[NetBehaviour] A Suicide at the Picnic

[Simon Mclennan]

Beautiful

Simon

On Tue, 11 Feb 2025, 23:40 marc.garrett via NetBehaviour, <
netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:

> *A Suicide at the Picnic*
>
> Before Ken became my stepdad, my mother, my brother Nigel, and I would
> often walk past the local garage where he worked as a mechanic. We would
> stop and chat with him, exchanging pleasantries. At the time, I wasn't
> entirely sure how long it took for him to step into the role of our father
> after Barry, our biological dad, was sent to prison. Barry's absence didn't
> leave a void for us—we didn't miss him. However, we did deeply mourn the
> loss of our sister, Donna, who had been taken away by social services
> around the same time. That was the real heartbreak.
>
> When Mum started seeing Ken, life seemed to have a brighter hue.
> Everything felt rosy, and we genuinely enjoyed each other's company.
> Although they weren't married yet, Ken naturally assumed the role of our
> new dad. It was an exciting time for us, and we still lived in our modest
> ground-floor flat on Windermere Road.
>
> One morning, Ken pulled up outside the flat in a Bentley T1, a sleek and
> impressive car. He casually mentioned that it was the same model the Duke
> of Devonshire owned. I had no idea who that was then, but the name made it
> sound grand. The car's boot was packed with a picnic hamper brimming with
> delicious food: fresh rolls, butter, ham, cheese, tomatoes, cucumber,
> boiled eggs, pickles, and more. Alongside it was a large crocheted blanket,
> one of Mum's favourites. It had a zigzag pattern, which I always thought
> was beautiful.
>
> As soon as we climbed inside, I noticed how pristine the Bentley smelled,
> a mix of freshness and a distinct scent that I later assumed was leather. I
> wasn't sure if the seats were made of leather, but they certainly had a
> strong, rich scent. Ken explained that he had borrowed the car from a
> friend named Tommy, who was passionate about collecting cars. This
> particular loan was a gesture of appreciation for some repair work Ken had
> done for him. Tommy had many vehicles; I vividly remember him visiting us
> once in a striking yellow Lotus Elan. That car had an 8-track tape player,
> an obsolete format, but at the time, it played the smooth, soulful grooves
> of the late '60s, adding to its charm.
>
> This trip marked a milestone for my brother and me—our first outing into
> the countryside. Ken drove for about an hour, and none of us, except him,
> knew our destination. Eventually, he parked at the top of a hill, and we
> climbed over a turnstile, stepping onto a vast, open meadow. In the
> distance, a railway line cut through the landscape. Mum spread the large
> blanket on the grass, carefully arranging the food, cutlery, and crockery.
> The sun shone warmly, and a gentle breeze danced through the air. It felt
> like the perfect day. I was particularly delighted because boiled egg
> sandwiches were my absolute favourite.
>
> It was one of those rare, precious early moments with Ken. We were all
> together, basking in the simplicity of a family picnic. We ate, laughed,
> and enjoyed the idyllic setting, savouring our newfound happiness and
> stability.
>
> Then, abruptly, the atmosphere shifted. A policeman emerged from nowhere,
> walking shakily up the hill toward us. Ken immediately stood up and went
> down to meet him. Their conversation was quiet and solemn. I could only
> watch from a distance, wondering if we had unknowingly trespassed and
> broken the law. But it soon became apparent that something far more grave
> had occurred.
>
> Ken returned to us, his expression unreadable. The officer remained
> partway down the hill, waiting. Ken then delivered news that changed the
> day's tone entirely—a person had jumped in front of a train, and the
> officer, who was on his own, needed assistance. He needed Ken's help to
> retrieve the scattered remains of the body.
>
> Without hesitation, Mum and Ken began packing away our picnic. They
> quickly stowed the half-eaten food, utensils, and dishes into the basket.
> Ken tugged at the blanket, folded it neatly, and, without another word,
> followed the policeman down the bottom of the hill. As they disappeared
> from view, the distant sound of police sirens began filling the air, but we
> could not tell what was happening.
>
> For the next forty-five minutes, we waited in uneasy silence. When Ken
> finally returned, he looked pale, his face tinged with shades of grey and
> green. He didn't say a word about what he had witnessed or done. There was
> no discussion, no attempt to explain. The weight of the experience clung to
> him like an invisible shroud. We gathered the rest of our things, climbed
> back into the Bentley, and drove home in silence, the earlier joy of the
> day wholly erased. The ride back felt infinitely more prolonged than the
> drive there, and the air was thick with an unspoken heaviness that none of
> us dared to break.
>
> A section from the book Feral Class by Marc Garrett. To be published by
> Minor Compositions in 2025.
>
>
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