Names, the (K)night bus, more names (but OT)

[Barry Arrowsmith]

Evocative things, names -  or they can be.

Many  fans have spent long hours pondering the names with which JKR  
has graced her books. Long posts have resulted that detail the  
symbolic meanings of flower names and the like, and wondering if  
connections existing below the surface of the plot can be ferreted  
out by linking characters through the  names assigned to them.

Not so, said JKR in her March '04 webcast - no connection between  
Lily, Petunia and Narcissa, but first names that fall into certain  
categories can sometimes be regarded as a family tradition.

We accept that  many of the surnames are either intentional jokes  
(Ernie Prang  and Stan Shunpike on the Knight Bus, for example) or  
are evocative and perhaps intended  to influence our perceptions of a  
family or an individual's likely place in the spectrum of good and  
evil. So  we have Croaker, Fudge, Flint, Riddle, Umbridge, Moody,  
Black, Skeeter and Bode. Then there are the names with even darker  
overtones - Voldemort, Malfoy and Lestrange - odd that those all seem  
to be of French derivation.

Strangely enough, though there are plenty of possible hints among the  
surnames it's the first names that have attracted the most attention  
from posters even though JKR implies that there is not much there of  
interest. But  we do like to think that we see connections or  
patterns - a kind of gestalt theory in practice. But we've probably  
missed a trick. Wizarding names, the surnames, seem idiosyncratic,  
slightly off-kilter, yet despite posting the occasional prod over the  
last two or three years, no-one has shown the slightest interest in  
the strangeness of the name Potter for a pure-blood family. Or is it  
only me who thinks so?

The use of 'Knight Bus' brings memories flooding back.
Those across the water may not be aware that 'The Knight Bus' is a  
bit of a pun. At the risk of boring the cognoscenti, let me take you  
back a few decades. In the larger conurbations normal bus services  
stopped at about 11-11.30  pm, which was a bit of a frost if you  
liked to carouse on past the witching hour or if you were a shift  
worker. Taxis were comparatively expensive and usually few in number  
(outside the really big cities, anyway), so as a public service the  
bus company or the local corporation ran the Night Bus - a boon to  
all student revellers, late night matinee addicts and dirty stop- 
outs. They still exist, but like most things nowadays the character  
of the institution has changed, and what with strictly enforced rules  
and a rise in the aggression level of many of the drinking classes  
that's inevitable, but sad.

The old Night Bus ran on selected routes at infrequent intervals and  
was often an entertainment in itself, well worth the price of the  
ticket. Way back then, they still used double-decker buses with  
conductors instead of these one-man operation disasters, and the  
crews were usually hard-bitten veterans, up for anything, a cross  
between Mother Theresa and a power-mad swimming baths attendant. Eric  
was a regular conductor on the route I frequented most (in  
Birmingham, this was), a beanpole of a man, hair like a blonde Brillo- 
pad and extra-thick  glasses. Never stopped talking - stream of  
consciousness gossip "So I said to her.... and she said to me... and  
I've never been so gob-smacked in all my life...Oh hello, petal!  
still seeing that nurse at the General, are you?" This latter with a  
beaming smile as one offered the fare. Lovely feller, cheered you up  
just meeting him.

He wasn't averse to directing Beryl (his long-suffering driver) off  
the official route and right up to the front door of a passenger who  
he'd taken a shine to. "Beryl! Beryl! If you don't turn left  
immediately I'll smack your bum! This is an emergency! Right, my  
girl! No bacon sandwich for you tomorrow! Huh!"

One time, we turned right at Five Ways (instead of going straight on  
up Hagley Road) and ended up somewhere off Portland Road (a good mile  
off the official route) and the rest of us sat chatting while he  
helped an old dear into her house. He was gone a long time and when  
asked why - "Her cat was stuck behind the cooker. Had to help, didn't  
I?" The passengers loved him, the Inspectors didn't. I'd always  
thought of him as a one-off, but it's not unlikely that Jo had some  
memorable late-night bus journeys herself.

Other writers have fun with names, too. Iain M. Banks does -  though  
in a very different way. (He writes as Iain Banks for mainstream  
fiction and the middle M is added for his SF stuff - and that's the  
persona I'm referring to.)
Whole websites concentrate on the names of his Culture Vessels,  
spaceships, massive constructs run by Artificial Intelligences who  
seem to choose what the ships are called. Here's a selection:
Flexible Demeanor
Unfortunate Conflict Of Evidence
So Much For Subtlety
Fate Amenable To Change
Jaundiced Outlook
Poke It With A Stick
Not Invented Here
Funny, It Worked Last Time
I Thought He Was With You
Anticipation Of A New Lover's Arrival
I Blame Your Mother
Sleeper Service
I Blame My Mother
Attitude Adjuster
A Series Off Unlikely Explanations

There are dozens more.
It certainly gives one pause when a ship named 'Frank  Exchange Of  
Views' joins the action. Especially as it's a Rapid Offensive Unit  
(Psychopath Class). You can't say you haven't been given a hint, can  
you?

Kneasy