WORTH READING 27 Dec 2005

Flowers on the Bus

We were a very motley crowd of people who took the bus every day that
summer
33 years ago. During the early morning ride from the suburb, we sat
drowsily
with our collars up to our ears, a cheerless and taciturn bunch.

One of the passengers was a small grey man who took the bus to the
centre
for senior citizens every morning. He walked with a stoop and a sad look
on
his face when he, with some difficulty, boarded the bus and sat down
alone
behind the driver. No one ever paid very much attention to him.

Then one July morning he said good morning to the driver and smiled
short-sightedly down through the bus before he sat down. The driver
nodded
guardedly. The rest of us were silent.

The next day, the old man boarded the bus energetically, smiled and said
in
a loud voice: "And a very good morning to you all!" Some of us looked
up,
amazed, and murmured "Good morning," in reply.

The following weeks we were more alert. Our friend was now dressed in a
nice
old suit and a wide out-of-date tie. The thin hair had been carefully
combed. He said good morning to us every day and we gradually began to
nod
and talk to each other.

One morning he had a bunch of wild flowers in his hand. They were
already
dangling a little because of the heat. The driver turned around
smilingly
and asked: "Have you got yourself a girlfriend, Charlie?" We never got
to
know if his name really was "Charlie", but he nodded shyly and said yes.

The other passengers whistled and clapped at him. Charlie bowed and
waved
the flowers before he sat down on his seat.

Every morning after that Charlie always brought a flower. Some of the
regular passengers began bringing him flowers for his bouquet, gently
nudged
him and said shyly: "Here." Everyone smiled. The men started to jest
about
it, talk to each other, and share the newspaper.

The summer went by, and autumn was closing in, when one morning Charlie
wasn't waiting at his usual stop. When he wasn't there the next day and
the
day after that, we started wondering if he was sick or -- hopefully --
on
holiday somewhere.

When we came nearer to the centre for senior citizens, one of the
passengers
asked the driver to wait. We all held our breaths when she went to the
door.

Yes, the staff said, they knew who we were talking about. The elderly
gentleman was fine, but he hadn't been coming to the centre that week.
One
of his very close friends had died at the weekend. They expected him
back on
Monday. How silent we were the rest of the way to work.

The next Monday Charlie was waiting at the stop, stooping a bit more, a
little bit more grey, and without a tie. He seemed to have shrinked
again.
Inside the bus was a silence akin to that in a church. Even though no
one
had talked about it, all those of us, who he had made such an impression
on
that summer, sat with our eyes filled with tears and a bunch of wild
flowers
in our hands.

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