David Hill discovers a new sense of community on the bus

There's a whole new community on the bus route. Photo / Getty Images

I've been riding buses lately. I wasn't too keen at first: there aren't many bus shelters in our town and it can be a fair hike to the nearest stop. Plus, when you drive, you're in charge, but when you ride the bus, you become a dependent.

I'm using public transport partly as a teensy-weensy environmental gesture by an old guy who seldom has to be anywhere at a specific time. Partly as a meany-weany money saver, since being that old guy means I ride for free. Partly because Her Outdoors often has things to do in distant suburbs, so needs the car more than me. And partly because of the club I've joined as a bus rider.

It's an informal club. No office-holders, no written constitution. No name, even, other than "that lot on the No. 7". But I belong to it. I realised as much when I got on one rain-lashed morning last week, and the guy with the neck tattoo who always sits by the door went, "Thought we'd be seein' ya in this weather, bro."

Our bus club are a glamour-lite lot. Track pants, hoodies, frayed sneakers, crimplene slacks, saggy cardies. Grunge, I guess, but from necessity rather than choice. I wore my suede jacket once and, even though it's 33 years old, with half the lining gone, I got looked at uncertainly.

I'm greeted each time I board. The males call me – yes – "bro", which is pretty boosting for an octogenarian. White-haired Jean in the green belted raincoat calls me "dear". That's a boost, too.

Otherwise we're not a talkative club. Unfamiliarity, masks and engine noise don't encourage a chatty climate. But there are exchanges about the weather, the cost of groceries, the unresponsiveness of government departments. Sometimes you wonder if the few sentences swapped in the bright, warmish cocoon of a suburban bus may be the only ones exchanged in a solitary life that day.

Stupid drivers are another topic for comment – and a chance to feel briefly superior. Being up high in a bus lets you see a lot of stupid drivers. And their car interiors: you won't believe where some people scratch themselves while stopped at the traffic lights.

I've little idea where the No. 7 regulars go in town, but I've made a few guesses. The neck tattoo walks with a stick; he looks pretty bashed around and, indeed, I've speculated why. He and others sometimes get back on with bags from the $2 Shop, or ones which you know come from St Vincent de Paul or The Red Cross. They certainly aren't hitting the boutiques.

They step off near state houses where a car stands on blocks on the lawn, or near minimal flats with rusty letter boxes, under which junk mail moulders.

A lot of them look tired. A number clearly have health issues, physical or psychological.

Most of them smoke. Hacking coughs echo down the aisle – unsettling in Covid times. They light up when they get off; take their last drag and flick butt into gutter as the No. 7 approaches. A single ciggie coasts about $1.50 these days, which is almost the same as a reduced-to-half-price bus fare. It would be easy to moralise.

Yet in spite of their worn exteriors, there's a wry stoicism about them. You get a feeling of Us Against The World, an Us who don't expect to win, but who can still lift a defiant chin – or finger.

I don't want to romanticise them. I certainly don't want to patronise them; they probably go through their days being patronised. I'm aware that hard lives often mean hard edges, and I've glimpsed those: angry swearing on phones; mutterings and glares into the distance.

I've also glimpsed random acts of kindness. Some come from the drivers, who act almost as de facto social workers, acknowledging, sympathising, encouraging, all in a few sentences. Yes, you can have a social worker who's overweight and lumbers off at the final stop to light up.

There's also the skinny guy with the dots of prison tattoos on his cheeks, who twice has stood, taken a woman's shopping trundler as she struggled aboard, parked it safely for her, and responded to her thanks with a grunted, "No worries."

There was the time an uncertain, clearly challenged young woman got on, asked the fare, wailed "Oh, I've only got a dollar." Instantly, a set of matted dreadlocks and a nearby hoodie moved forward, saying, "It's okay, driver. I'll cover it." Where was I? Two rows back, carrying no cash.

They seem to accept me, which is pretty good of them. Here's this old guy, who probably sounds a bit posh, who's been seen reading a book as he rides, yet they greet me, ask how I'm getting along, stand aside to let me off after Jean and before them.

I'd hardly even be aware of these folk if I didn't ride the bus. I'm glad I do. If you drive a car to town, you're mostly solitary; if you ride a bus, you're part of a community. That's how it feels on ours, anyway – a transient, superficial community no doubt, but a community all the same. I look forward to rejoining it on Monday, when I next board the No 7.