IT would be inaccurate to describe us as buddies; we are five acquaintances of ripening years who meet infrequently – often several months apart – when we crack corny jokes and put the world to right.

One of us will ring another proposing a date and place, and after several adjustments to the schedule for the trysting day (as that chap Macauley put it when Lars Porsena and his chums were preparing to take on Horatius at that Roman bridge) we come to some agreement.

Apart from our names, we know little about each other, are indifferent to marital status and social standing – although one of our number occasionally mentions a nephew who is on nodding terms with the Queen as he helps to arrange HM’s daily rota. I may also have referred to my six grandsons (more likely a certainty I hear you say!) but by and large, privacy is observed.

That was until recently. We were in the Lamb and Flag; Owen put a question to us all. (It’s not his real name but it will do, bearing in mind he is as Welsh as Katherine Jenkins but nowhere near as pretty.) Had we ever done something for which we were deeply ashamed? Not a confession to a crime, but an admission that, given our time over, we would act differently.

We hummed and mumbled before each poured out ‘our transgression’; one chap referred to the time he got two precious tickets for a Beatles concert. His young sister had wanted to see the famous four. But he told her he’d only got one. He took a girlfriend, who dumped him the following week. Divine retribution?

Another had lived with his conscience from the age of 11. Going to school on the packed service bus, he occupied a seat when an elderly women got on. She had to stand and as she was the ninth without a seat, the conductress ordered her off. (Only eight were allowed.) He could have shared a seat with one of his young chums and the conductress would probably have turned a blind eye. As the bus pulled away, he saw the woman in tears. It still haunted him.

EVENTUALLY it came round to Owen. He hesitated. “It can’t be so bad,” I suggested. “I’m afraid it is,” said Owen, gazing into the bottom of his glass. Slowly he told his story.

He and his wife had parted when their daughter was less than a year old. More than 20 years later the girl traced him, writing to say she was getting married and desperately wanted him to give her away. He wrote back, saying he would.

But he didn’t. He never turned up at the church nor gave an explanation. Whether it was fear, embarrassment or shame, he couldn’t say.

“It was the only thing she ever asked of me – and I let her down,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion.

Who stepped in for him, he never knew, but father and daughter – or anyone in the family for that matter – have not spoken since. That was 16 years ago. Owen looked into his glass again. Tears were streaming down his face. We saw a different side to the normally boisterous Owen.

An uncomfortable silence followed. There was some feet shuffling and soon our little party split up, leaving Owen and me to finish our pints.

That was more than a month ago.

LAST weekend Owen phoned. Had I thought of using his story in Cabbages and Kings? I hadn’t because it was clearly a source of private pain and regret.

“Please do,” he said, his voice betraying tears were not far away. “It’s too late for me, but perhaps it might prevent some other stupid idiot from making the same mistake that will haunt me to the grave.”