Hiring the canoes was really the icing on the cake, giving us almost pure profit from the activity. The only outlay was  the petrol required to take the canoes and those hiring them to the river.  When Roger returned to the shop from dropping a group at the river on the Thursday before Good Friday, our busiest time of year, he said  “the ruddy trailer wasn’t registered. I’ve just been done for towing an unregistered trailer.”

“You’re joking?”

“No he’s out looking at the other one now.” We’d recently purchased the Barrington General Store and the canoes and equipment came with it. Neither of us had given a thought to the trailers and if the registration was current or not. We certainly hadn’t thought to ask for rego papers. The two men in Road Traffic Authority uniforms were making their way into the shop.

“The other one isn’t registered either.” said the shorter of the two men ” We’ll come back in an hour and you’ll give us the number plates. It’s an offense to have number plates on unregistered vehicles. If you don’t give them to me when I come back I’ll fine you for that as well as towing an unregistered vehicle.” He was short and officious. Napoleon immediately came to mind; small man syndrome lauding his position of authority.

“Yes . We’ll get them off.”  Disheartened, he had just dashed our plans for a bumper Easter if we couldn’t transport the canoes. As soon as they were gone Roger rang the Road Traffic Authority then went out and took off the plates.

On his return he said to me “I’m popping into town to hand them in at the motor registry office. ” He did and returned with a receipt for the number plates.

By the time the two men returned Roger was busy cooking food for customers in the restaurant and it was up to me to tell them what we had done with the plates.

“You what? ” the short man asked

“Roger returned the plates to the office in Gloucester.” I said holding up the receipt. The short man’s face suffused with redness and enlarged, becoming rounder as his cheeks puffed out. His anger was apparent as he shouted abuse at me. The more he shouted the angrier he became.

“I told you I would pick them up. You had no right to take them into town.”

“Roger rang and they told him under no circumstances to give them to you.” I was waving a red flag at an angry bull. The colour drained from the short man’s face leaving it white in colour. I’d heard the expression “white with rage” but I had never experienced it. He raised his arm as though he was about to hit me and I flinched. This man was now angrier than any I had ever seen and my fear was building. He was past the point that you could talk to him. The taller man was pulling at the fellow’s shirt sleeve.

“Come on, mate. No point staying here.”

“I’ve seen what you drive. I’ll get you.”  The taller man was dragging the short man to the door whilst he continued to yell threats. I doubted somehow that they’d be empty threats and my pity went out to anyone else that he may catch that day with inappropriate labelling. I doubted there would be any mercy from a man as angry as this one.

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