Everyone needs a fantasy family

Let me tell you about my Uncle Min.



Hardly anyone in Cambridge knew we weren’t actually related to each other. We’d introduced each other as ‘my uncle’, and ‘my niece’ so often that to us, the relationship quickly became indisputable. We wholeheartedly believed it ourselves. People were often surprised, and questioned us.


“But you look so different?”


“You’re so close together in age?”


“Why don’t you talk like each other?”


Of course, I knew Min before we became blood relations. The first time I met him, he was serving behind the bar at the Sun, wearing a t-shirt which reflected his smile. A huge, cheerful mouth, with perfectly white teeth, adorned his chest – and above it, the real smile, but this one extending to his large brown eyes.


Everyone called him Min in those days, and he never revealed his true name to anybody. I found it out only by accident when I once retrieved his dropped driving licence. Min quickly took it away from me, but not before I’d managed to read his name. I never once used it in conversation , or revealed it to anyone, though. A mutual friend said he’d telephoned once, and the person who answered called out ‘Bob!’ . But I didn’t reveal that I already knew his real identity.


Min came to my house a lot, and everyone quickly fell in love with him. His constant smile, and his endearing habit of referring to my stepmother as ‘your sister’ made him popular from the start. His voice was cultured, and quiet, and happy. He didn’t say much, and his manners were exquisite. Everyone got very confused, because my father’s pet name for me was ‘Min’, too . The sad question‘Why ever didn’t you marry Min?’ would resonate for years afterwards, and  is still occasionally heard, thirty years on.


We lived in the country, and Min lived in the town. From my house, Min and I would go for walks and he was intrigued by the Fenland nature and wildlife. He stared for a long time at the hedgerow sloes, gently prodding and sniffing them as they hung there. When he tasted one, he chose a berry which had fallen to the ground, as if to avoid disturbing the pattern on the bush. Spotting a wasp’s nest under a root, he put a stick into the hole but did not flinch as the angry insects buzzed around him.


In town, we often met accidentally, in the Sun, or at parties. There were parties every Friday and Saturday night in Cambridge and Min always knew where they were. He mixed easily between town and gown, so was as likely to be seen at a student party as he was at the rugby club or a May Ball.   A precocious DPhil, he spent a lot of time with his fellow academics. 


I think it was at a student party that Min and I became relatives. I’d been dancing with a long-haired, youngish man who was smoking something which smelled good, but illegal. I had not idea who he was, but as the dance progressed, he became more stoned, and  I found myself holding him up. Eventually, though, his grip became tighter and it became impossible  to get away from him without allowing him to fall to the ground.






I’d seen earlier that Min was at the party, but he suddenly appeared at just the right moment, and gently detached the man’s hands from where they were entangling my upper body. I was slightly surprised to see that the stranger could stand upright after all, and his drugged expression had been replaced by a very slightly annoyed look, directed at Min.


“She’s my niece” said my rescuer. The displaced dancer’s expression changed to one of benevolent comprehension, and Min was free to lead me away.


Min and I went to a lot of the same places in Cambridge, and whenever we met up afterwards, he always introduced me as his niece. In turn, I explained to my friends that this was my uncle. Oddly, perhaps, he and I never discussed why the lie started.  Perhaps both of us were flattered by the closeness it promoted between us. Or maybe we enjoyed the surprise and interest we created. Or maybe we both just liked to be mysterious.


I started to call him ‘Uncle Min’ and he usually called me ‘Sweetheart’, or 'Little Praxis'. Only on very rare occasions would he use my real name, and I never used his, and never revealed to him that I  knew it.


We started to spend some time together alone. Because we’d always met in crowded places, or with groups of friends, it was now odd to be alone with Min. Neither of us seemed to be keen sleepers, and our time together usually seemed to be in the middle of the night, when Min would suggest going for a walk.


Min had a big coat, big enough to wrap me up in when it got cold. Or he’d put my hand into his pocket as we walked along together. Min’s pockets were enormous, and contained all sorts of secrets- cans of beer, handkerchiefs, biscuits. However late at night it was, and however dark, something comforting always came out of one of Min’s pockets.


I was never very good at talking about myself, but neither would he answer my own questions about him.  


“You tell me about yourself first, and then I’ll tell you about me,” but of course he never revealed anything in the end.


Most of the things I knew about his life had come to me through other people.


“He got his DPhil when he was nineteen’


“He invented a new kind of laser”


“His parents live in Grantchester”


I really knew practically nothing about him, but gradually he was absorbing more and more information about me. Wrapped up in his coat, I took occasional sips of his beer as he held the can to my lips. Strangely, he never passed me the can to hold myself, and I once asked him why.


“It doesn’t suit you, Sweetheart. I don’t even think you like the taste, do you?”


He was absolutely right, as it happened – I would only drink beer if there was nothing else available, and hated to be drunk. And in those days, eighteen-year-old girls were not usually expected to be beer drinkers, anyway.


Especially by their uncles.


The fact that I now completely believed that this man was my uncle made it difficult to talk about some things - like what he found attractive,  and whether I had any of the qualities he liked in a woman.   I looked for clues in the way that he spoke to me and held me.   Nothing was convincing me that he viewed me as anything other than a child he was looking after.


In every day conversation,  we'd gradually come to believe that we had a shared history and a strong family tie.


Min was the perfect uncle to me – concerned, caring and non-judgemental. He never once told me what to do. He always listened carefully to any difficulties I had, and very rarely offered any advice. Instead, he would ask me to work out what options I had, and encourage me to choose a path I felt would be right for me.


It must have been hard for him not to project his image of the perfect niece onto me, but I know he tried his hardest to avoid influencing me. When I talked about sex, or drugs, or drinking, he must have had to bite his lip very hard to overcome his dismay at this departure from childlike perfection. The closest he came to disapproval would be a faint clicking of the tongue, or a sad shake of the head.

These signs eventually crippled me with remorse.  However subtle they were, in my heart  I knew that I constantly disappointed my uncle, who was so kind, loving and understanding to me. The easiest path would have been to pretend to be the quiet, adoring and virtuous girl he could love. After all, we were already living out a fantasy relationship – why not play the role which would make me most appealing to him?,

But my Uncle Min always told me to be honest. He’d even point out


‘There’s no need to exaggerate, or pretend. You’re with Uncle Min, now’


I was convinced he’d be able to tell if I was acting, so I didn’t bother to be anything other than straightforward and truthful.    It was lovely. For the very first time in my life, I had the opportunity to be completely free and honest with someone. Until then, the constraints of good manners, the necessity to please people and the expectations of others had guided my every move – and had got me into some situations which had made me very unhappy.


The more honest I was with Min, the further away from being his ideal woman I became. In many ways, it was tragic. If I’d pretended, I would have been able to spend the rest of my life wrapped up in his coat, being fed biscuits and accepting a handkerchief at appropriate times. It would have been blissful. I’d have been safe, secure and cared –for, into eternity. I’d never have to doubt that I was completely loved and valued.


But, you know, I don’t think that my uncle wanted that life for me. He wanted me to be a free person who understood and liked herself. I could have been his ideal companion, but he knew that the effort would have made me unhappy. He did want a captive bride, but he wanted a willing prisoner, and he knew that wasn’t going to be me.


To this day, I don't  how I could ever begin to repay the gentleness and love my uncle gave me. I still love every single part of him, and I am truly grateful for everything he ever did for me. I hope that in Heaven, there will be an uncle like Min waiting for me.