The only time I can remember just my Dad and I having a special outing together, was when he took me down to The East India Docks to have a look over the Gurna. The Gurna was an old steamship from the turn of the century and she was the cause of some excitement in our household. She was to be The Ensign Rigging Company's first delivery contract.

ss Gurna, The British East India Steam Navigation Coy., Ltd.

Ensign Rigging was the name of my Dad's business. Starting a new business, so soon after the war, must have been a challenge for Mum and Dad. The startup capital had come out of a one thousand pound compensation payment he'd received after losing three fingers from his right hand in an industrial accident. But there were still a thousand and one things that had to done up before he could "go out on his own".

Previously he had worked with my Grandad who provided a "Runners and Riggers Gang" to Shipping Agents and The British Iron and Steel Corporation, on a sub-contract basis. Their job was to prepare and look after the ship, prior to, or when it was being towed by tug to a new anchorage, if navigation in the open sea was to be involved. The most usual time this occurred was when a vessel was to be taken to the Breakers Yard, or being moved to a new anchorage for fit-out or lay-up.

But Dad and Grandad didn't really get on together at work and it was only a matter of time before Dad did his own thing. Dad didn't like Grandad's habit of cutting corners. It wasn't as if he was lazy or skimped on things - often quite the contrary - it was just Grandad's habit of just rushing in and doing things without properly planning them. If there was a quick way of doing something, that's the way Grandad did it. He was also very lax in the way he kept his accounts. In fact, we had a minor crisis a couple of years later after Ensign Rigging had got established, when Grandad came round to see Dad and told him he was of age to claim the old age pension, but had a problem. Owing to the fact that never in his life had he ever paid any Income Tax or National Insurance, there were no records to show he even existed, let alone was eligible for a pension. Dad hit the roof and had a hell of a job sorting something out with the Accountant for him. An employment history from the war, complete with tax stamps etcetera, had to be fabricated and a story concocted that Grandad's records had been somehow lost during the War or something. Apparently the story was not really believed but in those days I'm sure plenty of "fiddles" went undetected and Grandad got his old age pension.

I'm sure my Mum, like my Nan, hated the work they did. It was dangerous and dirty, and the people they had to employ were often little more than drunken no hopers. But the money was very good for the times. Dad was ambitious, and Grandad liked to have plenty of money in his pocket, if only because he found it difficult to hang on to it, so they worked as riggers and runners.

Anyway, there had been plenty of activity in our house as the day approached when the Gurna would be arriving. Apart from the actual setting up of the business, stores had to be purchased, crew engaged, and contacts up in "The City" developed so that more jobs would eventuate after the Gurna. I remember Dad designing his first business card. He gave me one after they were printed. The print was raised and under his name it said Managing Director. In the top left hand corner was an ensign - a small Blue Peter - the flag a ship flies as it is about to leave port. It was a nice touch. I was tremendously proud of it, and if truth be known, so was he.

Prior to him taking over the Gurna, after the existing crew had been paid off, various formalities had to be attended to and this necessitated a visit to the Docks to see the present Ships Master. I'm pretty sure it was me who asked first if I could go up there with him, but he was pleased enough to take me. Maybe Mum wasn't so pleased at first, but come Sunday morning she had me all decked out in my best clothes, complete with new school cap and tie. I hated wearing my best clothes because I had to look after them. Before we set off Dad inspected my appearance. When his eyes came to rest on my shoes he said, "I'm not taking him anywhere in those things, go and get your best shoes Michael."

"They are his best shoes," said Mum defensively.

"No they're not, they're the ones he wears for school, get the ones you bought last week after I said I'd take him out with me."

"Well I haven't had time to get him new ones," said Mum, her voice becoming a bit louder.

"Well I'm not taking him out in them, they've had it."

And Dad would know whether they had, he had to repair them when they needed resoling or heeling. I can remember him working on them in the scullery, in the evening. He'd soak the leather in water, cut out the shape required, and nail it to the old uppers, after pulling off the old soles and heels. Not long before the cast iron last had got broken. One of the feet had broken off and Dad, never one to waste anything, had improvised by sticking the foot into the end of an old table leg salvaged from somewhere. I remember this because I liked to tuck up one of my legs behind me and hobble around using Dad's new shoe repair set-up as my wooden peg leg.

"Look at me Mum, I'm Long John Silver," I'd giggle, as I hopped around the room.

Anyway, as I was saying, Dad knew the shoes had had it. They'd already been repaired several times before. They'd buy me shoes a couple of sizes too big, "so that I could grow into them." This meant that initially the toes had to be packed out with newspaper, but now my feet were just about poking through the toecap. I can remember them now, brown semi brogues, with deformed toecaps on account of them being too big for too long, - I'd soon taken out the newspaper, as I didn't like it. Yes, they'd been a good pair of shoes when new, but were now log overdue for the dustbin.

Well getting back to the story I was telling you, - Mum and Dad were on the point of having a row and I could see my chances of visiting the Gurna lessen by the minute. I remember hearing Mum shout at Dad, "Well you buy his shoes in future, and see how you get on."

"Alright I will, and what's more I'll buy him a pair today."

"And how can you do that?" said Mum sarcastically, "It's Sunday."

"I'll buy him some down the Lane," shouted Dad.

Anyone who came from East London knows that "The Lane" is Petticoat Lane, a market near Aldgate where roadside stalls sell cheap - and usually shoddy - clothing.

"And all you'll get is rubbish, I'm not having any child of mine wearing cardboard shoes from Petticoat Lane," yelled Mum. The argument now developed into the pros and cons of the quality of clothing from Petticoat Lane.

"I know how to tell a good pair of shoes from rubbish," shouted Dad. "Anyway, I'm not taking him anywhere in those shoes, and that's final."

When Dad said "And that's final" we knew it had got to the stage where he could just as easily stalk out of the house slamming the front door behind him. By this stage I'd started crying. They looked at me and glared at each other. They knew they'd both gone too far, but were both too proud to cool down, accept the situation for what it was, and make the best of a bad job.

Dad scowled at me and told me to stop being a crybaby or he wouldn't take me with him, and that only made me cry more. The way things were developing it was only a matter of time before Mum would be threatening to put her head in the gas oven. But it didn't get that far. Mum sighed and accepted a fallback position, "Well if you must buy him shoes off a stall, at least make sure they're something that will last him for a while."

When we got to Petticoat Lane, Dad realised he was running short on time for his meeting at the Gurna. We stopped at the first shoe stall we came to and I was made to try on a horrible orange coloured pair of shoes. Dad probably asked for the cheapest ones they had, because even I could see they were revolting.

"I don't like these, Dad, and Mum won't either." The only reply I got was "Walk up and down a bit to see if they fit alright."

I tried walking but they had no flexibility whatsoever and the back cut into my heel like a knife. "They don't fit Dad. I can't bend my feet." The man selling the shoes put his finger into the heel and said, "They've got plenty of room for him to grow into. They're a bit stiff 'cos they're new. They'll soften up by the time he's walked to the corner." So Dad bought me a new pair of shoes. The barrow boy was about to wrap them up but Dad said, "No, he'll wear them now. Put the old ones in a paper carry bag for him." I looked at my new shoes and had a bad feeling about what Mum would say when we got home.

By the time we had arrived at the docks, the new shoes had worn a hole through the heel of my best school socks, and I could feel a blister developing.

It seemed we'd been walking for ages alongside the high brick walls that surrounded the docks. Occasionally over the top I could see ships' funnels and derricks, and despite my agony my excitement mounted. Finally we reached the entrance gates, guarded by uniformed men. Some sort of discussion developed between Dad and them, and he was getting agitated. He looked for something in his jacket and trousers but whatever it was he didn't have it. I suppose, due to the tiff at home with Mum, he'd forgotten to bring his entry pass. Finally, however, we were let in and the pain from my new shoes was forgotten as we walked along the dockside, looking for the Gurna.

I suppose she was nothing special as far as ships go, but when Dad finally said, "Well, there she is, that's the Gurna, Mike,"

I remember thinking how huge and wonderful she was. All I could say was, "Will you be the Captain, Dad?"

"I suppose so," said Dad. The ship had been unloaded and being unballasted was high out of the water.

"She's so high, Dad. She's huge."

He showed me the Plimsoll markings and explained how they worked, as we walked towards the narrow ladder we had to climb to get aboard. The ladder swayed as we climbed and I was a little scared, but I didn't say anything. I was a bit of a Mummy's boy, I guess, on account of not having had much to do with my Dad as a young child.

When we got aboard Dad took me to meet the Master who was in his cabin. I'd never seen anything remotely like the Gurna before and it was all tremendously exciting. The Master asked me, "Have you been up to the wheelhouse yet?"

I answered, "No," not really knowing what the wheelhouse was. He nodded to my Dad, "And don't forget to take him down the stokehold before you go. It might be the first and last one he ever sees."

After we left the Master's cabin, and proceeded towards the wheelhouse, I asked Dad what the stokehold was.

"I don't know whether we'll have time for that, Mike. Besides, Mum won't be pleased if you get dirt and oil all over your clothes."

That sounded like the place I wanted to be. I made a mental note of making sure we visited it before leaving.

The Gurna was an old tramp steamer of about 4,000 tons. She had a single tall funnel rising from a black riveted bulk. The decks were timber and the superstructure was painted white. Dad explained what the ventilators did, why the cabin doors were louvred, on account of needing the ventitation when she was in the tropics and all sorts of other things I've forgotten.

Lascars were working, removing the last remaining sacks of something from the hold. Dad explained what a Lascar was, what the derricks were, and showed me the donkey engines. The previous summer holiday I'd had a ride on a donkey on the beach at Exmouth. "Why do they call them donkey engines, Dad?"

"Maybe it's because donkeys were used once for the job. I don't know, Mike." I still don't know why donkey engines were so named!

When it was time to go I made sure Dad didn't forget to show me the stokehold. He wasn't too happy but said, "Well you can have a look in the stokehold, but don't touch anything. And as far as the engine room's concerned, you can have a look but you're not even going inside."

As we descended into the old ship it became darker and hotter and a bit scary, like on the ghost train at the fun fair. When we got to the engine room it all looked dark and vast and OILY. Everything was covered in oil and grease - even the handrails!

"See what I mean; you can't go in there, Mike. Your mother will murder me if you got home covered in grease. Besides, it's not as if the engines are working."

So we proceeded to the stokehold which seemed to be in the very bowels of the ship. It got hotter still and even darker. We descended a ladder and I was in an area where some sweaty bare-chested men were tending a boiler, shovelling coal. Dad introduced himself and me, and I could hardly stop my mouth from touching the ground as I oggled them and what they were doing. I couldn't imagine anything worse than having to work all day in a hot dark stokehold.

"Sorry there's not much action for you to see," said one of the men. "We've only got one boiler working so they can finish unloading."

Dad explained how steam was used to drive the donkey engines and these drove winches, used for raising and lowering the derricks, which were a sort of crane for getting cargo out of the hold. It was all very exciting, even though I'd got a load of coal dust and maybe a the odd bit or two of grease on my clean clothes.

At last it was time for us to go home and I think Dad had had as much fun as I had. As we approached Aldgate Station I saw there was a roadside barrow selling cockles and mussels, as such like, outside a pub.

"Like a lemonade and a plate of cockles, Mike?"

"Yes please."

So Dad had a beer and a smoke, and I had lemonade and a plate of cockles. We stood together, and he surveyed the mess I was in. However, I don't think he was at all annoyed.

When we got home, the first thing Mum did was inspect my new shoes.

"I told you particularly not to buy him cheap cardboard rubbish. These won't last five minutes. And look at the blisters he's got on his heels, not to speak of a new pair of socks I've now got to darn." But she didn't say anything about the grease or coal dust as I knew she was pleased we'd both had a good day out. "Anyway, he can still wear the old shoes for school for a bit."

Dad and I looked at each other. "What did you do with the carrier bag, Michael?" he asked.

I had to confess I didn't have a clue. Mum snorted in exasperation, and sure enough, several days later, after returning home from school in the rain, my new shoes literally disintegrated and she had to buy me new ones, after Dad had to admit they were beyond even his powers of repairing.