FERN’S NAME

A family at war

The day after Fern was born, a terrible war broke out. It wasn’t a war between nations as you might suspect, but a war between parents. If there was to be a right side and a wrong side, both parents were right and both parents were wrong, though neither realised it.

It began over naming the little addition to their family. You might think there was little to cause an outbreak of violence over the naming of a sweet little baby girl, yet violence did break out.

In truth nobody could remember who launched the first missile, just that one exploded against the dining room door soon after noon on that fateful day, and it was made of custard. In court, later, he accused her and she blamed him but neither was clear in the way they recounted the event.

“I had to dodge to one side or the darned thing would have taken my head off!” protested Fern’s father.

“I had to hide under the table for fear of my life!” explained Fern’s mother.

“And then it escalated!” almost wept her father.

“And my best bra got ruined with gravy,” concluded her mother, whilst all sthe infant could do was gurgle in her pram because of the fun of it.

“But what,” asked the judge, “was it all about?”

“Her name. That’s what it was all about,” explained Fern’s father, who we will shortly discovered was called Peter, “I wanted it to be dynastic. I wanted the male line to be Peter, so the new born infant had to be Peter.”

“I wouldn’t have launched so many iced lollies at him if the baby had been a boy,” countered the mother, “you see, as names go I rather like Peter. In fact, I married one.”

“Then why couldn’t you have squeezed a boy out into the world instead of a girl?” roared Peter.

“I hardly had any say in the gender of our child!” responded the mother, who we will shortly discover was called Jane. Then she added, “if I had managed to wriggle the developing DNA into some sort of sensible shape and made it female it would have been just right because we’d have a Jane to carry my own name forwards. It’s bad enough the child is going to suffer from having her father’s surname and I reckon it would be only right for it to carry something of me into the future. After all, I provided it with a womb to grow in, and if you care to look at her you’ll see that my womb did a darned good job.”

“This is all getting to be ridiculous,” decided the magistrate, who was feeling peckish, it being close to lunch time, “it seems that you two are totally incompatible and neither prepared to listen to reason!”

“I believe my demands are perfectly reasonable,” said Peter in his sourest voice, “as you will no doubt see when I point out that my own father, and his before him, were both called Peter.”

The magistrate sighed, “but the child you produced between you is female,” he said, “and nobody ever heard of a female called Peter! It just isn’t done! If you wanted a female version of Peter it would have had to be Petronella, and think of the trouble the wee thing would have when its’s time for it to learn how to write its own name!”

“Her name!” protested Jane, “my daughter is not and never will be an it! So I demand a divorce because of my husband’s unreasonable conduct! Anyway he isn’t really her father.”

The magistrate’s eyes opened wide. “He isn’t?” he asked, “now please forgive me. I’m confused. If he isn’t the father, then who is?”

“The milkman,” Peter told him. “You see, I’m sterile. Always have been since my testicles were accidentally removed in an operation for gall stones.”

“Then what’s the reasoning behind calling the girl Peter if he’s not in your blood line?” demanded a confused magistrate of the father, “and should you two really be married at all?”

“But I love her!” protested Peter, “I always have and always will! If it wasn’t for this naming issue we wouldn’t be here at all, wasting your time!”

The magistrate sighed. “So please answer in words a simple magistrate can understand and tell me why you want a divorce?”

“It’s simple,” said Jane, “s that we can remarry. That’ll sort everything out.”

“It will?” sighed the magistrate.

“Of course,” almost whispered Peter, “then we can proudly announce that our daughter is called Fern. It’s a lovely name and we both like it, and so will she.”

“But why Fern?”

Peter smiled at him. “The milkman,” he said, “the gentleman who allowed his testicles to substitute for mine drives an electric milk cart from Fern Dairies! You see, sir, there’s a lot in names. An awful lot.”

“And Fern’s a lovely name,” added Jane, “we both love it.”

© Peter Rogerson 13.06.22

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