Jonny McCambridge: Mr Miyagi, Tom Sawyer and the garden fence

It is uneven, not quite straight, a little crooked. Every so often a splinter or chunk falls off. The colour on the planks is faded, cracked and peeling.

It was some time ago that my wife first suggested I should paint the fence. Two years back, I think. I have been considering the task ever since then, coming to terms with it.

When my wife occasionally inquires about when the job will be commenced, I patiently state that there are a myriad of factors which need to be in my favour before I can even think about starting such an enterprise. If she persists, I plead that it is too complicated to explain. I don’t like to rush into things.

But the current lockdown has concentrated minds and removed distraction. On a crisp morning my wife informs me that she and my son are going to start on the fence. My jaw tightens and I feel the burn in my cheeks.

‘No, it’s alright, I’ll do it....I was thinking about painting it today anyway.’

Half an hour later I’m standing at my back gate with my boy, who is staring at me with curiosity.

I have slipped into working man mode, a rare and distinct condition which he has not witnessed often. There are certain tells. I walk about a lot shaking my head and muttering under my breath. I stare dolefully at inanimate objects. I curse a whole generation of earlier tradesmen whose inferior labour I am going to have to correct. I wipe my hands on my trousers while emitting a low growl. I look about for a nail to put in my mouth but cannot locate one.

An alarming amount of time is wasted trying to open the tin of paint. My son watches me struggle, and laughs when I boot it in frustration.

And then, finally, we are ready. My thought is that my boy can assist me, father and son working together, passing my wisdom and experience down to the next generation, bonding over sweat. We select a plank and begin to paint.

Fourteen seconds later he says: ‘Daddy, I’m bored of this, can I go and play now?’

I had expected as much. Luckily I have a cultural reference which can assist. I loved reading Tom Sawyer at school, particularly the scene where he tricks his friends into painting his garden fence.

I step back, peering admiringly at the newly applied colour.

‘That’s ok buddy, it’s just such a shame that you are going to miss all of the fun.’

‘What fun daddy?’

‘Well, the fun of painting. This is not work, it’s play. After all it’s not everyday that a man gets the chance to paint a fence. Boy oh boy, am I going to have some fun today.’

The trap has been set and I can see there is a momentary confusion in his features. I give him a fatherly smile. He looks back.

‘Duh daddy!’ he says, before running off.

Deflated, I slap some more paint on wood, cursing Mark Twain’s novel for the fanciful nonsense that it clearly is. I work on alone, my solitary state causing my thoughts to meander until I fix upon another cultural reference. There is a scene in The Karate Kid film where Mr Miyagi teaches Daniel the hidden secrets of martial arts by getting him to use a certain technique to paint his fence.

I try to recreate it now. Long flowing vertical strokes with the brush, mobilising the flexibility of my wrist. Wrist up, wrist down. I can feel a newfound power flowing through my left arm. Wrist up, wrist down.

Two minutes later I have to stop because I have developed cramp in my wrist. I switch to my right hand but the cramp appears here even sooner, complemented by the added hindrance of losing the feeling in my fingers. This causes me to drop the brush on my foot. I don’t remember this scene from the movie.

Abandoning any hopes of a new career as a full-combat karate champion, I reduce my ambition to just getting some paint onto the fence. The truth, which both Tom Sawyer and Mr Miyagi ignored, is that there is no comfortable way of doing this. I try brushing up and down, side to side, diagonally, in circles. I try painting the outline of squares, and then colouring them in. It makes no difference; my arm aches and I can feel my back beginning to seize up.

I’m forced to consider alternatives. Just throwing the can of paint at the fence is attractive, but likely to be messy and inefficient. I seriously ponder the prospect of removing my boot, lying on the ground and gripping the brush between my toes, but the woman from across the road is watching out her window and I suspect she already thinks me a little strange. Best not to lower her opinion still further.

I plough on stubbornly, becoming more reckless. There is, to be sure, some paint on the wood, but probably more on my clothes, skin and hair. I think, if such a thing is possible, that I may have stained the insides of my eyelids. My son rides past on his scooter.

‘Are you still having fun daddy?’

I scowl and put down the brush and survey what I have achieved. I have painted part of the gate. My property is not large but the totality of the fence seems to stretch off into the misty horizon like the Great Wall of China. I wonder if our garden fence can be seen from space.

I go back inside.

‘Have you finished?’ my wife asks hopefully.

I chuckle inwardly at the naivety of the query.

‘No, no,’ I respond. ‘A job like this has to be done in stages.’

‘But you’ve only been at it for less than an hour.’

‘I know, but, but...you have to let the paint soak into the wood. Whoever painted it before did a bad job, that’s slowing me down.’

She looks at me doubtfully.

‘Don’t worry,’ I continue. ‘I’ll do a bit more tomorrow....or maybe the day after.’

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