[NetBehaviour] A Suicide at the Picnic

[Gill Davies]

Brilliant, Marc. Felt like I was in the car and on the hill with you and
the family, Can't wait to read the rest.

On Wed, 12 Feb 2025 at 07:19, Simon Mclennan via NetBehaviour <
netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:

> 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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