The secret lives of those folk we think we know

I deliberately didn’t say that thin blue line which stands between us and anarchy, because these little run-ins were with an obnoxious little honorary police officer who, as I once suggested to him, had obviously been to night classes to pass the parish force’s entrance exam (sole question: there have been six Kings of England called George – name them).

This self-important little pipsqueak – why is it that most of the more officious ones are small, I often wonder – lived about a hundred yards from my home and for about two years found something to flag me down for about every ten days or so.

If that had been these days and his superiors got wind of such harassment, all hell would break loose with inquiries, disciplinary boards, consultations with the Attorney-General and possibly witness statements from the parish hall cat, for all I know.

In those days, however, such was the way these things were run that it simply would not have entered the head of someone of my age and circumstances – single, liked a good time, sailed close to the wind on occasions with things like driving too fast (no official speed limits then) and perhaps with a couple or three wets too many inside me – to make an official complaint.

This little so-and-so got me twice – ‘got me’ being defined as being ‘parish hall to see the Centenier tomorrow evening and bring some money for the fine’ – and on each occasion it was because the light over my rear number plate wasn’t working.

Well, actually it was working, but only after you’d realised that it wasn’t lit, you got out of the car to give it a bit of a clout with the side of a clenched fist.

I think the Centenier realised what was going on and took a relatively lenient view by taking five bob off me in fines on each occasion – probably because when I was asked to produce my licence and insurance I somewhat flippantly (and certainly unwisely, because things could have got nasty) suggested that he ask the little pipsqueak for it, because he’d had both documents in his hands more frequently than they’d been in mine.

It was only years and years later that I learned – from a mate who was the little pipsqueak’s brother – that the reason for his attitude and behaviour in abusing the power and authority of the office of honorary police officer was probably because he was being abused, physically, verbally and almost certainly mentally, by of all people his wife.

Sadly, all this emerged – for the chap’s family but never publicly – only after he attempted to take his life and, in the words of his brother, there was such an outpouring ‘that none of us was ever quite the same again’.

He told me just a fraction of what his brother had told him and I remarked that the woman must have been really evil. I have never forgotten his response: ‘I reckon she and the devil had weekly lessons in evil. I don’t know what she charged him.’

I must admit that over the years I’ve thought similar things about people I’ve come across – not many, but there have been some. In some respects it’s a sad little world we inhabit, isn’t it?

Read more in Monday’s JEP