A stranger on the bus

I never even knew her name.
About four months ago I gave up my seat on a crowded bus to an old lady.
As a result we began chatting - I have a gift with women who were my age when John Curtin was in the Lodge.
She told me so much about her life, including things she’d never told her family.
Sharp as a tack and quick as a whip, she was a shrewd judge of character and nobody’s fool (to mention but four clichés).
I don’t have any right to reveal her confidences here, as anonymously as that might be, but I think she felt the end was near and needed to clear a few things from her chest.
But there are two things I will say: Firstly, war has a lot to answer for. Secondly, love is the most honourable cause you can dedicate your life to.
It can also be the loneliest.
Two weeks later I was validating my multi-rider and there she was in the second row of the bus. The stories started again.
I went three stops past my house just to hear her story to the end. Even then I was sorry to be leaving her. I felt enriched by her company.
A few weeks later we shared a seat again.
This time I took the opportunity to jot down my name and number on a piece of paper. If she ever needed a hand, or just wanted a cup of tea, she was to give me a call. She tucked it into her handbag.
It was still there when, according to the message on my answering machine yesterday afternoon, her daughter found it.
She explained that her mother had died over the weekend and she had found my number while sorting through her mother’s things. She didn’t know who I was, but called to let me know.
I was sad at the news. Sadder still that her secrets probably died with her, save for the unfaithful memory of a stranger on the bus.
Talk to the old people in your life: Their stories are your history.
I’ve wanted to write about her before, but something has stopped me. Perhaps it was because I never knew her name. Now I do.
Rest in Peace, Joyce.