A Chat on the Bus

Dorothy barely made it onto the bus near the hospital stop. The driver had already pulled away when she squeezed past the other passengers to grab the empty seat by the window. Her bag of prescriptions dug into her shoulder, and the doctor’s words still rang in her ears: “You’ll need surgery, Dorothy. There’s no time to delay.”

“Pass the fare, please,” she asked, holding out some coins toward the front.

“How much is it these days?” asked an older man in a flat cap.

“Three quid fifty,” the driver replied.

“Everything’s gone up,” the man sighed, fishing change from the pocket of his worn jacket.

Dorothy nodded to herself. He wasn’t wrong. Used to be a quid fifty, and now nearly four—yet the ride was just as bumpy as ever.

“Excuse me, love,” a young woman holding a baby spoke up, “do you know where the main hospital is?”

“Course I do,” the man answered. “We pass right by it. Off to the doctor?”

“Yeah, for the little one. His cough won’t let up.” The woman adjusted the blanket around the baby, who couldn’t have been more than three months old. Dorothy studied them—the girl looked barely eighteen herself.

“Where’s his dad, then?” piped up a heavyset woman in a floral headscarf across the aisle. “Sending his missus out alone with a newborn?”

The girl flushed and looked down. “He… he’s at work. Couldn’t get time off.”

“Oh, right, ‘at work’,” the woman scoffed. “I know the sort—too busy down the pub or glued to the telly. Leaves his missus to manage on her own.”

“Come now, Eileen,” tutted an older woman with knitting in her lap. “Could be a proper job. Not everyone can just duck out.”

“Valerie, bless your heart, but you’re too soft,” Eileen huffed. “My late husband, god rest him, always made time if I needed him. These modern blokes? All talk, no responsibility.”

Dorothy listened quietly, thinking of her own John. He’d been the same—always there, even ducking out of work if she was poorly. Now he was gone, and facing surgery alone felt overwhelming.

“You planning more kids?” Eileen pressed the girl.

“I… dunno yet,” she mumbled. “Wasn’t exactly planned—”

“Should’ve planned sooner!” Eileen threw up her hands. “Too busy having fun, were you?”

“Eileen, for pity’s sake,” Valerie cut in. “Baby’s here now. What’s done is done.”

“Easy for you to say,” Eileen muttered. “Where’s she meant to live? Work? Raise a kid?”

The girl clutched the baby tighter, turning to the window. Dorothy saw her lips tremble.

“Sweetheart,” she said gently, “what’s your name?”

“Hannah,” the girl replied quietly.

“Hannah, don’t mind her,” Dorothy nodded toward Eileen. “Everyone’s got their troubles. So long as your little one’s all right.”

“‘All right’? Look at him, coughing like that,” Eileen sniffed. “Probably caught a chill. Young ones never dress ‘em proper.”

“And you’re an expert?” Dorothy shot back. “Might just be colic. Let the doctor decide.”

“Raised three of my own, I know what I’m on about,” Eileen sniffed.

A tense silence settled as the bus stopped at a light. The radio flicked on—an old Dusty Springfield tune.

“Now that’s proper music,” the man in the cap said. “None of this noise the kids listen to now.”

“True,” Valerie agreed. “Songs had heart back then. Folks were kinder.”

“People haven’t changed,” Dorothy mused. “Just the times. Everything’s faster now. No one stops to really *see* each other.”

The man nodded. “Used to know your neighbors in council flats. Now you’re lucky if they nod hello.”

“Good riddance,” Eileen snorted. “Living on top of each other was misery. Everyone in your business.”

“But someone always helped,” Valerie said. “If you were ill, a neighbor’d bring soup or nip to the shops.”

“Doesn’t happen now,” Hannah said softly.

“Rarely,” Valerie sighed. “I’ve lived in my building fifteen years—half the flats, I couldn’t tell you their names.”

Dorothy thought of her own block. Just old Mrs. Wilkins downstairs and the young couple on the third who sometimes said hello. The rest were strangers.

“Where do you live?” she asked Hannah.

“Watford, in a bedsit.”

“With a *baby*?” Valerie gasped.

“It’s alright,” Hannah said quickly. “Neighbors help sometimes.”

“Parents around?” Eileen pressed.

Hannah rocked the baby. “Mum’s up north. Dad’s… not in the picture.”

“Figures,” Eileen muttered. “No safety net. Kids these days…”

Dorothy remembered her early years with John—cramped rented room, his mechanic wages, her café shifts. They’d scraped by, but they’d had each other.

“It’ll get easier,” she told Hannah. “Just hold on. Don’t lose heart.”

“Easy to say,” Eileen grumbled. “Try it with no money and a sick kid.”

“Sickness don’t care if you’re rich or poor,” the man in the cap said.

“Rich can afford private clinics, though,” Eileen countered. “Faster tests, better meds.”

“NHS still treats folks,” Valerie said.

“Eventually,” Dorothy sighed, thinking of her three-hour wait just to hear *”surgery needed, book next month.”*

“Money buys speed,” Eileen said. “No money? You wait.”

“How much is the op?” Valerie asked.

“Depends,” Dorothy said. “Mine’s eight grand.”

The bus went quiet.

“Eight *thousand*?!” Valerie gasped. “How on earth—?”

“State pension’s barely fifteen hundred a month,” Dorothy said wryly. “Where’s eight grand coming from?”

Hannah frowned. “Family?”

“Just my daughter in London—two kids, tight budget herself.”

“Loan?” Hannah offered.

“On a pension?” Eileen scoffed. “Banks won’t touch you. Loan sharks’d ruin you.”

The bus reached the hospital stop.

“Here’s us,” Hannah said, standing.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” Valerie said. “Hope the little one’s better soon.”

Hannah paused at the door, glancing back at Dorothy.

“Don’t give up. Maybe something’ll work out with the surgery.”

“Thanks, love,” Dorothy whispered.

As the bus pulled away, Valerie sighed. “Sweet girl. So young for all this.”

“Her own fault,” Eileen said. “Should’ve thought ahead.”

“We *all* made mistakes,” Valerie chided.

“Not like *that*,” Eileen sniffed. “I had an education, a decent husband.”

“And that stops illness? Job loss?” Dorothy snapped.

“Decent people plan,” Eileen insisted.

“Plan *what*?” Dorothy gestured to her threadbare coat. “We scraped by raising our girl, buying our flat. Savings?”

The man in the cap shook his head. “Wages don’t keep up. Bills eat everything.”

At the next stop, two elderly women boarded, chatting about a birthday gift for their granddaughter.

“Eighteen! Off to uni to be a teacher,” one beamed.

“Noble job,” the man said. “Shame the pay’s rubbish.”

“But rewarding,” the grandmother insisted.

“Rewarding won’t pay rent,” Eileen muttered.

“Not *everything’s* about money,” Valerie said wearily.

“Like what?”

“Health. Family. Friends…”

“Health costs money,” Eileen cut in. “And where’s Hannah’s ‘family’ now?”

Dorothy frowned. Where *were* her own friends? Old coworkers scattered after retirement. Neighbors kept to themselves. Only her daughter, and she hated to burden her.

Then she straightened. “Maybe we’re looking at it wrong. That girl—young, strong, her baby’s healthy. Might turn out fine.”

“Sure it will,” Eileen rolled her eyes. “Seen it before. Ends in benefits queues.”

“Ever tried being hopeful?” Valerie asked.

“I’m a realist,” Eileen said smugly. “Life knocked the rose-tinted specs off me.”

“Or knocked the *hope* out,” Dorothy said quietly.

Eileen blinked.

“Plenty *good* still happens,” one grandmother said. “Like my girl at uni!”

The man in the cap suddenly spoke. “Know what? I’ve a mate—doctor. Good bloke. Might advise you about the op. No charge.”

Dorothy stared. “Really?”

He scribbled a number on her shopping list.

“Ta everAs she stepped off the bus, clutching the scrap of paper with the doctor’s number, Dorothy realized kindness could turn up anywhere—even on a quiet afternoon ride between strangers who, for a moment, stopped being strangers at all.