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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