat. “I’ll be standing anyway—he won’t let me sit.”
“Oh no, thank you, I’m fine,” Eleanor protested.
“Go on,” the woman insisted. “You look done in.”
Gratefully, Eleanor sat. The baby blinked up at her with wide, curious eyes and suddenly grinned.
“What a sweet little thing,” she murmured. “How old is he?”
“Eight months. Teething, that’s why he’s fretful,” the mother sighed. “We’re off to the doctor’s, see if they can give him something.”
“I’m heading to the chemist myself—my husband needs his medicine. His back’s been dreadful.”
“I know how it is. My mother-in-law suffers with arthritis.”
The bus slowed at the next stop. An elderly woman with a walking stick shuffled aboard, gripping the rail. The driver tapped the wheel impatiently.
“Come on, love, time’s money!”
The old woman glanced around uncertainly. Every seat was taken. The young man in headphones didn’t even look up.
“Excuse me,” Eleanor said gently, “would you mind giving up your seat?”
He tugged out one earbud. “What?”
“Could you let this lady sit down?”
“Oh. Right.” He stood reluctantly, eyes still on his screen.
The old woman sank into the seat with relief. “Thank you, dear,” she said to Eleanor. “Kind souls still exist.”
Eleanor flushed. She hadn’t noticed the woman at first either, too wrapped up in conversation.
The bus lurched at a traffic light. The baby wailed.
“Careful!” the mother snapped. “There’s a child here!”
“Blame the roads,” the driver shot back. “Don’t like it? Take a taxi.”
“Not everyone can afford taxis,” the old woman murmured. “I need to get to the surgery, and I can’t walk it.”
“We’re all pinching pennies,” Eleanor agreed. “Prices keep rising, but our pensions don’t.”
“Aye,” the young mother nodded. “I’m on maternity leave, and my husband’s the only one working. Every penny counts.”
A quiet understanding settled over the passengers. Glances were exchanged, nods given. Each knew the others were struggling too, counting every coin.
“I remember when buses had conductors,” the old woman sighed. “Polite, they were. Gave you your ticket, your proper change…”
“Different times,” Eleanor agreed. “Prices didn’t jump overnight then.”
“It’s not just the prices,” a middle-aged woman by the window chimed in. “It’s the respect. People don’t care anymore.”
The young man in headphones looked up, listening.
“Maybe we’ve all just stopped noticing each other,” he said suddenly. “Eyes glued to our phones, no one talks.”
Eleanor blinked at him in surprise.
“You’re right,” the old woman nodded. “My grandson’s the same—always on that computer. Never has time for me.”
“Tell us something interesting then,” the young man said, pocketing his phone. “About the old days.”
The old woman brightened. “Well, if you like… Fancy hearing how I met my husband? On a bus, it was.”
“Oh, do tell!” several voices urged.
“It was 1957. He was in uniform, standing beside me. The bus stopped sharp, I stumbled, and he caught me. That’s how it started.”
“How romantic,” the young mother smiled.
“Sixty years we had,” the old woman said softly. “Till he passed.”
A hush fell. Each passenger lost in thought.
“I met my Edward in a bread queue,” Eleanor shared. “He kept turning round, smiling. Offered to walk me home after.”
“It’s lovely to have someone,” the woman by the window said quietly. “I’m alone now. My children live far away.”
“Don’t fret,” the young mother soothed. “They’ll come back. Mine did—now they bring the grandchildren.”
“Grandchildren are a blessing,” Eleanor smiled. “My daughter lives up north, but my granddaughter visits summers. Bright as a button—always asking about my school days.”
As the bus neared the town centre, Eleanor rose. She turned to the young mother.
“Thank you for the seat. Here.” She pressed a pound into her hand. “For an ice cream when his teeth stop hurting.”
“Oh, you mustn’t—”
“Please. He’s a dear little thing.”
The young woman took it, touched. “God bless you.”
“Next stop for me,” Eleanor told the driver.
“Right you are,” he muttered.
“Is there a chemist nearby?” she asked the passengers.
“Turn right at the stop—green cross sign,” the window-seat woman said.
“Pricey though,” the young man added. “There’s a cheaper one round the corner on High Street.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor said warmly.
Stepping off the bus, she breathed in the crisp air. The rain had cleared, and sunlight dappled the pavement. Her heart felt lighter. She had enough for the medicine, and the kindness of strangers had warmed her.
Following the young man’s directions, she found the cheaper chemist. The pills cost less than expected, leaving enough for a bar of chocolate for her granddaughter.
Walking home, Eleanor reflected on how quickly a day could change. That morning, she’d been upset about the fare hike. Now she felt buoyant. It was the people—the shared stories, the small kindnesses.
Edward greeted her at the door. “Did you get the medicine?”
“I did,” she smiled, handing him the packet. “Saved a bit too.”
“Well done. You’re cheerful—what happened?”
“Met some good souls on the bus. You know, the world’s not so bad after all.”
Edward studied her face. It had been a while since he’d seen her so bright.
“Tell me,” he said.
And she did—about the strangers who’d felt like friends for half an hour, about the comfort of shared struggles.
“You’re right,” he nodded. “We forget sometimes. Everyone’s got their battles.”
“Today I learnt there’s no shame in it. We’re all making do. And if we help each other, it’s easier.”
She made tea, fetched biscuits. Golden light streamed through the window. Tomorrow she’d ride the bus again, but without dread now. She knew kindness still travelled alongside them—if only they’d look up and speak.
That ordinary bus ride had taught Eleanor something precious: warmth costs nothing. The richest gifts are a listening ear, a smile, a moment of connection. And those, anyone can give.
