Simon Clarke walks toward the towns adultlearning centre as if he were still hunting for a workshop space. The same backalley route, the same Lets Rent signs, but now he no longer counts shop windows or guesses how many people will drift in by the hour. He counts the steps up to the entrance, trying not to think about how easily his confidence and his finances fell apart last year.
He is fortyeight. The passport says it looks respectable, yet his mind feels like someone hit pause and forgot to press play. He has run a domesticappliance repair business for nearly a decade: first alone, then with a partner, then solo again after he had to sell part of his tool kit when the rent jumped and customers started haggling, Can you do it for a thousand, or better yet, for free? He never went out with a spectacular failure; he just grew tired of explaining why his work costs money, and one morning he cant muster the enthusiasm to smile at people who bargain over every screw.
At the centres reception, a sterneyed security guard with knitting needles stops him.
May I help you?
Um Im here for a club, he says, stumbling over the phrase.
She eyes him as if hes in the wrong hallway.
Room thirteen. Down the corridor, right, then left. Thats where the Technology club meets. Keep it down; the music room is next door.
The corridor is chilly, linoleumcovered, a floor that has survived more reforms than any of the students. Simon drags a box under his arm containing what he managed to gather at home: a multimeter, a screwdriver set, two old soldering irons, a spool of solder and a plastic container of screws. It looks like a makeshift kit for someone who once dreamed of a proper workshop with ventilation and proper lighting.
Room thirteen is a former craft class: desks, a locked cabinet, a long table by the window piled with two solderpads, a tangled extension lead, and a faded safety poster that still reads Do not touch with wet hands.
The first teens trickle in slowly. The timetable reads Appliance Repair and Assembly, ages 1416, yet the door admits twelveyearold boys one moment and girls the next, looking as if they were pushed into the room.
Do you actually fix stuff here? asks a tall lad in a black jacket, hood still on.
Yes, Simon replies. If theres anything to fix.
And if there isnt?
Then well take something apart and put it back together. He hadnt expected to say it out loud. The boy snorts and stays.
A thin, quiet boy with a backpack that seems heavier than him sits near the window and immediately pulls out a grid notebook. He doesnt greet Simon, doesnt meet his eyes, only adjusts his pen with his fingers.
Whats your name? Simon asks.
Arthur, the boy replies after a pause, as if weighing whether to answer.
Two more show up for company and start whispering by the door. One is roundfaced with a perpetual grin; the other wears headphones he never removes, even while speaking.
Im Dan, says the grinfilled one. And this is Steven. He can hear fine, just like this.
Steven lifts his thumb, still wearing the headphones.
Simon realizes his old habit of speaking quickly and confidentlyas he did with customers doesnt work here. No one came for a service; they came to see if the adult would be on their wavelength.
He places the box on the table and opens it.
Alright, anyone who has a broken household gadget at home that they dont mind bringing inkettles, hairdryers, tape recorders, speakers, anything not plugged straight into a 230volt socketbring it. Well take it apart, see why it wont work, and try to reassemble it. If something burns, well find out why.
What if it gives me a shock? Dan asks, clearly hoping for drama.
Then Im to blame, Simon says. So first we learn how not to get shocked. Well work with plugs pulled out. Its boring, but fingers are worse.
The first session yields almost no repairs. Simon shows how to hold a screwdriver, how not to strip slots, how to label screws so none look extra. The teens listen, then get distracted. Arthur stays silent, sketching rectangles that look like circuit diagrams. Steven stares at his phone but occasionally glances at Simons hands as if memorising them.
The soldering iron the centre supplies on a list is dead. Simon plugs it in, feels the cold case.
It isnt heating, Dan says smugly, as if catching Simon in a lie.
So well start by fixing the iron, Simon replies calmly.
Arthur lifts his head just a fraction.
In the second class someone brings an electric kettle without its base. The body is intact, the button clicks, but it wont turn on.
Thats my mums, Dan says, adding, She said if I fix it we wont have to buy a new one.
Simon removes the lower cover, points to the contact group.
You see here the contacts burnt. It was heating up. We need to clean it, check if its still bent.
Can we just short it? Steven finally asks, pulling off one earbud.
We could, but then the kettle would turn on whenever it feels like it. Its like
He stops, thinking of like a business, but cuts himself off.
Like a door without a lock. It looks shut, but anyone can walk in.
They work together, Dan handling the screwdriver, Steven holding a phone flashlight. Arthur sits nearby and quietly says,
There might be a thermal fuse. If its blown, cleaning the contact wont help.
Simon looks at him.
Where exactly?
Arthur draws a tiny schematic in the margins and points.
Usually near the heating element, inside the thermoshrink.
He says it matteroffactly, no need to impress.
Simon feels a strange relief: he isnt the only one who knows whats happening.
They locate the fuse, test it with the multimeterstill good. They clean the contacts, reassemble, plug the kettle into the tangled extension and it clicks and whirs.
Whoa! Dan grins widely. It really works.
For now, Simon warns. Dont leave it unattended at home, and tell your mum we cleaned the contacts, not performed magic.
Shell still say I did nothing, Dan mutters, but his tone softens. He packs the kettle in a bag like a trophy.
The third session brings a hairdryer. A girl named Emily holds it as if it might bite.
It smells and shuts off, she says. Mum wants to throw it away, but Im sorry for it. It used to be fine.
Simon opens it; dust and hair spill out.
Thats why it smells. Its not a bad dryer, its life inside it.
Emily laughs, a short, cautious giggle.
And it shuts off?
It probably overheats. The thermal cutout trips. We need to clean the fan, check the brushes, look at the contact.
Steven perks up.
I have the same one at home. Dad glued it together, now it rattles.
Glued? Simon jokes. You can glue many things, even relationships.
Steven watches Simon, wondering if hes being too serious.
They clean the dryer, oil a bearing, test the cord. At one point Emily says,
At home we never clean it, and then it burns.
Simon nods, pretending not to hear the metaphor.
Better to clean it on time, he says.
Arthur starts arriving earlier, spreading his own diagrams on the table. Simon notices tiny scratches on Arthurs hands, like someone else also tinkers at home.
How did you learn that? Simon asks one day after Arthur repairs a speaker jack without being asked.
At home. Granddad had a radio. After he died, the radio stayed. I didnt want it to just gather dust, Arthur shrugs.
Simon nods, understanding the urge to keep things working, lest everything around you fall apart for no reason.
He never talks about his old business, only that he used to fix appliances. The teens dont press for details, but Simon catches himself waiting for a question and fearing it. He fears hearing in their voices the same thing he heard in his own: I didnt make it.
One afternoon they wrestle with a cassette player Steven brought. The old players play button sticks. While disassembling, a spring shoots out from under the cabinet.
Great, Simon mutters, irritation leaking out. Without it it wont reassemble.
Thats like a loot drop in a game, Dan jokes.
Arthur kneels, reaches under the cabinet, Steven removes his remaining headphone, and together they hunt for the spring. Simon feels ashamed of his outburst, remembering how he once snapped at a client for a simple question. He apologises quietly.
Okay, my fault, he says. I should have covered the table with a cloth so tiny parts dont fly.
Thats alright, Dan says unexpectedly serious. We all mess up.
Arthur pulls the spring out with the tip of a ruler.
Found it, he says, pride bright in his voice.
Simon puts the spring in a tiny box and declares,
This is an important partnot because the player wont work without it, but because we found it.
Steven smirks.
Philosophy, he jokes.
No, just experience, Simon replies.
A few weeks later the centre announces a minifair for parents and neighbours. Nothing grand: tables in the hall, kids showing what they do. The centre manager, a shorthaired woman clutching an everpresent clipboard, pops into Room13.
Simon Clarke, youll be exhibiting something, right? No dangerous experiments, please.
Were already safe, Simon says.
I saw your extension lead, she replies dryly and leaves.
Simon looks at the tangled lead, aware that the fair will expose the poverty of their equipment, the fact they learn on old junk, and his own uncertainty about being a teacher rather than a contractor.
Will we show something that works? Dan asks.
Yes, Simon answers. But it has to run not just on our table but in front of people.
What if it doesnt? Emily asks.
Then well be honest that it didnt work. Thats part of the process too.
Arthur looks up from his schematic.
How about a display board? Show whats inside, not just the on light.
Simon feels something shift inside. Hes used to selling a finished product. Here he can showcase the process.
Good idea, he says. Lets do it.
On the preparation day they stay after class. The corridor lights are dimmed, the cleaner mops the floor, the scent of detergent mixes with dust from their room. Simon spreads cardboard, markers, tape. Dan brings an old picture frame to make it look nice. Steven drags a small speaker they revived and puts on lowvolume music.
Quiet, Simon says automatically.
Im quiet, Steven replies, turning the music down.
Emily carefully places the dryer beside a sign that reads After cleaning. Dan sets the kettle on the table with a label: Contacts no magic. Arthur sticks his cassetteplayer schematic onto the cardboard, drawing arrows.
Youre like an engineer, Simon comments.
I just like things to make sense, Arthur replies.
A minor argument flares. Dan wants to put the kettle near the edge for visibility. Emily warns it could be knocked over. Steven steps in, saying everyone doesnt care. Dan snaps,
You never care! You only showed up because you had nothing better to do!
Steven rips off his headphones.
Youre here to prove to your mum youre not useless, he blurts.
The room falls silent. Simon feels the urge to intervene with a tidy moral. He remembers how he used to rush to close conflicts, only for them to explode later.
Guys, he says calmly, lets keep it civil. Were not here to throw punches.
Dan looks away, cheeks reddening.
I really need to prove something, he admits softly.
Steven looks down.
Its noisy at home, he says. Here its calm.
Emily moves the kettle to the centre of the table.
Lets just put it in the middle and be done, she suggests.
They do so. The dispute doesnt vanish, but it cracks like a fissure caught early.
The fair is cramped. Parents wander with shopping bags, some filming on phones, others asking questions as if scouting for the useful section. Simon stands behind the table, palms sweating. He never liked the spotlight. In his old business he hid behind invoices, a polite Leave a message and well call you. Here theres nowhere to hide.
A woman in a puffer coat leans in.
What are you doing here? Is this safe for kids, electricity and all?
Before Simon can launch into safety protocols, Arthur jumps in.
Were learning how things work and how to stay safe. Heres the fuse, the contact. If you understand, youre less scared.
The woman looks at Arthur, then at Simon.
Hes articulate, she says.
Simon nods.
He thinks well, he replies.
Dan demonstrates the kettle, jokes about no magic, Emily explains the dryer cleaning as if defending its honour. Steven turns on the revived cassette player, the buttons clicking alive. Occasionally he cranks the volume, Simon gives a sharp look, and Steven rolls his eyes, turning it down.
A man in a work jacket, about forty, stops at the table, studies the setup and asks,
So, who are you? A teacher?
Simon feels that old shame rise again. He could call himself an engineer, a master, an entrepreneur, but all those titles cling to his past.
Im running a club now, he says. I used to fix appliances. Its changed.
The man nods, as if he gets more than the words.
Good to have you here, he says and walks away.
After the fair they return to Room13 to clean up. The hall is empty, a forgotten glove rests on the sill. Simon carries the tool box, fatigue settling innot the kind that makes you want to collapse, but the kind that makes you crave a proper meal and an early night.
Simon, Dan calls from the doorway. Can we bring a microwave next time? The neighbour says hell just toss it anyway.
Microwaves are risky high voltage, Simon replies. Maybe a toaster, a lamp, or a charger.
Ill bring three chargers, Steven says. All of them you know what I mean.
Emily smiles.
Ill bring the dryer again. It works at home, but mum says Ill clean it myself from now on.
Arthur lingers, eyes his wallmounted schematic.
Can I take that? he asks. Hang it at home.
Take it, but handle it gently, Simon says.
Arthur folds the cardboard, clutching it like something precious.
When everyone has left, Simon stays a few minutes alone. He switches off the extension, tidies the tools, closes the cabinet. The room is quiet, only the distant click of a door somewhere down the corridor.
He sits, looks at the empty table. Theres no triumph, no feeling of having rescued anyone. Instead theres a plain understanding: tomorrow more people will walk in, looking for a place to fix things and talk without a barrage of questions.
Simon pulls a notebook from his pocket and writes, Buy a proper extension lead. Request another soldering iron from the centre. Get a lamp. Then he adds, Ask Arthur about a display board. Let Dan make signs. Give Steven the music duty, but with conditions.
He closes the notebook, stands, turns off the lights. At the exit he glances back at Room13 a space that isnt yet a full workshop, but its no longer just a classroom. As he shuts the door, he catches himself thinking not about what he lost, but about what can be rebuilt, slow and steady, screw by screw.
