Hi Giselle,
Thank you. These days, it's nice to bring some raw (real) guts into the mix. I
can't wait for the book to be published, either. I'm especially excited that
it's published by Minor Compositions as well.
I have already begun shaping Feral Class 2 (possible title).
Wishing you well
Marc
On Wednesday, 12 February 2025 at 01:06, giselle beiguelman
<gbeiguel...@gmail.com> 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@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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