Mr. Wilhelm Daniel Fahrenheit’s surname causes him irritation and garners attention wherever he goes—from primary school days to now well past retirement.
Mr. Fahrenheit just wishes to be left in peace!
But when his daughter hatches a plan to force him into interacting with people, Mr. Fahrenheit might finally find understanding and friendship.
A warmhearted tale about discovering camaraderie and acceptance in unexpected places.
“The Surname Club” is available for the month of June 2025 on this site. The ebook is also available on all retail stores. You can also read this story in the collection Baverstock’s Allsorts Volume 1.
The Surname Club
By Jessica Baverstock
MR. WILHELM DANIEL FAHRENHEIT always made a point of opening his mail as soon as he received it.
Even if the postman had caught him just as he was getting into the passenger seat of his daughter Olivia’s Volkswagen Jetta on his way to the shops for an expedition to buy a pair of trousers.
And so as Olivia flicked the BBC radio off and turned into the main street, Mr. Fahrenheit took to opening his letters.
The first was a bill. The second an advertising flyer hidden inside a personalized envelope. And the third was a bank statement.
Upon studying this third piece of mail, Mr. Fahrenheit harrumphed. When his daughter paid him no heed, he harrumphed again.
“What is it, dad?” she said, keeping her eyes fixed on the road.
“Look at this. They have charged me an extra one pound fifty for some mysterious fee.” Twenty-seven years of living in England had not tempered his German accent, though the frustrations of trying to be clearly understood had sent him considerably greyer about the temples.
Olivia stopped at a red light, so Mr. Fahrenheit took the opportunity to shake the bank statement under her nose.
“They are not supposed to have bank fees in this country,” he said.
Olivia kept her eyes focused straight ahead.
“You know why they do this to me?” he said.
Olivia sighed, holding her fingers to her forehead as if she were preventing a headache.
“It is because of the name.” He tapped his finger on her arm to make his point. “People always pick on those with famous surnames. I bet they don’t do it to Mr. Smith or Mrs. Jones. But they see Mr. Fahrenheit and they think to themselves, ‘This is the man we’ll do something sneaky to.’”
“Oh for goodness sake, Dad,” cried Olivia, taking off from the lights with a little too much vigor.
Mr. Fahrenheit was about to mention that revving the engine was bad for the fuel economy, but Olivia kept talking.
“Do we have to go through this every time? No one is picking on you, especially not because of your name. People just don’t care that much.”
Mr. Fahrenheit shoved the bank statement back into its envelope and then crossed his arms. Olivia didn’t understand what it was like to have bills and letters addressed to a famous surname, he thought to himself. She married out of the name when she was eighteen. Now she was Mrs. Olivia Grayson. No, she didn’t understand.
They pulled into an underground car park.
“I’ll help you buy some new trousers,” said Olivia, “And then I have a little surprise for you.”
“What kind of surprise?” said Mr. Fahrenheit, his mind still on the one pound fifty.
“You’ll just have to wait and see.”
She said no more about it for the next half hour as they went in search of trousers.
Years of shopping with her father had taught Olivia exactly where to take Mr. Fahrenheit so the errand could be completed with the minimum of fuss. Mr. Fahrenheit was fussy about trousers. He liked them to be long enough to touch the top of his shoelaces when he stood, with a coin pocket and two buttons at the top of the zip. It took him half an hour of trying on different trousers until he was satisfied.
“Just these today, sir?” said the girl at the counter as she folded the trousers and covered them in tissue paper.
Mr. Fahrenheit nodded and handed her his bank card.
“Oh,” she said, glancing at the card. “Fahrenheit. I didn’t realise that was a surname.”
Mr. Fahrenheit closed his eyes and took a breath. He bet Olivia Grayson didn’t have to suffer small talk about her surname while standing at the checkout.
After the transaction, Olivia walked Mr. Fahrenheit to the cafe next door which was playing Benny Goodman through the speakers behind the darkwood counter. She ordered him a cappuccino and then sat him at a table covered in a white and red checkered table cloth. The chairs were white cane with white frilly cushions tied to them as if they would somehow make the experience more comfortable.
“Now,” Olivia said, sitting on the very edge of the chair opposite him. “About that surprise I mentioned earlier.”
Mr. Fahrenheit had quite forgotten the promised surprise. He simply wanted to go home now so he could call the bank about their mysterious fee. He was sure if he spoke in a gruff enough voice they would sort things out. They had to understand they couldn’t take advantage of people just because of their names.
“I’ve got a few other things I have to do while we’re here,” she said. “I’ll probably be about an hour.”
Mr. Fahrenheit frowned. “What am I supposed to do with myself for an hour?”
“Well,” said Olivia, reaching into her bag, “That’s the surprise. You see, I put an advert in the local paper.” She pulled the newspaper out and placed it in front of him with a classified ad circled in red marker.
It read:
Do you have a famous surname? If so, come to the Cafe Del Mar at 2 p.m. for the first meeting of the Surname Club – Mr. Fahrenheit presiding. Look for the man with the red carnation.
Mr. Fahrenheit looked up at his daughter, just as she pulled an artificial carnation from her bag and stuffed it into the button hole on his lapel.
“What does this mean?” he asked, poking his finger at the newspaper and then at the ridiculous flower.
“You need a hobby, Dad. Something to get you out of the house and interacting with people.”
“Interacting?” he stuttered in anger. “I interact with people all the time. Look now, I am interacting with you.”
“Yes, Dad, I know. But you need to interact with people who are not your family and who are not customer service people on the other end of the phone trying to fix your problems.”
Mr. Fahrenheit was tempted to rise from his chair and leave the cafe immediately, but just then the waiter delivered his coffee.
“You need to talk to people who have the same interests as you,” she said.
“What interests?” he said.
“Yes, well, I couldn’t think of too many so I picked your surname.” She shrugged. “Perhaps this ad will help you make friends with other people who have famous names.”
Mr. Fahrenheit harrumphed.
“Anyway,” said Olivia, rising, “I have things to do so I’ll come back and collect you in an hour, okay?”
Mr. Fahrenheit wanted to say that it was not okay. He was not some object that could be deposited in a place for an hour or two and then collected later. He was definitely not some old man that needed looking after. He wanted to give his daughter a stern telling off, like he used to in the good old days when they shared a name and she wore her hair in pigtails.
But he didn’t. It was not polite to shout in public.
He sighed. “Fine. Leave. But I may not be here when you come back.”
“Do whatever you please,” she said. “But if you’re not here when I get back, I’m going home without you.” She pecked him on the cheek and then left.
Mr Fahrenheit sighed again, a big heavy sigh to expel all his frustration. He sipped his coffee and was at least grateful Olivia had chosen somewhere that could make an acceptable cappuccino. He was just considering wandering up to the counter and surveying the cakes when a small African boy sat down in front of him.
“Hi,” said the boy.
Mr. Fahrenheit looked around, hoping to see a parent or guardian responsible for the child. There was no one.
“Are you Fahrenheit?” said the boy.
“Mr. Fahrenheit,” he said.
“Good,” said the boy. He held out his hand in greeting. “My name is Lucius Shakespeare.”
Mr. Fahrenheit shook the boy’s hand. He opened his mouth to ask the obvious, but then closed it again unsure of how to word the question.
“I know,” said the boy. “Not a direct descendant.”
The boy had skin the colour of cocoa powder. The palms of his hands were a pleasing shade of light caramel and his teeth reminded Mr. Fahrenheit of those miniature marshmallows that should always come with hot chocolate.
He shook the image from his mind, realising he was much too hungry to have this conversation.
“I am going to look at the cakes,” he said, rising. At least, felt Mr. Fahrenheit, this was a relatively polite way to end their acquaintance.
The little African boy followed him. He stood by Mr. Fahrenheit’s side and stared into the glass covered counter.
This was one of those fancy cafes where the cheesecakes were made individually, their shape held up by a protective plastic covering around the edges. Mr. Fahrenheit thought them too complicated, and worried he would make a mess when he tried to unwrap one. So instead he decided on a flapjack.
“Are you eating here too?” said Mr. Fahrenheit to the boy.
The boy beamed at him. “Why, yes, thank you for asking. I’ll have an eclair.” He pointed in the direction of his choice and then returned to Mr. Fahrenheit’s table.
Mr. Fahrenheit stood for a moment, looking from the eclair to the boy and then back to the eclair. With a harrumph he ordered the eclair, but asked for it to be cut in half and served on two separate plates. Mr. Fahrenheit’s funds did not cover the purchase of both a flapjack and an eclair in such a pricey establishment.
“As I said,” continued the boy when Mr. Fahrenheit returned to the table with the food, “I’m not a direct descendant of Shakespeare.”
“This much is obvious,” said Mr. Fahrenheit, settling himself back into his chair and checking his watch to see how much time had passed. It was barely five minutes.
The boy looked offended. “How do you know what colour Shakespeare was?” he said, digging the edge of his fork into the eclair. “He might have been black. Not every famous person in history was white, you know.”
Mr. Fahrenheit conceded this point with a subtle incline of his head. “How did you come by the name then?” he said.
“Several generations ago my family had to leave our country and immigrate to another. Our family name was connected with some bad things in our old country, so they changed it.”
“To Shakespeare?” said Mr. Fahrenheit, furrowing his brown in an attempt to understand what logic would possess a person to deliberately choose a famous surname.
The boy shrugged, chewing his mouthful completely before saying, “I think they liked the sound of it. In Africa it didn’t seem that out of place, but since we moved to England…” The boy rolled his eyes.
Mr. Fahrenheit stabbed at the eclair absently, sending cream spurting out its sides.
“I am doubly cursed when it comes to names,” said the boy. “My grandfather demanded I be called Lucius. He liked the sound of it. I hate it. What’s even worse is the kids at school either call me Shakespeare – but not in a good way – or they call me Loo. I hate Loo.” He shoved another piece of eclair into his mouth.
Mr. Fahrenheit scooped some of the cream onto his fork. He didn’t need to ask about the way the kids called him Shakespeare. He knew exactly what was meant from his own childhood, and beyond. When his wife had been pregnant with Olivia, there had been many people who suggested they call her Celsius. It was merely in jest, but it riled Mr. Fahrenheit.
“Why not call her One Hundred Fahrenheit? Or Forty-Five Fahrenheit?” he had burst out one day. His wife had patted him on the hand to quieten him down. She hadn’t understood either.
But this boy, Lucius Shakespeare, he understood.
“Why not Luc?” said Mr. Fahrenheit, attempting to guide the cream back into the eclair with his cutlery.
The boy stopped chewing and thought for a moment. “I like it.” He beamed, showing his marshmallow teeth. He looked up at the ceiling while considering it further. “Yes, I like it!”
“Excuse me,” said a large woman in a thick Spanish accent, who had suddenly appeared beside their table. She was short and round, with a deep tan and black curly hair which billowed over her shoulders. Her makeup was on the heavy side, its bright oranges and greens horrifically matching her blouse and jeans. The white miniature poodle in her arms yipped once as if calling for the attention of those seated at the table. “Is this the Surname Club?”
Mr. Fahrenheit had just come to terms with sharing his space with one companion, and found the sudden addition of two more completely unacceptable. He was about to say as much when Luc interrupted.
“Yes, we are the Surname Club.” Luc hopped up and offered the lady his chair.
She sat, and the boy darted off to bring himself over another seat.
Mr. Fahrenheit noticed with disapproval that the bright pink of the bow attached to the dog’s head was matched by the pink nail polish on the dog’s claws.
“You have already ordered,” the woman said, as her dog began lapping at what was left of Luc’s eclair.
Luc returned with his chair and looked dismayed as the last of his snack disappeared into the dog’s mouth.
“I will have a mocha,” she said, showing no recognition of her pet’s actions, “With one of those, what are they called? Melting minutes?”
“Melting moments,” corrected Mr. Fahrenheit.
“Thank you,” she said.
At first he thought she was merely acknowledging his correction, but as the seconds passed and her gaze continued expectantly upon him, he realised she believed him responsible for placing her order.
Mr. Fahrenheit looked from Luc’s pout to this woman’s stare and then to the dog who was watching Mr. Fahrenheit’s eclair with the air of one sizing up the next course.
There was nothing for it. Mr. Fahrenheit passed his eclair to Luc, with the promise of bringing a clean fork to the boy, and then returned to the counter to order once again.
“That will be four pounds fifty,” Mr. Fahrenheit called across to the woman, pointedly.
“Oh,” she said looking up from whatever small talk she and the boy and entered into. “In that case I will have something too. Is there a cheesecake?”
He said there was and relayed the available flavors.
“Very good,” she said, “Pick any of those. I do not mind.”
“Six pounds and seventy-five pence,” he called back.
She fixed him with a severe look. “It is not polite to tell everyone how much you spend,” she said, before turning her attention back to Luc.
Mr. Fahrenheit’s irritation itched at the back of his collar. He harrumphed as he pulled the money from his wallet and he harrumphed again a minute later when he placed the two plates in front of the woman.
“The mocha is coming shortly,” he said.
He delivered Luc’s fork, which the boy immediately put to good use, and then sat back down at his place. He took a sip of his coffee and was most disappointed to find it cold. He harrumphed for a third time, not feeling it at all excessive under the circumstances.
“Welcome to the Surname Club,” said Luc between mouthfuls. “Please introduce yourself.”
“My name,” said the woman as she broke off a piece of the melting moment and fed it to the poodle, “is Maria Perón.” She rolled her r’s.
“What’s the matter with that?” said the boy.
Mr. Fahrenheit was about to open his mouth and explain that Perón was a famous surname, but the woman continued.
“No, it is not for myself I come. It is for him.” She whispered this last sentence while pointing surreptitiously at the dog.
Mr. Fahrenheit and Luc looked at the poodle, who was now licking at its pink nails.
“My husband named him Nelson,” she said. “Because, of course, he is missing a leg.”
Mr. Fahrenheit scratched at the back of his head, while Luc leaned in closer to examine the dog.
“Nelson?” said Mr. Fahrenheit.
Maria nodded. “After the famous captain. Because she loosed her leg too.”
It occurred to Mr. Fahrenheit that Mrs. Perón may have been confusing her English pronouns.
“Nelson didn’t lose a leg,” he said. “He lost an arm.”
“No, leg,” said Maria, turning the dog on her lap to reveal the missing back limb.
“It’s true,” said the boy. “The dog is missing a leg.”
“Very sad accident as a puppy,” she said. “Before we got him,” she added quickly.
“I was talking about the captain,” said Mr. Fahrenheit.
“What captain?” said Luc.
“Nelson,” said Mr. Fahrenheit.
“It does not matter,” said Maria, waving her hands in the air as if to fan away their words. “My husband, she called the dog Nelson.”
Mr. Fahrenheit barely contained his urge to correct her.
“I did not know it was such a famous name,” she said, breaking off another piece of biscuit for the dog. “Then we move to England. My husband, she was English.”
“He,” muttered Mr. Fahrenheit under his breath.
“Now I go to the park and call out ‘Nelson!’ and people, they laugh at me.” She looked at them both with an expression of shock and outrage. “Can you believe it?”
“Could it be,” said Mr. Fahrenheit in a slow, pained voice, “That they laugh because Nelson is not a good name for a girl dog?”
“The dog is a girl?” said Luc, his eyebrows arching in surprise.
“Of course he is a girl,” said Maria, scratching the poodle behind the ears and planting a loving kiss on the canine’s head.
The waiter delivered Maria’s mocha, asked if they needed anything else and then left.
Maria tasted it. She pulled a face. “No sugar. I get some sugar,” she said, rising. She deposited Nelson on the chair and went in search of sweetener.
Mr. Fahrenheit could have brought her attention to the little sugar sachets in the middle of the table, but he was too exhausted.
“Do you think she’s a little mixed up?” said Luc quietly.
“Who?” said Mr. Fahrenheit. “Maria or Nelson?”
Luc was still considering his answer when Maria returned with a sugar bowl.
“Why don’t you call the dog something else?” said Mr. Fahrenheit.
“No,” she said, horrified. “It was my husband’s special name for the dog. You see, she has died.”
Luc and Mr. Fahrenheit looked at Maria in confusion.
“Who?” said Mr. Fahrenheit.
“My husband,” said Maria, gesturing with a spoonful of sugar that flew all over the table. “To call Nelson something different…I could not do that to her memory.”
It was at this point that Mr. Fahrenheit began to relax. He had to, otherwise he knew he was at risk of a heart attack.
He happily sipped his cold coffee as Luc and Maria talked on – crossing every subject from her favourite brand of doggy hair spray to Luc’s favourite television shows. Then Maria demonstrated the correct way to unwrap an individual cheesecake and offered half of it to Mr. Fahrenheit. He was just finishing his last mouthful when his daughter walked in.
“Well,” Olivia said, after being introduced to Lucius Shakespeare, Maria Perón, and Nelson, “I see your afternoon has been a success.”
“Yes,” said Luc, obviously still thinking of the whole eclair he’d eaten. “Will we have another meeting of the Surname Club next week?”
Mr. Fahrenheit drew his breath in at the thought of what a regular cafe bill would do to his bank balance.
“What a good idea,” said Maria. “It will be my turn to buy, I think.”
At this news Mr. Fahrenheit perked up. The thought of spending another afternoon listening to mind-numbingly confused chatter was washed away at the prospect of a free cheesecake.
“Same time, same place, then?” said Olivia, grinning.
The Surname Club members said their goodbyes and parted ways.
Olivia grinned at her father as they returned to the car. “So,” she said, as she drove out of the car park, “What is it like having your own club?”
Mr. Fahrenheit frowned. “I do not know yet.”
Olivia smiled all the way home and Mr. Fahrenheit was almost tempted to do so himself.
“The Surname Club” is available for the month of June 2025 on this site. The ebook is also available on all retail stores. You can also read this story in the collection Baverstock’s Allsorts Volume 1.
“The Surname Club”
Copyright © 2018 by Jessica Baverstock
First published Baverstock’s Allsorts Volume 1, 2014
Cover and Layout copyright © 2018 by Jessica Baverstock
Cover design by Jessica Baverstock
Cover art copyright © opicobello/Shutterstock, Sudowoodo/Shutterstock, and mart/Shutterstock
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.