Table Talk

The three of us were sitting around a table in the parlour of a small public house. The pub had an old-fashioned appearance, one of those strange survivals you find in the City. It was dusty, and it smelled of stale beer. The setting, however, is not important for this story. My companions were not mournful men, but they were not merry. They seemed preoccupied, and occasionally glanced towards the door as if they were frightened of being overheard. Perhaps it was just the time of year. The days before Christmas can make certain people uneasy.

May I describe them to you? The first of them was of uncertain age, poised perhaps somewhere in his forties but already marked by an elderly manner. He had a slightly vapid yet querulous expression, as if he had once taken offence at a humiliation long since forgotten. He seemed to frown as he spoke. Given the nature of his story, this was perhaps understandable. The second man would have passed as a moderately successful accountant, with a quick nervous smile and a habit of clearing his throat before he spoke. He had a slightly rueful expression, if he could be said to have any expression at all. He appeared to be agitated, and continually pushed the beer mat around the table when he told his own story. And as for me — well, I am only the narrator and do not need to be described.

‘I have never told anyone this before,’ the first man said. ‘I don’t like to think about it. Anyway, you wouldn’t believe me.’

‘No reason not to believe you,’ I replied. ‘Not until you have told us.’

‘Do you remember the bus disaster at Hammersmith? Two or three years back now. A double-decker came off the road, and smashed into the side of a small café.