“I cannot, for the life of me, understand why she was alone in that boat.”

Reggie Upton stood at the open door of The Squid and Teapot and stared pensively out into the unremitting fog of, what was meant to be, a summer’s afternoon.

“I think I can,” said Philomena, “and it’s too horrible to contemplate.”

She looked down fondly at the exhausted infant sleeping in her arms. It had been no more than two hours since the girl had been found beneath an upturned boat on the beach, but already Philomena’s maternal instincts were marshalling their forces, and preparing to wreak a terrible fate on anyone or anything unwise enough to think of harming the child.

“When I left Ireland,” she said, “it was as a stowaway upon a small merchant ship. Not surprisingly, they found me in no time, but the captain was a kindly man. He agreed that I could stay wherever it was that I’d been hiding on board, until they made landfall. He made sure that I was given food, and protected me from the crew, who would have happily thrown me overboard. For a while things were fine – then, about three weeks into the voyage, there was a series of disasters, the worst of which was the captain having a heart attack and dying. Of course, with my protector gone I stood no chance. The mate blamed me for all of their misfortunes – he called me an Albino Witch.”

For the first time, during the telling of her tale, Philomena smiled.

“That was ironic. Neither of us knew exactly how accurate that description was. Anyway, to cut a long story short, before the crew had a chance to get rid of me, they all died and I didn’t.”

“But what has that to do with the child?” asked Reggie.

“Albinos are viewed by many as being bringers of bad luck,” explained Philomena. “And there are few people more superstitious than sailors. Draw your own conclusions.”

“That is dreadful,” said Reggie, his face flushing with anger.

“The main thing is that she is safe now; no one is going to harm a single albino hair of her head,” said Philomena.

“If it’s any consolation,” said Reggie, “neither you nor the child could possibly be called truly albino.”

Philomena raised a pale eyebrow.

“In my opinion,” Reggie went on, “you are both subject to a condition known as leucism.”

“Is that bad?” asked Philomena, worriedly.

Reggie smiled. “Not to my knowledge,” he said. “It simply means that you have a partial loss of pigmentation, resulting in your very pale skin and hair colour. It is perhaps more common in the animal world.”

Upon seeing Philomena’s frown, he placed an avuncular hand upon her shoulder. “My dear young lady,” he said, “I have seen white lions in Africa and a white tiger in India, and I can assure you that they are stunningly beautiful creatures.”

The slightest suspicion of a soft pink glow crept into Philomena’s cheeks. “Thank you, Reggie,” she said.

Despite Philomena’s objections, Rhys had insisted on fetching Doc Willoughby.

“There’s nothing wrong with this child that a few hours sleep and some parental discipline won’t sort out,” Willoughby declared. “Who does it belong to?”

“SHE,” said Philomena pointedly, “belongs to us.”

“Oh! Yes indeed,” said the Doc. “I can see the family resemblance now.” He stood up, and looked about the room expectantly.

“Thank you Doc,” said Rhys, handing him a bottle of the Gannicox Distillery’s finest. “Hopefully this will…”

“Yes, yes…” said Willoughby, who grabbed the bottle and blustered out.

Philomena shot her husband a look that needed no words; nevertheless she saw fit to supply some. “Well, that was a monumental waste of time, not to mention the bottle of booze,” she said. “I told you, I didn’t want that quack anywhere near our daughter.”

“But she’s not really…”

“Oh, but she is now, Rhys. She most definitely is now, and nothing is going to change that.”

He flopped into the chair next to Reggie, who had been keeping an uncharacteristically tactful silence throughout the proceedings.

“Then there is one thing we have to stop doing straightaway,” Rhys said.

Philomena gave him a questioning look.

“What’s that?”

“We have to stop calling her ‘the child’ and give the poor girl a name.”

“She probably already has a name,” said Reggie, not unreasonably.

“I agree with Rhys,” said Philomena. “The less she remembers of her past the better, and a new name for her new life will help.”

According to the poet T.S. Eliot, it is necessary for a cat to have three distinct names. Fortunately, there is no such stipulation regarding the naming of humans (although, I must admit to being the not particularly proud possessor of three names myself).

Throughout that afternoon and into the evening Philomena and Rhys spent many hours trying to find the perfect name for the child who had been delivered to them by the sea.

“Might I suggest one?” ventured Reggie, having demolished several tankards of Old Colonel.

“Of course,” said Philomena. “You are part of our family.”

Reggie beamed. “Well… the name I’m thinking of actually means ‘Gift from the Sea.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect,” said Rhys. “What is it?”

“Doris” said Reggie.

Rhys and Philomena looked at each other, hardly knowing how to respond.

“Doris?” was all Philomena could say through clenched teeth.

“It was my grandmother’s name,” said Reggie, by way of explanation.

“Well it’s not going to be my daughter’s name,” thought Philomena to herself.

“We’ll think about that one,” said Rhys,

 It was Granny Bucket who came to the rescue. Philomena guessed that as soon as rumour of their new arrival reached Granny’s ghostly ears, nothing in this world or the next could prevent her ancestor from homing in on The Squid and Teapot.

“You haven’t given the child a name yet?” said Granny, aghast.

“We just can’t agree on one.”

“You could name her after me,” said Granny.

“Don’t be silly,” said Rhys. “We can’t call her Granny.”

“I do possess a name, you know,” replied the ancestral ghost, coldly.

“It never occurred to me that you might have a name,” said Philomena. “You’ve always been just Granny to me.”

“Just Granny?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. Come on then… out with it.”

“It’s Caitlin,” said Granny. “And it means ‘Pure’. “

Reggie suddenly had a fit of coughing as he choked on his beer.

“I like Caitlin,” said Philomena, thumping Reggie on the back.

Rhys agreed.

Granny looked on approvingly as the proud parents and Reggie toasted the health of little Caitlin.

“Well, at least let me take a look at my great-granddaughter,” said Granny.

“She’s in bed – please don’t wake her,” said Philomena.

 “Thank you for naming her,” said Philomena later. “Caitlin is a lovely name.”

“Better than Philomena.” said Granny. “You’ve got your father to thank for that. I’ve never liked it.”

“Neither have I,” admitted Philomena, “but I’m stuck with it…”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t the name I wanted you to have,” said Granny, ruefully.

She paused, probably for maximum effect, then said,

“I wanted them to call you Doris.”

Author’s Note: The full account of Philomena’s voyage from Ireland can be found in the tale “Philomena Bucket.”