Branded by a Burning Stove
Women can be so unforgiving? Philip Dunn meets a man who bent over backwards to
ensure that the lady who shared his boat could sleep undisturbed. But it did him no
good, and now he’s a marked man.
It is heart-rending the lengths to which a sailing man will go, and the suffering he will
endure to keep his wife happy when she joins him aboard his boat. Take Dermot
O’Reilly and his wife Una, for instance – I have changed their names so that this
sensitive lady doesn’t take offence, and make matters worse. Then, perhaps she can
forgive poor Dermot and he can sit more comfortably.
A Tear To My Eye
The tale of Dermot’s plight, and the fortitude with which he faced it, is not for the
squeamish. When he told me his story over the best part of a bottle of Jamieson’s, I
confess it touched me so deeply it brought a tear to my eye.
Gaff-Rigged Long Keeler
Dermot owns a clinker-built long-keeler: lovely little thing, goes by the name of – no,
I mustn’t be indiscrete – just take it as read that she’s very pretty and Dermot, of
course, is devoted to her – the boat, that is. She is gaff-rigged, lots of brass and
mahogany, and with a very old Faversham stove in the saloon. I know it
is a Faversham stove because the name is embossed in the cast iron on the
front. Dermot keeps his little boat in a marina on the east coast of Ireland. A place
widely famous for fine Guinness and local oysters. Not that oysters have anything to
do with this tale, but the Guinness almost certainly played some small part.
Harmless Desire
Well, Dermot and his good lady were staying on board the boat one evening when he
got that feeling that comes over many of us from time to time – the harmless desire
for a pint or two. Naturally, he asked his wife if she would like to join him, but she
refused, excusing herself with a headache and tiredness. Of course Dermot was very
concerned and before he left he vigilantly stoked the Faversham stove so that his lady
would be warm and comfortable in his absence. A considerate man, Dermot.
He did, however, make a fundamental mistake here. As he clambered ashore he called
back: “Won’t be long, Darling”
Sacrifice
Now Dermot is a personable sort of fellow, people like to talk to him, discuss sailing
matters and so on. He is, in short, a good man to stand at a bar with. Having such an
open, generous nature, he naturally feels obliged to give of his time, and on this
occasion he gave it unstintingly, sacrificing himself by remaining at the bar much
longer, and taking far more drink than he would normally. It was pressed upon him
you understand.
Sleeping Peacefully
Much, much later, as a frosty moon rose, to be reflected in the still waters of the
lough, Dermot rolled home, unsteadily and as silently as he was able, back along the
pontoon to his boat. He was, of course, acutely sensitive to the fact that his wife
would now be sleeping peacefully in the forepeak. Disturbing her would not be wise.
The saloon of the little Folkboat being rather confined, he decided it would be best to
undress outside in the cockpit and steal quietly into the pilot berth so as not to disturb
‘Herself’. Dermot climbed aboard, stripped down to his birthday suit and manoeuvred
with great care down the companionway steps and into the warm saloon. The
Faversham stove glowed a welcome, and he blessed his forward thinking in stoking it
up. Dermot was blissfully unaware how soon he would come to regret his decision to
pile extra peat into that stove.
Aflame
He stumbled – a momentary loss of balance, you understand. His backside came into
contact with the front of the stove, and a piteous, agonised scream came from that
little boat that might have been heard all the way across the Irish Sea in Holyhead.
“Holy Mary, mother of God! Me arse is aflame,” lamented poor Dermot.
Sham
He managed to get a few inches of cold water – and his burning backside – into the
plastic washing-up bowl. The smell of scorched flesh filled the saloon. When the pain
had eased sufficiently, Dermot was able to attempt some sobering contortions with a
torch and a shaving mirror in order to assess the damage “’Twas a terrible shock,” Dermot told me. “I was branded for life for the whole world to witness. I could see it in the mirror – ‘SHAM’ emblazoned in red on me right
cheek. They said at the hospital it could have been much worse – another inch or so
and I would have had the whole of Faversham across me buns.”
As his woeful tale unfolded, Dermot shifted uncomfortably on the settee berth and he
downed another finger of whiskey. I wondered if it would help if I asked to see the
damage, sympathise perhaps, tell him that I was sure it would disappear in time. I
confess to a deal of curiosity but decided against it on the grounds that there are some
things a man likes to keep to himself.
Mentally Scarred
The real hurt, though, had gone deeper than just a branding of the buttocks; Dermot
was mentally scarred.
“The dreadful thing was that it was all unnecessary,” he told me sorrowfully. “Herself
wasn’t there at all, so I needn’t have bothered creeping about. She’d got fed up of
waiting and buggered off home before midnight. She wasn’t even there to tend me
wounds. Now is that a reasonable way to behave?”
No, Dermot, it isn’t. But then, women can be like that.
—–
Note: The wonderful little Faversham Stove has been keeping sailors warm for almost 50 years. Climbing aboard naked into the saloon of a small boat heated by any stove – after several pints of Guinness – is not recommended.
