Today we painted the shop door My dad and me.

I arrived early and started without him. Just after he arrives hangs up the bag mum has sent him with, hangs his coat and he’s ready to start.

Tall and dark as ever, tanned and clean shaven. When I think about him he always has a mustache although that went years ago along with the white cotton socks he always used to wear, a throw back to the 50’s I think. Huge hands gather the tools from the messy pile I’ve strewn around the workshop. He is as he always is, Quiet and organised just like his dad my grandad.

They both worked together for a long time. Grandad told me proudly more than once that dad was the youngest mill right in the country. Dad told me about the fire at the mill, he told me that he’d used a jumper mum had knitted to try to put it out, he never said that he was the youngest mill right in the country.

He takes out the sand paper and cuts it into neat rectangles with the sharp edged scraper that we have had for years, wraps one around the block of wood and begins to rub away the layers of old paint and grime revealing colours that have been covered for years.

He’s far from being old, they had me when they were 18. I remember him at 22 when I was just 4 sleeping whilst I played on the floor of their bedroom trying not to wake him, it was my birthday and he’d been on nights. I’m feeling that way again.

Layers are stripped back leaving a smooth even surface and the shaped edges of the frame are defined and sharp. The pitted case is filled as I make coffee and we share the biscuits mum has sent. I try to feed him chocolate while she’s not around and give him extra sugar. I never bother to stir it, he likes the spoon left in so he can stir it himself.  The ritual that has also gone on for years. It drives mum mad but I like it and do the same sometimes when he’s not around.

After the second sanding we drink more coffee then dig out the paint from the clutter I’ve left in the back room. He cracks the can open with the sharp corner of the scraper, the lid is wiped clean and set side out of the way and he uses the same scraper to stir the paint. This, like the coffee stiring is thorough and the paint brightens and thickens as the watery surface is folded in and wiping the residue down the scraper blade with the edge of the can he’s careful not to drip it. A rag wipes the scraper blade clean and it too is set aside.

Grandad used to sit at the table after work with a book. He didn’t like to talk and eat, he was reading some book about war or something. We would talk in the garage for hours whilst he worked on the cars while he try to slow me down as I blustered from one task to another. Tea time was his time to sit and relay the thoughts from the day and sink into the book. He looked old when I used to call round but couldn’t have been much older than dad, his hands were scarred and cut from working. He always washed over the sink in the back kitchen, scrubbing with vim to bleach away the ground in oil in his hair and on his hands. I later realised that this washing ritual was the reason his hair was pure white.

We hardly talk and the shop is quiet. The silence is punctuated only with the sound of cars passing on the road outside and the creak of the wooden ladder. At once I’m a child again, dads towering on the ladder and with long strokes the frame is brought to life. From the ladder he looks down and asks if it’s looking ok, I just smile and put up my thumb. Hours pass and my childish pace slows as I try to make a good job, knowing that he’ll be looking at it later with a critical eye. We did a good job. The door and frame are fresh and we stand silent and admire our work. We did a good job.

We drag it out until 5 and decide we’ve finished. He cleans up with the precision he paints with, brushes are set in spirt and rinsed to make them good again, he scrubs his hands clean over the sink then wipes it dry with a rag. We drink more coffee until it’s time to leave. I decide to stay to avoid the awkward parting at the door. On the street outside we say our goodbyes and he touches me on the shoulder and smiles before walking to the car.

 Today we painted a door.