[NetBehaviour] A Suicide at the Picnic

Wed Feb 12 12:33:03 CET 2025

Thanks, Ana,

It feels somehow appropriate to share it on the list rather than on social media :-)

Wishing you well

Marc

On Wednesday, 12 February 2025 at 04:49, Ana Valdés via NetBehaviour <netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:

> Looking forward to read the book excellent start!
> Ana
>
> https://anavaldes.wordpress.com/
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>
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> "When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been and there you will always long to return.
> — Leonardo da Vinci
>
> ons 12 feb. 2025 kl. 00:49 skrev Alan Sondheim via NetBehaviour <netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org>:
>
>> agree, incredibly powerful, I wonder if this is truth, fiction, mixed, it makes a difference in the reading, amazing writing -
>>
>> On Tue, Feb 11, 2025 at 8:08 PM giselle beiguelman via NetBehaviour <netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:
>>
>>> What a powerful text! I can’t wait for the book.
>>>
>>> GB
>>>
>>> Em ter., 11 de fev. de 2025 às 20:40, marc.garrett via NetBehaviour <netbehaviour at lists.netbehaviour.org> escreveu:
>>>
>>>> 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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