Kitta wasn’t the name my sister was christened. Ma gave her Grunnie’s name, Kathryn, but no-one ever called her that. Kathryn Duthie? Well, that wasn’t any use to those who must know which Kathryn Duthie it was you meant when there were Duthies all about those parts, as far inland and along the coast as you could tramp in four days, and a Kathryn in every third but-and-ben besides. So they would make up tee-names. I suppose we would call them nicknames now. A stamp of ownership would be added, some little flourish to explain which Kathryn or Janet or Isobel, which of the Duthies or Buchans or Rosses, and that would be an end to it, whether you liked it or not. Me, I was Ginger Meggie to begin with. Ma was always called Jeemsie’s Belle. There was Postie Andrew who drove the post cart. Net Tildie mended nets for the herring boats. Jinna’s Liza—ah, now, that was a cruel one, for it told to all the world that there was no father to give a name to my cousin. Liza seemed always to carry that shame like a bundle on her back, like she was a child born to be sorry.

Kitta was a few days old when she saw Da for the first time. In he stomped, Weelim Duthie home from the sea, a six-foot bluster of seaboots and salty wool, and they say she opened her eyes and screeched herself pink and purple at the face peering down into her crib. Like a kittlin at the stranglin’, Da pronounced in disgust. So Kathryn became Kitta. And to most in the village, she was Weelim’s Kitta. You see, you never could get by with just the name from the pastor’s blessing.

My beautiful Kitta. I wonder, you know, about names. Are they just labels to make the everyday easy, or have they some special power to bestow luck, good or ill, on the head of those they tag? Did the name Kitta turn a placid Kathryn into the wild girl people thought her, or was it always destined to be so?

~

I remember the day Kitta announced she would not marry. We were all of us plucking whelks from pools near the boatie shore, and Brukie’s Sandy lolloped towards us in his gangling way. Pretty Kitty! he called in a gurgle of laughing, his slack-chinned face full of light.

Kitta straightened up and called out Ay ay! and Here’s some dulse for ye, Brukie’s Sandy.

He took the treat from her and waved his arm like a windmill as he galloped away, grinning back at Kitta. His cheeks were fat and bulging with the chewy, briny seaweed we all loved.

Ooh-hoo, Will sang. There goes the bridegroom and here comes the bride!

And Liza piped up in her tuneless little whine: Ooh aye, ooh aye, Kit-ta’s get-ting ma-ar-ried!