Painting with My Father

An elderly gent ambled towards me on the walking track. He spoke into his mobile phone, “G’day cobber.” I hadn’t heard that typically Aussie phrase for years. It brought the face of my dad to mind, and a recollection of the time we painted the house together. The image of Dad with paint cans and brushes made me smile.

I remember the old house in Murrumbeena clearly: double-fronted California bungalow with a haphazard garden. Mum loved plants but she just popped them in wherever there was a space. The house was always painted grey with white trim and Dad never let it get out of hand. On a warm day in late spring, about twenty years ago, I visited after a work conference before going home to Sydney. Dad was getting ready to paint the west wall of the house. I didn’t need to be back right away, so I offered to stay and help. A few days wielding a brush would be calming after the stress of presenting a paper and making new contacts.

Day one

Dad held out a well-patched pair of grey overalls. “My old ones. Turn ’em up.”

He was thrifty with words. I obediently climbed into the overalls and, having long ago learned to interpret his truncated comments, rolled up the legs and sleeves a few times.

We spent the morning preparing the surface to be painted.

“Never stint,” he said. “Do it right, do it once.”

Dad had already done the sanding, so we scrubbed those weatherboards with sugar soap until they gleamed. While they dried, we made a list of the equipment we needed. For a man who didn’t say much, Dad certainly liked encyclopedic details in a list. I’ve still got the one he dictated to me:

• gap filler—for holes or splits in the paint or the boards

• primer—to paint over the sanded bits so the top coat sticks

• paint—ask your mother for the paint chart and mark the colour she wants

• brushes—always use the best you can afford because quality tools result in a quality finish

• ladders—you’ll find them just inside the shed door and be careful not to knock anything over when you bring them out

• planks—standing against the wall by the ladders and don’t knock anything over with them either

• turps—I don’t know if we’ll need this but it’s in the poisons cupboard over the freezer at the back of the garage (odd place to keep poisons, Dad!)

• masking tape and a Stanley knife—for windows because it’s easier to get tape off than dried-on paint

• plastic sheets—to keep paint off the ground and the garden and everything else that isn’t the house walls

• safety goggles—so you don’t get paint in your eyes because you’re not an experienced painter

• ice-cream containers of water—to clean the brushes when we take a break and at the end of the day

• rags—to wipe drips, spills and hands, and your mother knows where they are

• a mask—so the blasted paint fumes don’t make me cough

Day two

We set off to the hardware store first thing in the morning. When we arrived, Dad made his way to the paint section. “G’day, cobber,” he said to the man at the counter.

“Name’s Doug. What can I do for you, mate?”

I produced the paint chart and pointed out Mum’s chosen colour to Doug, who then completely ignored me and discussed the tinting options with my father. There were so many decisions to make: best paint brand for the job, size of paint can, number of cans required, available stock, base colour. My assumption that you just use white was wrong because there are subtle shade differences that can enhance or ruin your final colour—this information delivered by the salesman with an unsubtle wink to Dad. Losing interest, I wandered off to the paintbrush aisle. Dad joined me when the tinting was settled.

“Patience, girlie. Listen and learn.”

“Really, Dad? Girlie? I’m forty years old.”

“You can still be a bit of a dill at times.”

He then selected the brushes—75mm wall brush with long bristles for the weatherboards, 38mm sash cutter for window and door frames and cutting in. All the while, he pointed out the features of a good brush: quality bristles, flagged ends, balanced wooden handle. Dad shared more of his practical knowledge with me in that ten minutes than he had in the past twenty years. I paid careful attention. We added gap filler, masking tape and plastic drop sheets to the basket of brushes, picked up the paint and joined the queue at the checkout.

Dad took a pot of pansies from a “Brighten Your Spring Garden” plant display and put it in the basket. He winked at me. “For the cheese ’n’ kisses.”

“The what?”

“Cheese ’n’ kisses—the missus.”

I rolled my eyes and Dad’s weathered face creased into a smile. We laughed together.

Out in the carpark, Dad unlocked the white Holden panel van. He’d driven this type of car for as long as I could remember: the refrigeration repair firm he worked for supplied them. When he retired, he’d been allowed to take this one with him for a paltry sum. He loaded our stuff into the back, then we headed home. Bing Crosby crooned from the cassette player. Dad’s hands were steady on the steering wheel. They were work-worn and gnarled. Ageing. I turned my gaze to the side window and watched the world go by.

Mum met us at the door, her pinnie-style apron tight over the sensible house skirt and blouse. She tutted as Dad handed over the pansies. “Always trying to get into my good books.”

Dad pecked her cheek and ran his hand over her head. “Shame you didn’t get your mother’s hair,” he said to me. “Nary a grey to be seen.”

“Pies are ready,” Mum said. “You two wash your hands while I serve up.”

Dad sat in his usual chair at the head of the table. He proffered the sauce bottle. “Horse?” Dead horse. The rhyming slang was coming back to me.

After lunch, we laid drop sheets, set out brushes and stirred the primer. Finally, he declared us ready to begin. I selected a brush but Dad took it from me.

“Masking tape for you.”

“Boring,” I muttered, but not so he’d hear me. When I finished preparing the windows, I was directed to spend some time with Mum. As I dragged off my overalls, I reminded him that I only had two more days. And he reminded me that he needed to be “morning fresh” in order to teach me how to paint properly.

“Patience, girlie.”

I went into the kitchen where Mum was busy starting dinner. Lamb chops and mash. She handed me a bowl of potatoes and a peeler.

“I’m glad you’re here. Your father could do with some help, though he won’t admit it.”

“He’s not letting me do much.”

“Well, I’m not allowed to paint at all, so you’re doing better than me.”

I laughed. “Apparently he can only teach me to paint in the morning, not the afternoon!”

“The emphysema makes him tired. You know how it is …”

I soaked the peeled potatoes in water then wandered out to watch Dad at work. It was a sunny afternoon and a hankie knotted at the four corners covered his balding head. Wisps of silvery hair nestled into the nape of his neck.

When he was finished priming I helped him clean up. I folded the plastic sheets. There wasn’t a drop of paint on them. We stored everything in the garage for the night. He locked the door and slid the key into his pocket.

“Thirsty work. Time for a beer, eh?”

After dinner, Mum and I watched TV. Dad went into the back room to use his nebuliser. The bubbling sound of the liquid as it condensed and pumped into his lungs was familiar. He joined us when he’d finished, but was soon asleep in the chair.

Day three

My job was cutting in. I could not do the actual weatherboards because I might leave brush strokes. Not an easy thing to avoid; apparently achievable only by long years of experience. Dad showed me how to dip the brush in the paint and wipe it on the can without slopping the precious liquid over the edges and down the sides. I told him that this was not the first time I’d painted.

“In fact,” I said. “I’ve done a fair bit of painting at my own house over the years.”

“Even so, girlie, listen to me. No waste, no mess.”

As instructed, I plied my brush around the window frames and kept my paint can clean. Dad came to check periodically. He looked pleased.

“No doubt about it. You’re a chip off the old block.”

After lunch, I cut in around the front door. Then I was allowed to paint the window frames. It was almost dark by the time we packed up.

“Good day’s work. Let’s have a beer.”

Mum served what Dad described as a “flash meal”. Roast chicken with stuffing. Gravy made from pan juices and flour. Crispy baked potatoes and pumpkin. Shelled peas. Mum made the best roast dinner in Christendom. Always had.

Dad wiped his plate with a flourish and popped the last piece of buttered bread into his mouth. “Why would you go out when you can get a meal like that in your own home? Bloody good cook, your mum.”

“Amen to that.”

“I tell you what,” said Dad. “I’ll do my nebuliser, then we’ll play some cards.”

Day four

Wonder of wonders. My job for the day was the wrought-iron screen door. A typical 1960s affair, it had numerous curlicues and a peacock with a cascading tail. A quick instruction on how to avoid painting the mesh and I was left alone to get on with it. I had the devil of a job to cover the joins properly without leaving stray paint where it had no place to be. Before long, Dad tapped my shoulder.

“Told Mum we’re right for lunch. We’ll go for a counter meal. Get out of those overalls and wash your hands, then we’ll be off.”

Dad got into the panel van and settled himself on the seat gingerly. “I think you’ll have to do the rest of the ground-level weatherboards, girlie. Squatting’s a bugger on the Farmer Giles.”

“The what?”

“The piles.” He grinned.

“Too much information, Dad! Just hit the frog and toad.” I grinned too.

We each had a parma and a pot for lunch and talked about Mum and Dad’s plans to take a little drive to Queensland in the panel van. “Before we’re too old,” he added.

“You’re only seventy-one. You’ve got loads of time for travel.” I hope. The thought surprised me as it crossed my mind.

By the end of the day, I’d completed the screen door and top-coated the bottom weatherboards. Dad and I stepped back from the house and admired the wall we’d painted together.

“Grand job. Thanks.”

Mum did a stew for dinner and Dad enjoyed every mouthful.

“A solid day’s work and a full belly.” He leaned back in his chair. “Ahh, you wouldn’t be dead for quids.”

I smiled at Mum, and Dad winked at us then stood up. “I think I’ll go lay down for a while and listen to a cassette.” He kissed Mum’s cheek. “Night, love.” Then he kissed the top of my head. “Night, darling girl.” He walked to the kitchen door, then turned back. “I’ll be sorry to see you go tomorrow.”

Mum and I settled in the lounge room to watch a movie she’d taped. Before long we heard the bubbling sound beneath the crooning of Bing Crosby, followed soon after by snoring.

“He’s tired out,” Mum said. “Sometimes I wonder how much longer he’ll last.”

I couldn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.