The Key for Thirteen
He rang me up in the morning, his voice casual, as if it was no big deal.
Could you pop over? Need to get the old bike up and about. Id rather not faff with it on my own.
The words could you pop over and Id rather not struck me as odd coming from Dad. Usually, it was just needs doing or Ill sort it myself. Even being well into my forties, greying at the temples and all, I caught myself almost bracing for the catch, like in the old days. But there wasnt onejust a simple request, and it made me feel awkward.
I rolled up around lunchtime, climbed to the third floor and paused at the landing as I fiddled the key in the lock. The door opened straight away, almost like Dad had been waiting just on the other side.
Come in. Shoes off, please, he said, stepping aside.
Everything in the hallway was just as it always had been: doormat, shoe cupboard, newspapers stacked neat as ever. Dad looked the same too, though his shoulders seemed a bit narrower, and his hands, when he adjusted his sleeve, trembled ever so slightly.
So, wheres the bike? I asked, because it was easier than asking anything else.
On the balcony. Put it there so it wouldnt get in the way. Thought I could sort it myself, but then well, you know. He waved his hand and led the way.
The balcony was glazed but cold, littered with boxes and jars. The bike propped against the wall under an old sheet. Dad pulled off the sheet like revealing something special, and gently brushed along the frame.
Its yours, he said. Remember? We got it for your birthday.
And I did rememberriding up and down the street, the first falls, Dad lifting me silently, brushing dust off my knees and checking the chain. He hardly ever praised me back then, but he looked at things like they were alive, as if he was responsible for them.
Tyres flat, I noted.
Thats the least of it. Hubs making a right racket, back brakes knackered. Gave it a spin yesterday, and honestly, my heart skipped. He tried to grin, but it barely settled.
We lugged the bike into the front room where Dad kept his workshopnot a separate shed or anything, just a corner with a worktop by the window, lamp, and a toolbox. Pliers, screwdrivers, spanners all hung up in proper order. I noticed automatically, like I always did: Dad kept things tidy wherever he could.
Can you find the thirteen mil spanner? Dad asked.
I opened the toolbox. Spanners all lined upexcept, of course, the thirteen. Nowhere in sight.
Theres a twelve and a fourteen no thirteen.
Dad raised an eyebrow.
Hows that then? It was always He stopped, not quite wanting to say always.
I started digging through the tools, pulling out the drawer. Old bolts, washers, a roll of tape, a bit of sandpaper. The spanner showed up tucked under some rubber gloves.
Got it, I said.
Dad took it, weighing it in his hand a moment.
Mustve been me put it there. Memorys going, he muttered, with a little snort. Right, lets have the bike then.
I tipped the bike on its side, stuffing a rag under the pedal. Dad knelt down beside me, slow and careful, like his knees might catch him out. I clocked it, but pretended not to.
First, lets get the wheel off, he said. You hold, Ill do the nuts.
He grabbed the spanner and tried turning it. The nut was stuck and Dads mouth tensed. I picked up the spanner to help, and the nut gave way.
I couldve managed, Dad grumbled.
I know, just
Yeah. Hold it steady, dont let it drop.
We carried on mostly in silence, just the odd word: hold, not that way, here, mind the washer. Funny, but I found myself relieved for the simplicity of it. When youve just got the job to talk about, theres no need to read between the lines.
We got the wheel off and set it down. Dad fetched the old pump, checked the hose. It was battered, its handle worn smooth.
Tubes probably fine. Just dried out a bit, he said confidently.
I almost wanted to ask how he knew, but didnt. Dad always spoke like fact, even if he was guessing.
While he pumped, I looked over the brakes. Pads were faded right down, and the cabled seen better days.
Cables shot, I noted.
Cable Dad stopped pumping, wiping his hand over his trousers. Should have a spare somewhere.
He rummaged under the worktop, digging out one box, then another, both packed with bitsall labelled, of course. I watched, half amused, half sad, knowing that all this sorting wasnt just habitit was an attempt to keep time and memory ordered. As long as everything stayed labelled and in its place, time wouldnt run away.
Cant see it, Dad snapped the box shut, irritation in his voice.
Maybe its in the cupboard? I offered.
My cupboards a right muddle, he admitted, as if confessing an unforgivable crime.
I laughed. You? A muddle? Thatll be the day.
He gave me a sharp look but, for a second, I saw a flicker of appreciation at the joke.
Go on, have a look. Ill carry on here.
The cupboard was tiny, boxes everywhere. I flicked the light on, started shifting bags out. Found a coil of brake cable wrapped in newspaper on the top shelf.
Found it! I called.
There you go! Told you I had one, he called back.
I brought him the cable. Dad turned it over in his hands, checking the ends.
Decent. Just need the ends for it
He rummaged again, picked out little metal caps.
Lets strip down this brake, Dad decided.
I held the frame, Dad tackled the bolts. His fingers were rough and dry, short nails. As a kid, I used to think those hands were unbreakable. Now their steadiness seemed a different kind of strength: patient, careful.
Why are you looking at me like that? Dad muttered, not looking up.
Just thinking you remember all this stuff by heart.
He snorted.
Remember the important things. Where the tools go, thoughthats anyones guess. He tried to laugh, but I could sense the nerves.
Wasnt funny, I wanted to say, but I knew he was talking about something deeper.
Happens to me too, I said instead.
Dad nodded, as if my words gave him permission not to have to be perfect anymore.
In the end, one of the springs was missing when we took the brake apart. Dad stared for ages at the gap before looking up.
I was fiddling about yesterday. Mightve dropped it. Had a proper look on the floor, couldnt find it.
Lets check again, I said.
We both got down on our knees, feeling along the floorboards, peeking under the table. I found it by the skirting board near the chair.
Here we go.
Dad took the spring and held it up to the light.
Thank heavens. Otherwise he trailed off.
I knew he was going to say, otherwise Id have thought Id lost it completely. But he didnt.
Fancy a cuppa? he changed tack, like tea could patch up any awkward bit.
Go on, then.
Dad put the kettle on, mugged up two cups. I sat at the kitchen table, watching him move from cupboard to stovesame old routine, just a notch slower these days. He poured the tea, set a plate of biscuits between us.
Eat. Youve got skinny, he said.
I almost argued that I wasnt, probably just the jacket, but let it be. That was Dad code for I worry about you.
Hows work? Dad asked.
Fine, I replied, then added so it wouldnt sound empty, Projects finished, theres a new one kicking off.
Right. Main thing is you get paid on time.
I grinned.
Youre always going on about money.
What else would I worry about? he looked straight at me. Feelings?
Something in my stomach twisted. I didnt expect Dad to say that out loud.
I dont know, I admitted.
Dad stared at his mug for a long moment.
You know I sometimes think, you only come over out of duty. Tick the box, off you go.
I set my mug down, the tea burning hot around my fingers, but I didnt let go.
You think its easy for me, coming over? I asked quietly. Feels like Im a kid again every time. Like you still know how to do everything better.
Dad gave a lopsided smile, but there was no bite in it.
Thats the problem. Old habits.
And, I pressed on, you never really asked how Im doing. Not properly.
He stared as if the answer might be hiding in his cup.
I was afraid to ask. If you ask, youve got to actually listen. And I never been much good at that. He looked up.
Funnythose plain words took a weight off my chest. Dad didnt say sorry or explain it all away. He just admitted he didnt know how. It felt realer than anything else he couldve said.
Me neither, I said.
Dad nodded, accepting that as enough.
Well, well learn, eh? Start with a bike, he said, a wry glint in his voice, like he couldnt quite believe hed said it.
We finished our tea and went back to the bike, waiting just where wed left itthe wheel off, cable on the table. Dad squared up, ready again.
Right. You thread the cable, Ill set the brake pads.
I fiddled about with the cable, fixing it into place. My hands were clumsier than Dads, and it wound me up. Dad noticed.
Dont rush. Patience, not strength, he said.
I glanced at him.
Is that advice just for the bike?
For everything, Dad replied, then turned away, as if hed said too much.
We finished up, got the brakes sorted. Dad pressed the lever a few times, testing.
Much better.
I pumped up the tyre, listening for leaksnothing. Tyre held. We put the wheel back, tightened the nuts. Dad asked for the thirteen mil spanner, and I passed it silently. Fit in his hand like an old friend.
All done, Dad declared. Lets test it out then.
We wheeled the bike outside. Dad held the handlebars, I walked alongside. The front garden was empty apart from Mrs. Wilkins by the door with her shoppingshe gave us a little nod.
Go on, give it a spin, Dad said.
Me?
Yeah. Gone are my circus days.
So I hopped on. The seat was still set low, knees knocking high, just like when I was a kid. I cycled a couple of laps of the flowerbed, pressed the brake. Pulled up gently.
It works, I said, getting off.
Dad took the handlebars, pushed it gently for a bit, then stopped, foot braced on the ground.
Good. At least we didnt waste our time.
I looked at Dad and understoodhe wasnt talking about the bike at all. It was about not wasting the day, not wasting the chance.
Keep hold of that tool set, Dad said suddenly. He nodded towards the tools wed used. Ive got plenty. Youll need it more than me. Youre always fixing things on your own nowadays.
I wanted to argue, but understoodthis was his way of saying I care. Not I love you, but Here, take this. Let it make things easier.
All right, Ill keep them. Just keep that thirteen mil. Youre lost without it.
Dad managed a proper smile.
Ill put it back where it belongs, promise.
We walked back upstairs. I pulled on my coat in the hallway. Dad didnt rush me out.
Youll pop by next week? he asked, trying to sound offhand. That old overhead cupboard door squeaks now. Could do with some grease, my hands arent quite up to it.
He wasnt apologising, just being honest. I heard itnot as a plea, but an invitation.
Ill pop by. Just ring first, so I dont come tearing in.
Dad nodded, hand on the door, and as he closed it softly he said, almost too quietly, Thanks for coming.
I went down the stairs with Dads old tools rolled up in a cloth, weighty but not burdensome. Outside, I glanced back up to the third floor. The curtain twitched, as if Dad was watching. I didnt wave. I just headed to the car, knowing finally I could come backnot out of duty, but because it actually mattered to both of us.
