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@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. > > > _______________________________________________ > NetBehaviour mailing list > NetBehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org > https://lists.netbehaviour.org/mailman/listinfo/netbehaviour >
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