Albert, youve missed the bus again! the drivers voice rings out, warm but with a hint of reproach. For the third time this week youre chasing the bus like a madman.
The pensioner, bundled in a rumpled coat, leans heavily on the handrail, his breath shallow. His silver hair sticks out in all directions, and his spectacles sit low on the tip of his nose.
Sorry, Andrew he wheezes, pulling crumpled notes from his pocket. My watch must be losing time. Or perhaps Im just getting slower
Andrew Clarke, the driver, has been at the wheel for fortyfive years, his skin tanned from countless miles on the city routes. Hes been ferrying passengers for two decades and knows many of them by face. This old man stands out always polite, quiet, and boarding at the same hour each day.
No need to dawdle, hop on. Where to today?
The cemetery, as always.
The bus pulls away. Albert settles into his usual spot the third row from the driver, by the window clutching a battered plastic bag filled with some odds and ends.
There are few passengers; its a weekday morning. A couple of university girls chatter about their projects, a businessman is glued to his phone. The scene is ordinary.
Say, Albert Whitcombe, Andrew asks, glancing at the old man through the rearview mirror you ride this route every day? Isnt it a bother?
What choice have I, the retiree replies softly, staring out the window. My wifes been in the hospice for a year and a half. I promised her Id come every day.
A pang tightens Andrews chest. Hes married himself, adores his wife, and cant picture life without her.
Is the journey long from home?
Not at all. Its a halfhour by bus. I used to walk an hour each way my legs arent what they used to be. The pension I get just covers the fare.
Weeks roll by. Albert becomes a fixture on the earlymorning service. Andrew grows accustomed to his presence, even looks forward to it. Occasionally the old man is late, and Andrew deliberately holds the bus for a couple of minutes.
Dont wait for me, Albert says one morning, realizing the driver lingered. Timetables are timetables.
Nonsense, Andrew waves him off. A few minutes wont hurt.
One morning Albert fails to appear. Andrew waits, assuming hes simply delayed, but the seat stays empty. The next day, the same. And the day after that.
Listen, the old fellow who used to go to the cemetery hes not turning up, Andrew tells the conductor, Mary Peters. Do you think hes ill?
Who knows, Mary shrugs. Maybe family visited, maybe something else
But Andrew feels a hollow. Hes grown used to that quiet passenger, his polite thank you at each stop, his wistful smile.
A week passes with no sign of Albert. During his lunch break Andrew drives to the terminus of the route, the little suburb where the cemetery lies.
Excuse me, he says to the elderly lady guarding the gate, theres an old gentleman who came here every day, Albert Whitcombe silverhaired, glasses, always with that bag. Have you seen him?
Ah, him! she brightens. Yes, he comes every single day to see his wife.
And now?
He hasnt been here for a week.
Is he sick?
Who can say He once mentioned he lived nearby, on Rose Street, number fifteen. Youll find it that way.
Rose Street, number 15 a fivestorey block of old council flats, paint peeling from the stairwell. Andrew climbs to the second floor and knocks on the first door that looks livedin.
A man, about fifty, opens, his expression grave.
Can I help you?
Im looking for Albert Whitcombe. Im the bus driver; he rode with me every morning
Ah, the bloke from flat twelve, the neighbours face softens. Hes in the hospital. They took him a week ago after a stroke.
Andrews heart drops.
Which hospital?
The city hospital on Larkfield Road. They say it was serious at first, but hes improving slowly.
That evening, after his shift, Andrew heads to the hospital. He finds the ward and asks a nurse on duty.
Albert Whitcombe? she confirms, looking up from her paperwork. Hes here. And you are?
A friend he hesitates, unsure how to phrase it.
Hes in ward six. Hes still quite weak, so try not to overstay.
Inside, Albert lies by a window, pale but awake. At the sight of Andrew, he doesnt recognise him at first, then his eyes widen.
Andrew? Is that you? How did you find me?
Ive been looking, the driver says, a little awkward, placing a small bag of fruit on the bedside table. You didnt turn up, so I got worried.
You worried about me? a tear glistens in Alberts eye. Who am I to you?
Who else? Youre my regular passenger. Ive grown used to seeing you every dawn.
Albert stays silent, staring at the ceiling.
I havent been to the cemetery for ten days now, he whispers. First time in a year and a half. I broke my promise
Dont mention that, Albert. Your wife will understand. Illness is serious enough.
I dont know he shakes his head. I used to come every day, tell her about the weather, about how things were. Now Im here, and shes still there.
Andrew watches the mans struggle and a decision forms itself.
Would you like me to go? he offers. I can visit your wife, tell her youre in hospital and getting better.
Albert turns toward him, a mixture of doubt and hope flickering in his gaze.
Would you do that? For a stranger?
Youre no stranger, Andrew waves his hand. Weve shared mornings for a year and a half. Im practically family.
The next day, a Saturday, Andrew drives to the cemetery. He finds the gravestone, the inscription bearing a photo of a youthful woman with kind eyes: Margaret Whitcombe, 19522024.
He feels awkward at first, then the words come naturally.
Good morning, Margaret Whitcombe. Im Andrew, the bus driver. Your husband rode with me every day to see you. Hes in the hospital now, but hes getting better. He asked me to tell you that he loves you and will be back soon.
He adds a few lines about how devoted Albert is, how much he misses her, how faithful a husband hes been. It feels odd, yet something inside assures him hes doing the right thing.
Back at the hospital, Andrew finds Albert sipping tea. The old man looks noticeably stronger, his complexion brighter.
I was there, Andrew says briefly. I passed on everything.
And how hows he? Alberts voice trembles.
Hes doing fine. Someone brought fresh flowers, probably the neighbours. Its tidy, wellkept. Shes waiting for you to come back.
Albert closes his eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks.
Thank you, lad. Thank you
Two weeks later Albert is discharged. Andrew meets him outside the hospital and drives him home.
Will we see each other tomorrow? Albert asks as he steps off the bus.
Absolutely, Andrew nods. At eight oclock, as always.
And indeed, the next morning Albert takes his usual seat. But now theres a new bond between driver and passenger, something beyond mere routine.
You know what, Albert, Andrew says one day, how about I give you a lift on weekends? Not for work, just because. Ive got a car, its no trouble.
Oh, you dont need to why would you
Because Ive grown used to you. My wife even says, If someones as good as him, you should help.
So it happens. On weekdays he drives the public bus, on weekends he picks Albert up in his own car and takes him to the cemetery. Sometimes his wife joins them; they become friends.
You see, Andrew tells his wife one evening, I thought it was just a job, a schedule, a route, passengers But every passenger carries a life, a story.
Youre right, she replies. Good thing we didnt just let it pass.
And Albert later says to them:
After Margaret passed, I thought my life was over. What use was I now? But then I realised people do care. That means a lot.
***
Do you ever see ordinary people doing extraordinary things?
