It’s not often you pity the residents of the House of Windsor, but I can’t help feeling for Meghan and Harry. At this thrilling time, as they embark on their most responsible and enduring role in life, the exhausted pair have to remember not to let slip by a single syllable what they’re going to call their baby. Managing to keep this under wraps will be not just tricky but near miraculous, since there is nothing of more consuming interest for the paparazzi than the infant’s as-yet-undisclosed name.
Far from the palace, in what you might call normal households, the same level of secrecy is usually maintained until a few days after the birth. Even so, clues of what will grace the birth certificate will be there for any snooper to find: Biro circles on magazines, a jumble of capitalised, deleted, asterisked options jotted on envelopes and Post-its, or the frontrunner spelled out in magnets on the fridge.
Antenatal classes are important, but in the long-term it is the seriousness given to a newborn’s forenames that really matters. Nobody is present to see how well you ride the wave of contractions or manage to calm your flailing partner in the birthing pool. What you decide to call your infant, however, will be there for all to see for the rest of their life. Speak to any primary school teacher and you will catch a glimpse of how what seemed a good idea in the medicated afterglow of birth loses its appeal five years later in the company of a flotilla of identikit classmates, or sticks out like the Old Man of Hoy in a sea of convention. Perhaps the French state is on the right track, with its list of names allowed in law, beyond which parents must not stray. It sounds draconian, but by sparing a child future embarrassment, it is arguably the nanny state at its most protective.
As with any label, the choice of name is a public declaration: of status, ambition, class and culture. Rumour has suggested that the Duchess of Sussex, a free spirit who brings with her the modernising air of the New World as well as an independent mind, could be veering towards something that would shock sedate royals. Turning to the United States for ideas on how far Meghan might stray from protocol, commentators have suggested River or Ocean as possible grenades to be lobbed at Buckingham Palace grandees.
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Who would envy the couple the burden of combining centuries of heritage with personal preference? Long before the birth, many anticipated a tribute to Lady Diana Spencer. Although the new arrival is male, and likely to become the Earl of Dumbarton, their hopes might not be entirely dashed. Spencer could feasibly feature somewhere in the mix. If not, it might indicate that more than one baby is planned, with the expectation of a girl sometime in the years ahead who could carry that freighted name down the generations. More prosaically, however, the likeliest choice, and one to warm the entire Royal Family’s hearts, would be Philip.
Eager to stoke public speculation on a matter of sublime indifference to almost everyone I know, William Hill puts Arthur and James in pole position; Betfair has James and Alexander. Meanwhile, the most popular names in Meghan’s homeland are Liam and Noah, while here they are Oliver and Harry. So far, so unstartling. If I were allowed a say, it would be Rufus, though I’m not sure it sits well with Mountbatten-Windsor. Shakespeare was spot-on when he recognised the power of a name to make or break. In the days when Glasgow was veiled in smoke and trams rattled down Argyll Street, if somebody called Rufus had taken a job at The Herald he would have faced hard times. Come to think of it, though, around that time a cub reporter did once arrive at reception for his first day. He was called Peregrine, yet nevertheless – and this is testimony to the paper’s broadmindedness – he lived to work another shift. Or two.
Ahead of any birth, what looks like a simple decision is often a source of intense friction and stress. It is fraught with pitfalls that can sour family relations for years. Finding common ground can, in fact, be the first real test of a relationship. So much rests on this decision that there are moments when a tiny infant, no bigger than a hot water bottle, is in danger of being turned into a Christmas tree, hung with so many decorations you don’t know where to look first. Thank goodness for middle names, the no-man’s land in which a fragile peace is maintained.
As the last child of three, I was blissfully unaware that, all the important family names having already been doled out, my parents had carte blanche. Cats and hamsters were dubbed faster than me. The slate remained so blank following my arrival that, after dithering for a week or more, my parents delegated the job to my brother and sister. Given their interests at the time (model railways and the Chalet School stories), I suppose I count myself rather lucky.
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