“Brilliant, Nilla. And eminently reasonable. Nikolas let it be, and I’ll undertake that he uses the ‘k’ to keep him in mind of you.”
“Oh, I’ll keep him in mind of me. I intend to take my work as godmother very seriously.”
“Well then—Geraint?”
This, thought Darcourt, is where the trouble lies. To be melodramatic, this is where the canker gnaws. Geraint has all the Welsh passion for genealogy, and names, and he wants to keep signalling that he is this child’s true father. This is going to call heavily on Arthur’s skill as a Chairman.
“Of course, I think at once of my own name,” said Powell. “A beautiful, poetic, sweetly-sounding name which I bear with pleasure. But Sim bach advises strongly against it. Of course I wish to confer a Welsh name on the boy, but you all keep nattering about how hard they are to pronounce. Hard for whom? Not for me. To me, you see, a name has great significance; it colours a child’s whole outlook on itself and gives it a role to play. Aneurin, for instance; a great bardic name. He of the Flowing Muse—”
“Yes, but bound to be pronounced ‘An Urine’ by the unregenerate Saxons,” said Arthur. “Remember poor Nye Bevan and what he went through. The Sitwells always called him Aneurism.”
“The Sitwells had a very vulgar streak,” said Powell.
“Unfortunately, so have lots of people.”
“There are other splendid names. Aidan, for instance; now there’s a saint for you, Nilla! And Selwyn, which means great ardour and zeal; that would spur him on, wouldn’t it? Or Owain, the Well Born; suggesting a distinguished descent, particularly on the father’s side. Or Hugo, a name very popular in Wales; I propose it rather than the Welsh Huw, which might look odd to an uninstructed eye; it is the Latin form. But the one I propose with pride is Gilfaethwy, not one of the greatest heroes of the Mabinogion but especially appropriate to this child, for reasons that need not be chattered about now. Gilfaethwy! Nobly wild, wouldn’t you say?”
“Pronounce it again, will you?” said Arthur.
“It is simplicity itself. Geel-va-ith-ooee, with the accent lightly on the ‘va’. Isn’t it splendid, boyos? Doesn’t it smack of the great days of legend, before Arthur, when demigods trod the earth, dragons lurked in caves, and mighty magicians like Math Mathonwy dealt out reward and punishment? Powerful stuff, let me tell you.”
“How do you spell that?” said Hollier, ready with pencil and paper. Geraint spelled it.
“Looks barbarous on the page,” said Hollier.
Powell took this very badly. “Barbarous, you say? Barbarous, in a country where every name from every part of the earth, and ridiculous invented names, are seen in the birth announcements every day? Barbarous! By God, Hollier, let me tell you that the Welsh had enjoyed five centuries of Roman civilization when your ancestors were still eating goat with the skin on and wiping their arses with bunches of thistles! Barbarous! Am I to hear that from a pack of morlocks who can think of nothing except what is easy for them to pronounce or has some sentimental association? I pity your ignorance and despise you.”
“That, by the way, is a Dickensian quotation,” said Hollier. “I’m sure you could find something more bardic to express your contempt.”
“Now, now, let’s not come to harsh words,” said Darcourt. “Let’s make a decision, because I have things to say to you, parents and godparents, and we must make up our minds.”
But Powell was in a black sulk, and it took a lot of cajoling to make him speak.
“Let the child have the commonest of Welsh names, if you must have it so,” he said at last. “Let his name be David. Not even Dafydd, mark you, but bloody English David.”
“Now that’s a good name,” said Gunilla.
“And another saint’s name,” said Darcourt. “David let it be. Now—what order? Arthur Nikolas David?”
“No. It would spell AND on his luggage,” said Hollier, who seemed to be suffering an unexpected bout of practicality
“His luggage! What a consideration,” said Powell. “If you insist on this damned reductive nonsense, why don’t you call the child SIN?”
Arthur and Darcourt looked at each other bleakly. Was Geraint going to let the cat out of the bag? This was what nobody wanted, except Powell, whose Welsh dander was up.
“Sin?” said Hollier. “You’re joking. Why sin?”
“Because that is what he will be called by his bloody country,” shouted Powell. “Social Insurance Number 123 dash 456789, and when he gets his pension in old age he will be SOAP 123 dash 456789. By the time he is SOAP nobody will have any other name except the one the God-damned civil servants have given him! So why don’t we steal a march on them and call him SOAP from the start? This is a land dead to poetry, and I say the hell with it!” In his indignation he drained a large whisky at a gulp, and filled his glass again, to the brim.
It was a time to rise above passing furies and disdains, so Darcourt said, in his most honeyed tones, “Then it’s to be Arthur David Nikolas, is it? An excellent name. I congratulate you. I shall pronounce the names with my warmest approval. Now, about the other matters.”
“Let me remind you right away that I am a convinced unbeliever,” said Hollier. “I know too much about religions to be humbugged by them. So you don’t get around me with your priestcraft, Simon. I am simply doing this out of friendship for Arthur and Maria.”
Yes, and because you were the first to have carnal knowledge of the child’s mother, thought Darcourt. You don’t fool me, Clem. But what he said was, “Oh yes, I have long experience of unbelieving godparents, and I know how to respect your reservations. All I ask is assurance of your willingness to cherish the child, and help him when you can, and advise him when he needs it, and do the decent thing if his parents should not see him into manhood. Which God forbid.”
“Obviously I’ll agree to that. I’ll take part in the ceremony as an ancient observance. But don’t ask for acceptance as a spiritual force.”
“No, none of that. But if there is to be a ceremony, it must have a form, and I know the form which is appropriate. Now, Nilla, what about you?”
“No doubts and no reservations,” said Gunilla. “I was brought up as what the grocer Shakespeare calls ‘a spleeny Lutheran’, and I am very fond of children, especially boys. I am delighted to have a godson. You can rely on me.”
“I’m sure we can,” said Darcourt. “And you, Geraint?”
“You know what I am, Sim bach. A Calvinist to the soles of my boots. I am not sure that I trust you. What are you going to ask me to promise?”
“I shall ask you, in the child’s name, to renounce the Devil and all his works, the vain pomp and glory of this world, with all covetous desires of the same, and the carnal desires of the flesh.”
“By God, Sim, that’s very fine. Did you write that?”
“No, Geraint, Archbishop Cranmer wrote it.”
“A good hand with the pen, that Archbishop. And I renounce these things for the child, not for myself?”
“That’s the idea.”
“You see how it is. As a man of the theatre—as an artist—I couldn’t really set aside pomp and glory, because that’s what I live by. As for covetousness, my whole life and work is hedged with contracts, drawn up by covetous agents and the monsters who regulate the economics of the theatre. But for the boy—for young Dafydd, whom I shall call Dai when we get to know each other—I’ll renounce away like billy-o.”
“Do we really promise that?” said Hollier. “I like that about the Devil. That’s getting down to realities. I hadn’t realized the baptismal service delved quite so deep into the ancient world. You must lend me the book, Simon. There’s good stuff in it.”