Open Writing

In the Census I had to fill out my small army of Christian names, John Arthur James; the first time I've used them all since the last Census. Why three names for goodness sake? Well, sometimes one name is far more than enough, such as 'Chastity'.

Can you imagine being asked, 'Are you, Chastity?' and the reply, 'Well I was Chastity, personified, that is until the night of the High School Graduation Ball.'

I was called Arthur by my brother, Tom, who pronounced it, sneeringly, in the cockney dialect of 'Ahhfer'. This made a bit of a mess in the dining room I can tell you; plates were broken and Tom received a bleeding nose from a well-aimed pepper pot which burst open, and I, similarly, when I ran into his fist, accidentally, due to a pepper-sneezing fit. Peace was restored when we each received an even better-aimed, parental smack on the ear.

Mother insisted on me being christened Arthur after my grandfather, hoping thereby that we would get more share of the loot than her other siblings when the old coot died. That is why I was always reminded to run and kiss Grandpa and make a fuss of him. His large nicotine-stained moustache and beard stank to high heaven of smoke, even worse when he had eaten soup as he slobbered wet kisses all over my face, partly soup, partly dribble. Talk about child abuse. My purgatory amounted to nothing because when the smelly, old bloke died he left everything to his mistress, or one of them. After the lawsuits finished it was the lawyers who got all the money anyway.

And James. Don't talk to me about my great Uncle James. He was incredibly rich, owning a string of grocery shops and real estate across England and with overseas business interests. He was fair game for the whole devoted and loving family. Mother reckoned we had the advantage over the others as my birthday was on the same day as his. Every year she hauled me out of the garden where I was playing, with 'You must write to great Uncle James now, to wish him a happy birthday,' in the hope that this devotional affection for him would result in a life of luxurious living for the family, in a huge chateau in the hills overlooking Monte Carlo. At least I did not have to kiss another moustache. I never saw him—ever.

After six years there was a wonderfully generous result. Mother was very excited when his letter to me arrived. She opened it with trembling fingers; I remember it well. In fact we all gathered around expectantly and then, out it dropped. A Postal Money Order for two shillings; in today's value about twenty cents. That was a terrible shock to the family morale; however, we consoled ourselves knowing he was incredibly rich and that one day we would be luxuriating in baths of goats' milk.

It seemed a long wait for the old geyser to die. Once or twice our hopes were raised as the old bloke had a heart attack or two, but still the tough old codger hung in there. Mum's siblings, well aware of our birthday advantage, invited him to stay with them for long periods from time to time. Their pathetic efforts to overcome my birthday advantage caused us much gloating merriment. It must have cost 'em a fortune. We got off lightly with the cost of our birthday cards less the two shillings rebate.

When at last the old skinflint snuffed it there was excited anticipation as we awaited, with impatience, the eagerly awaited avalanche of loot coming our way. Then we discovered that he did not own a string of grocery shops and real estate across England at all. Not a single grocery shop, while his real estate was a one-room flat he rented and lived in above a bordello in a rather salacious part of Brixton, near the prison. He should have been inside it for his con job on us all. Even our last hopes of overseas business interests were dashed when they turned out to be two rather scantily-dressed, French ladies-of-the night in the downstairs bordello.

Well, mercifully, I was not given Dad's Welsh name of Howel. Imagine being 'Howel Powell' all your life. Blimey! I'd rather be called Chastity. Maybe John Arthur James isn't so bad since I only use it every four years. After all, what's in a name, even three of them?

© John Powell