In Sickness and In Health: What's in a name? A lot, apparently

My mother named me after a manipulative cow who was shot to death by a husband she’d driven mad with her unreasonable behaviour. Or a woman trapped in a loveless marriage to a murderous aristo. It all depends on whether you read “Rebecca”, by Daphne du Maurier, with a feminist eye, or gulp it down, aged 12, and take it at face value. Either way, she perhaps wasn’t being quite as original as she might have liked - there were two other Rebeccas in my class at junior school (and they both had the same middle named - Jane - as I did, too).

It’s a good name, though, because it can be shortened. In the increasingly unlikely event that I ever have children, I would try to give them a name they can work with. Elizabeths can be Lizes, Beths, Lizzies, Bettys and more. You don’t get that kind of versatility with India or Sienna.

When I was a youngling, my family and friends called me Becky. My mum would wheel out the Rebecca Jane when I’d been a horror, but I was Becky the rest of the time. Until the age of 21, Rebecca felt like a name for best, for Sundays, for formal occasions only.

Then I started work full-time and realised that an office is exactly where a grown-up name has its place. I didn’t think that a Becky was CEO material (although to be fair, I’m not sure that this particular Rebecca is, either), so overnight I became Rebecca, Becca for short, when absolutely necessary, because it sounded more like my “official” name, even if it did remind me of yet another school namesake who was really quite horrible.

As long as I’ve known Nick, I’ve been Rebecca (though it was often “my lovely” and more often still “vole”, his pet name for me). My university friends call me Becky, so I’ve squirmed my way through various hen nights and weddings being introduced to their pals by a name that I only like my nearest, dearest and oldest to use. As a fledgling journalist I made the mistake of not correcting two colleagues when they called me Becky, and so they’ve been on my blacklist for more than a decade because it’s now too awkward to do anything about it. So much easier just to hate them quietly.

Now that I’m spending so much more time with my folks, thanks to the amazing amount of support that they give me and Nick, I’ve started to be Becky again. I rang up a family friend recently. “Hi, it’s Rebecca.” There was a long pause. I quickly corrected myself. “Sorry, I mean Becky.” The penny dropped.

It’s hardly a spy-grade alias, and yet it feels weird to be called by a name that I don’t associate with my adult self. Then again, as my dad pointed out this week, it’s not just my name that’s changed. I was moaning about my little sister being a git when we’d had dinner the previous night and he said that that was far from a rare occurrence (she’s 16, so it comes with the territory). “The thing is,” he pointed out, “before when you came to see us, you were only a visitor. Now you’re here more often, you’re family.” I guess my old name fits with my new status.