Side by side like well worn partners with leathery soles and crinkly uppers and dangling laces.
The first pair date long ago to a lad fresh of school and barely 14 firing rough slabs the offcuts of logs from the mill into a furnace.

 

It feeds insatiable steam into the pulsation's of gleaming brass and shiny reciprocating steel powering long hazardous leather belts on pulleys of spinning shafts.
It radiates warmth in a sweet smell of hot oil to unappreciative hands sweating in the deafening noise of saws.

 

There was no timber shortage then. Forests fell and precious kauri was cheap for any purpose as men slaved to build a better place for them and their families.
Another pair is deep scratched. Some from wooden decks, some from plates of patterned steel, the coal fired engine room floors that throbbed at top speed up the Gulf.

 

Above deck merry rounds of day excursionists are togged in Sunday best, even freshly scrubbed for this their grand outing to Kawau.

 

Smoke billows astern - the ship wants the best berth and how long will the unruly stomachs of land folk stand exposed to the swing of the sea? The engine telegraph rings and she steams full speed ahead.
Fire on my lad we will outpace the competition. Here are more with a stirrup scratch from the mounted band tromboning bravely along the quay amidst admiring crowds, leading in procession and veering around the horse drawn trams of our Queen city.

 

Or maybe it is a scar from night watch in the heaving mid Atlantic gale amid U boats. No seasickness permitted here for trouble looms should an engine fail.
And now the pride of the set, this pair in brilliant black, the keen nuggetty shine which walked in wedding time to proud and measured march up the aisle to the waiting beauty an independent minded high spirited bride.

 

See the fresh pressed suit and button hole and radiant smiles that unwittingly cover unresolved views and bunker a conflagration for later days.

 

But for the now there is peace and joy and happiness overwhelms.

 

 And hard by the next are threadbare, worn. Is this pair that strode to the Bank outwardly confident and business-like, that had such clear vision of what might be.

 

House documents are in hand. They will be put on the line, mortgaged to buy a scow to run coastwise. It is depression time when to have one coin is a fortune, two is untold wealth. Soon these boots will stand continuous days and nights working on stopped engines.

 

Disaster, total financial diaster is imminent. Then at the darkest hour, the midnight of gloom, a sooty chortle of diesel shatters the quiet and all is saved, the house is saved.

 

Then years pass to wartime and bring cargoes of sand for glass; a post war boom and an economy shining with unexpected brilliance and newly shone the boots then march into the board room chair and at Lodge they look up to their new Grand Master.

 

But a softer set lie alongside. These are the ones the elderly, the widows saw as they received this and that for their table, that various in dire straights saw, that offered help, hospitality to the desperate and saw such things that few knew and fewer spoke.

 

And a change further on. Here lie the heavy and serviceable, battle scarred from many a night encounter.

 

Even now they jump to the fire siren and instantly expect the warmth of sleepy feet. Their service started long ago when fire water had to be pumped from the nearest stream with a recalcitrant steam pump.

 

The engineer alone could make it work and thenceforth this volunteer service had a new recruit. Later the steam pumps were obviated by proper water supplies, fire engines became reliable in bright painted red, but the service was dedicated and ultimately Deputy Chief was written with pride about those boots. But now the shelf recurves to the wall, one last pair sit unworn.

 

Tomorrow we'll give them to the Sallies.

 

 Gordon Reynolds