The Third Mate

He loved her with affection

for she had a heart of gold.

But she sometimes was too trusting

and believed all she was told.

And he was born a shocking tease,

so could never let it go

if given even half a chance

to have a lend of her.

He was an old navy man.

Salt always in his life.

He owned a little cabin cruiser

he called his “other wife”.

He told her, with an Irish brogue,

when they were on the blue

she had to be his ‘tird mate

‘cos the boat was number two.

She used to go out fishing

with him and his other girl.

And for a remarkably long time

the three harmonised quite well.

There always was a table of

richest delicacy

every time the trio

went out to fish at sea.

She helped him wash his other love

after every fishing bout.

Then cheerfully scaled and cleaned the catch

before cutting the gizzards out.

He enjoyed the taste of sumptuous meals

she piled upon his plate.

She never moaned her place in it.

She liked being the ‘tird mate.

They had many fun adventures

and a few that were hair-raising.

For them she endured ‘mal de mer’

on more than one occasion.

She had suspicion on one of those

that his burley he’d forgot.

For he’d stopped that day on the way to the beach

to get toffee apples at the shop.

He’d woken her late, she’d missed breakfast.

On an empty stomach they’d not sat well.

They had made her quite sick, and they hadn’t stayed down

the moment they’d hit a small swell.

And she caught a look on his face at one time.

His smile seemed too satisfied.

And that day he threw nought to attract them

but a bounty of fish was hauled over the side.

Now.  She was telling a sailor’s story

to a group who’d one night gathered,

and someone who didn’t know her well

was listening to the narrative.

His eyes on her, he didn’t see

the signals from the other.

And without even being aware of it

he blew the sailor’s cover.

He queried why her husband

should call her his turd mate.

When she explained the Irish brogue

he said, “oh really yeh OK,

I’d thought he was describing you

as somewhat stercoraceous.

For whether here or out at sea

that’s usually what a ‘turd’ is.”

Of course she needed it explained

just what that long word meant.

But she grasped the coarser options

when told them by her friends.

Awareness crept into her eyes

as what he’d said sank in.

And knowing her man so well

knew he'd pulled her leg again.

She thought of all to whom

she’d bragged she was turd mate.

She laughed in slight embarrassment,

feeling somewhat like fish bait.

Her eyes threw him a challenge

met by silence from her spouse.

A silly grin upon his face,

he knew he’d been found out.

Some months subsequently

someone saw him at the shop.

They asked how was the fishing,

to be met with a gigantic sob.

“The boat is locked up in the shed.

And things are not too placid.

The missus hardly talks to me

and the atmosphere’s like acid.

I know I shouldn’t really moan

for I know I did upset her.

But whenever I bring home a steak

she gives it to our Red Setter.

And by jeez as if that’s not enough,

for revenge in the extreme,

she keeps serving me for dinner

unopened canned sardines.