Hi Gill,
Thank you. Writing this kind of book has been quite liberating.
It no longer lingers in my psyche like a hazy mass of confusion and
uncertainty. It's as if it was a secret history, not allowed to be declared.
Wishing you well
Marc
On Wednesday, 12 February 2025 at 09:53, Gill Davies via NetBehaviour
<netbehaviour@lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:
> 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@lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:
>
>> Beautiful
>>
>> Simon
>>
>> On Tue, 11 Feb 2025, 23:40 marc.garrett via NetBehaviour,
>> <netbehaviour@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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