Do you really know the couple next door?
The delightful couple next door have some strange habits. Is it really any of our business?
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Life was simple in Africa when we lived there in the 1970s – BC – Before Computers. As a newly married couple, my police office husband, Peter, and I were transferred to a tiny farming village in the middle of nowhere. Africa time moves slowly, but slow does not mean dull! Something interesting or exciting was always happening.
When we arrived, the only affordable accommodation available in the village was an apartment above the local shopping centre, which consisted of a small, overpriced grocery store, a hairdresser, and a clothing store, mainly catering to children.
Above the stores were two apartments. After we moved in, we soon met our neighbours, Nico and Carla, who had lived there a month longer than us. Bright orange curtains adorned their kitchen window, and large terracotta pots overflowing with herbs and marigolds enhanced their side of our shared veranda.
‘Welcome to your new home, Sheely and Peeter.’ Nico pronounced our names with a delightful Italian lilt, waving his arms expressively. He was short, balding, and nearly as wide as he was tall. He made up for what he lacked in height with his big personality.
‘Nico could charm the birds out of the trees,’ Peter commented later that evening when we discussed our new neighbours.
Carla did not have much to say, but we soon discovered she was a superb cook. A knock at the door, and there was Carla with a massive bowl of piping hot spaghetti Bolognese. It was delicious, and Peter and I had never tasted anything so scrumptious. Carla was slim and taller than her husband. She must have been beautiful once; even now, with her silver hair severely pulled back into a bun, she was still lovely. They reminded me of – Humpty Dumpty and a beauty queen. Another exciting thing about our neighbours was their formal attire. Nico in his stylish three-piece suit and Carla in a calf-length skirt, high heels, and matching jewellery accessories. I do not recall ever seeing them wearing casual clothing.
Nico and Carla told us they had recently purchased a wholesale fruit and vegetable business attached to a roadside café on the main road. It was reasonably well patronised by locals and attracted custom from motorists travelling between two large cities. We noticed that our neighbours left home at dawn and arrived home late at night. They worked seven days a week and told us that weekends were an extra busy time for them.
‘They never have a day off. I’m surprised Nico and Carla don’t live closer to their business. Especially as Carla doesn’t drive,’ I commented to Peter one night when we heard them arrive home well after midnight. ‘The café closes at 5 o’clock, so Carla must either wait until Nico collects her at this time of night, or they go somewhere else after closing time.’
‘Perhaps Carla doesn’t mind, she will probably do the cooking after the café closes. She has two young girls serving customers, but she stays in the kitchen.’ Peter explained.
I stared at him. ‘Since when did you visit their cafe?’
‘I had to visit a farmer in that area yesterday, so I called in for lunch.’
‘I bet you did. No wonder you turned your nose up at my burnt sausage and mash.’ I tried to sound annoyed, but I couldn’t blame him. Cooking was new to me, and my cooking skills were sorely lacking.
‘If Carla’s working in the kitchen – why would she wear high heel shoes and jewellery?’
‘She wasn’t wearing jewellery when I saw her. She had on an apron and flat shoes.’
‘Was Nico there?’ I asked.
‘No, just Carla. She didn’t recognise me in my uniform. She was shocked when she realised, I was a police officer.’
***
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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