Amabel, Beatrice, Christabel, Dorcus,
Emma, Fatima.
On and on, from A to
Z. No candidate escapes Mama’s close scrutiny. She has even perused Dickens and
Thomas Hardy for likely ones, preferably names that have otherwise fallen out
of use. Whatever her attitude to motherhood might be, careless is not a word I
can use to describe it.
When we are out shopping, she takes to
calling me Faith, a name distressingly devoid of melody and rhythm. I expect
she is testing its singularity. People ooh and aah at such an unusual name. Some
of them recall that I have a great uncle who was a blind from birth and an
evangelist, but Mama circumvents discussion of relations who do not belong to
her side of the family, however erudite they might be. She herself only flirts
with religion without actually believing in anything much. Choosing a biblical
name will be a form of sacrifice that does not hurt her but leaves a lasting
impression of piety on everyone else. Mama defies the attempts of Aunt Jane and
Dada call me Ann after their mother’s sister, it being a softly feminine name
and easy to spell, and a name that can be augmented in an affectionate way, but
it is rejected as being too nondescript for this exceptional me she has
produced. And who am I to disagree? Ann is
eventually consigned to coming after Faith at the registry office, and I have
never been able to identify with that name.
The name Faith with
all its awesome connotations and awful responsibilities wins the day, though
Aunt Jane continues to call me Ann. I am christened without my permission and
with a name that is a celebration of the holy scriptures of any religion you
care to name, in word, if not in deed. I am summarily sentenced to going
through life as part of a biblical saying. I have to get used to being reveal
where the ‘other two’ are. As a final irony, the name Ann has been tagged on,
like a spare wheel, in Mama’s reluctant remembrance of my paternal great aunt.
No one shall say Mama is churlish. So now the
name Mama wanted in the first place is firmly affixed and documented. Mama has
won her fight to have a name for me that is as unique and remarkable she would
like to think any child of hers must be. I certainly do look more like her
every day. There is nothing in my looks to suggest Dada has been a party in my
procreation.
Dada’s family all look like the French
onion seller who cavorts round the streets on a rickety bike in all weathers
with odorous garlands slung around his lightly clothed torso. This boisterous
little man is squat, raven-haired and swarthy and his eyes are as black as
night. He has lots of Gallic charm, which no doubt boosts his sales to the drab
housewives he cajoles into parting with more of their housekeeping money than
they can possibly afford for more onions than they need. His sales patter is in
an odd mixture of French and English with most of it either stuck in his throat
or stammered through his strangely effeminate lips. Trade must be good, since
the aroma of fried onions is the overriding cooking smell in most of the houses
he has called on. That rusty velocipede that is equipped with a rusty bell that
announces his imminent coming to all and sundry, is useful for carrying both
him and extra onions and anything else he happens to be purveying. It is part
of his stock in trade, though with the price of onions at rock bottom, it is doubtful
whether onions are the mainstay of his enterprise. His commercial round
includes cups of teas and buns in numerous kitchens and quite possibly erotic
interludes with neglected housewives. It takes him to far corners of the county
when he has time. When he isn’t satisfying his regular customers one way or
another, he is at the Liverpool victual market bidding for job lots of onions
from anywhere at all, which he winds into plaits and decorates with ribbon in
French colours. A barefaced entrepreneur with no end of tricks up his sleeve,
he can also mend any household gadget you care to mention, so he is in fierce
demand for running repairs, too.
Whatever services he may provide, he
doesn’t provide them to Mama, who grows her own French look-alike onions and
mends her own household equipment, such as it is. Besides that, she has no use
for thick-lipped Frenchmen. In fact, she is not partial to men as a race,
excepting Dada, who is admittedly exceptional.
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