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@lists.netbehaviour.org> wrote:
> Looking forward to read the book excellent start!
> Ana
>
> https://anavaldes.wordpress.com/
> www.twitter.com/caravia158
> http://www.scoop.it/t/art-and-activism/
> http://www.scoop.it/t/food-history-and-trivia
> http://www.scoop.it/t/urbanism-3-0
>
> http://www.scoop.it/t/postcolonial-mind/
>
> cell Sweden +4670-3213370
> cell Uruguay +598-99470758
>
> "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@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@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@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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