Chapter one in which the family roasts a chook when Uncle Stan decides to search for greener pastures I knew Vendula was special the moment I saw her. Clutching a ladybug in her chubby little fist,  Vendula sat in the meadow full of blooming daisies. A drunken bumblebee made her laugh, and her  voice, like silver bells covered with snow, chimed a quiet, pretty tune. I was enchanted and decided to stay.       At first, living with Vendula was plain sailing. Luck had always followed her like a puppy on a leash.  A skip and a sniff and a leg up every so often, we knew where we were going. Vendula, a ballerina in  a paper weight world, sailed through life as if every day was a walk through a rose garden where  friends gathered like fluffy clouds. But then the summer of ‘79 rolled in and overnight things started to  go pear-shaped.      First there was puberty. It came upon us suddenly, like a runaway train, bringing boys,...