When George agrees to transcribe the memoir notes of his neighbour, Mrs Moretti, he uncovers much more than just the ramblings of a gentle old lady. Was Mrs Moretti an accessory to a notorious crime forty years ago? And is George in danger now?
She arrived on a Sunday, standing on my doorstep dressed in a smart tweed jacket and skirt like the Queen at some minor local engagement. I almost wanted to curtsy and give her a bouquet. She introduced herself as a member of the local Neighbourhood Watch. I hadn’t seen her before and certainly didn’t know her name until she told me. It sounded like Moretti. She spoke in a quick bright voice like a small chitter-chattering bird, her silver haired head bobbing and her hands waving like little wings getting ready to fly.
‘It’s about watching our own houses and also watching other peoples,’ she said and I could tell my wife Liz was trying not to giggle.
‘Brilliant. We like watching houses, don’t we George?’
We took the paperwork she left and immediately forgot her.
A month later my marriage broke up and Mrs Moretti appeared at my door carrying a tin of biscuits. ‘I saw her leave,’ she explained smiling ruefully like someone who has accidentally smashed your plant pot. And that seemed to fit. I was the owner of something broken in the way my wife had left me. She had been a whirling dervish of disappointment that smashed our marriage to smithereens. Mrs Moretti’s rush to commiserate could have been seen as odd, but she was supposed to watch the neighbourhood, wasn’t she? I invited her in and made a cup of tea...
She arrived on a Sunday, standing on my doorstep dressed in a smart tweed jacket and skirt like the Queen at some minor local engagement. I almost wanted to curtsy and give her a bouquet. She introduced herself as a member of the local Neighbourhood Watch. I hadn’t seen her before and certainly didn’t know her name until she told me. It sounded like Moretti. She spoke in a quick bright voice like a small chitter-chattering bird, her silver haired head bobbing and her hands waving like little wings getting ready to fly.
‘It’s about watching our own houses and also watching other peoples,’ she said and I could tell my wife Liz was trying not to giggle.
‘Brilliant. We like watching houses, don’t we George?’
We took the paperwork she left and immediately forgot her.
A month later my marriage broke up and Mrs Moretti appeared at my door carrying a tin of biscuits. ‘I saw her leave,’ she explained smiling ruefully like someone who has accidentally smashed your plant pot. And that seemed to fit. I was the owner of something broken in the way my wife had left me. She had been a whirling dervish of disappointment that smashed our marriage to smithereens. Mrs Moretti’s rush to commiserate could have been seen as odd, but she was supposed to watch the neighbourhood, wasn’t she? I invited her in and made a cup of tea...