Uncle Vladimir is the Black Sheep

Peter Smiley

When we got the letters, we all knew for sure that my uncle was the Black Sheep of the family. We received ours on a Monday, in a red envelope. Our family’s name and address was printed on it in gothic letters, and I noticed that my Mum paused and took a deep breath before she opened it. At my Dad’s insistence, she read the letter aloud. It said:

My dear Wilsons, in particular, my beloved sister Grace.

This missive comes to you bearing great joy and sadness.
Sadness, because the person you knew as Troy Beswick is, alas, deceased.
Joy, because Troy Beswick has been replaced with a new being, and that being’s name is VLADIMIR DARKBROOD.
Please refer to me as such in all future correspondence.
Yours in eternal fealty,

Vladimir Darkbrood.

At the top of the page was a drawing of a battleaxe and a skull.

‘Wanker,’ said my Dad.

‘Ssshhh,’ said my Mum. Phone calls were made, and it soon became clear that everybody in our family had got similar letters. We met at my Grandad’s house to talk about what to do.

‘His name is bleedin’ Troy Beswick,’ said my Uncle Larry. ‘He was Troy Beswick yesterday, and he’ll bloody well be Troy Beswick tomorrow.’

‘I think we should respect Vladimir’s wishes,’ said my Mum.

‘Whose wishes?’ asked my Grandad.

‘Troy’s wishes!’ said Uncle Larry.

‘Oh, right,’ said my Grandad. ‘Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it.’

‘Grace is right,’ said my Aunty Laura. ‘We put up with it when he became a, a whatchamacallit, a hairy…’

‘A Hare Krishna?’ I suggested.

‘Right! A Hare Krishna, and when he started smoking cigars–’

‘I didn’t put up with that,’ said my Mum, who is asthmatic.

‘What do you think, Dad?’ asked my Uncle Ben. My Grandad shrugged.

‘He’s always been the Black Sheep of the family,’ he said. And that, for the moment, was that.

...

However, the controversy about my uncle wasn’t over. It came back later that year, when Uncle Vladimir was coming to our family Christmas Day lunch. Before he arrived, my Uncle Larry made his position very clear.

‘Who’s this Vladimir bloke?’ he asked. ‘I don’t know anyone called Vladimir.’

‘I want this to be a nice Christmas’ said my Mum. ‘You haven’t seen Vladimir–’

‘Who?’

‘Vladimir, for ages. I want him to enjoy himself.’

‘He’ll enjoy himself, all right,’ said my Uncle, opening the fridge. ‘I reckon Vladimir’s laughin’ at us right now. ‘Vladimir. Sounds like a bleedin’ vampire, tell you what.’

‘No more beer,’ said my Aunty Laura. Uncle Larry ignored her.

‘C’mon Ben,’ he said. ‘Are you gonna tolerate this nonsense?’

‘Yup,’ said my Uncle Ben.

‘Dave?’

‘Guess so,’ said my Dad.

‘Here he comes!’ I said.

‘Christ,’ said Uncle Larry. ‘Well, looks like it’s up to me.’

‘Give me that beer,’ said Aunty Laura.

...

Uncle Vladimir had very long black hair, and a black velvet shirt. When he got out of his car, we all saw that he was wearing black leather pants and pointy boots. He stood at the end of the driveway with his hands on his hips and smiled at us. There was a moment of indecision before my Mum went up and hugged him.

‘Vladimir,’ she said. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’

‘Sister Grace,’ said Vladimir, ‘what a delight.’ He went around and hugged each of us in turn.

‘Tr– Vladimir,’ said Uncle Ben.

‘Son,’ said my Grandad.

‘Vladimir,’ said Aunty Laura.

‘Uncky Twoy!’ said my cousin Ruthie, who was too little to know any better.

‘Vladimir,’ said my Dad.

‘Uncle Vladimir,’ I said.
‘Mate,’ said Uncle Larry, and shook his hand. Everybody breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Well,’ said Uncle Vladimir, ‘let the feasting begin!’

...

Because Uncle Vladimir was no longer a Hare Krishna, our Christmas lunch was a turkey roast. We ate in the backyard. Uncle Vladimir asked for a drumstick, and tore at it with his teeth.

‘Would you like a glass of wine, Vladimir?’ asked my Mum.

‘No thank you Grace,’ said Uncle Vladimir, ‘I have my own libations.’ From under the table he took a furry bag made out of skin.

‘What’s that?’ asked my Mum.

‘Mead,’ said Uncle Vladimir. ‘I fermented it myself. Would you like to try some?’

‘Is it alcoholic?’ asked Uncle Larry.

‘Extremely,’ said Uncle Vladimir. Uncle Larry held out his glass, and Uncle Vladimir filled it. Then he gave all the other adults some, even me.

‘Are there any goblets?’ he asked.

‘Uhm, I’m not sure,’ said Aunty Laura. ‘Dad, do you have any goblets?’

‘There might be a Toby jug in the china cabinet,’ said my Grandad. Aunty Laura went inside and got it. It was shaped like a Scottish person’s head.

‘Will this do?’ she asked.

‘I suppose it will have to,’ said Uncle Vladimir.

Everybody liked the mead except for me. Uncle Larry and Uncle Vladimir had a long conversation about making alcoholic drinks, and Uncle Vladimir wrote down the recipe for mead on a napkin.

‘Remember to purify the honey thrice,’ he kept saying. ‘Thrice!’

‘Are you still at the bank, Vladimir?’ asked Uncle Ben.

‘No,’ said Uncle Vladimir. ‘I grew weary of usury, and became an artisan.’

‘Really,’ said my Mum. ‘What kind of artisan?’

‘Wait here,’ said Uncle Vladimir. He ran off around the side of the house. When he came back he was carrying a sword in a scabbard. He took it out and waved it over his head. My Mum ducked a bit every time he swung it.

‘What the hell is that?’ said Uncle Larry.

‘It’s a broadsword,’ I said. I knew it was a broadsword because we were doing medieval times at school.

‘Did you make it?’ asked Aunty Laura.

‘Yes,’ said Uncle Vladimir. He stopped swinging it and showed us. Everybody agreed that it was a very nice broadsword. Uncle Ben went to touch the blade, and Uncle Vladimir pulled it away from him really fast.

‘Careful!’ he said. ‘This isn’t a plaything. I’ll show you. Does anybody have a silk scarf?’ nobody said anything, even though I knew my Mum had one in her purse.

‘There’s a tea-towel in the kitchen!’ I said, and ran and got it. The tea-towel had Uluru on it.

‘Okay,’ said Uncle Vladimir, ‘everybody gather round. Will, you stand here.’ I stood where he pointed, and Uncle Vladimir held the broadsword straight out with the blade facing up. ‘Okay’, he said. ‘Now I want you to toss the scarf up in the air so it falls horizontally onto the blade, okay?’

‘Okay,’ I said. I tossed the tea-towel, and it floated down and draped over the blade of the sword, like it was hanging on a clothesline. ‘Hmm,’ said Uncle Vladimir. ‘Will, now I want you to grab both ends of the scarf, okay? Now pull down really hard.’ I did it, and the sword cut the tea-towel right in half. ‘See?’ said Uncle Vladimir. Everybody made an ‘oooh’ sound, especially me. I wanted to hold the sword, but Mum said I wasn’t allowed because I’d put my eye out.

...

Later, when it was night-time, we said goodbye to everybody and drove home. I was sitting in the back and my Mum and Dad were talking about Uncle Vladimir.

‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ said my Mum.

‘I must admit, I like Vladimir Doombreath a hell of a lot more than I liked Prada Krishnu, or whatever his name was,’ said my Dad.

‘No, it was ‘Vishnu’ something,’ said my Mum. ‘But you’re right, he does seem a lot more centred now.’

‘I didn’t say he was centred,’ said my Dad. ‘Did you know he told me he doesn’t use toilet paper? That he carries around a pocketful of fresh oak leaves? The man’s living in a fantasy world.’

‘Troy’s always been living in a fantasy world,’ said my Mum. ‘I don’t think he could live any other way.’

‘Well he might have to,’ said my Dad. ‘He had a good thing going at that bank. Secure, pulling down seventy K a year, then he goes and chucks it in for this sword-making rubbish…’

‘He’s happy,’ said my Mum.

‘Sure he’s happy,’ said my Dad, ‘but for how long?’ They didn’t say anything for a while. Then my mum turned around in her seat and looked at me.

‘What do you think of Uncle Vladimir, Will?’ she asked.

‘He’s a real Black Sheep, isn’t he, Mum?’ I said.

‘Yep,’ said my Mum. ‘He certainly is.’

 

This story is taken from Total Cardboard issue 7, and remains under copyright. For more information see www.totalcardboard.com