Spanner Number 13 He called me in the morning, as if it were nothing at all: “Can you pop over? Need a hand with the bike. Don’t fancy wrestling with it alone.” The words “can you” and “don’t fancy” sounded odd together. Dad used to say “has to be done” and “I’ll sort it myself.” An adult son, now with silver in his hair, catching himself searching this invitation for a catch, like he always used to. But there was no catch, just a simple request—making it feel all the more awkward. He arrived by lunchtime, climbed up to the third floor, dawdling on the landing as the key turned. The door opened at once, as if Dad had been standing behind it, waiting. “Come in. Shoes off,” Dad said, stepping aside. Everything in the hallway was in its place: the mat, the shoe cabinet, the neat pile of newspapers. Dad looked just the same, only his shoulders seemed narrower, and when adjusting his sleeve his hands trembled for a second. “Where’s the bike?” asked the son, to avoid asking anything else. “On the balcony. I got it out the way in there. Thought I’d tackle it myself, but you know…” Dad waved a hand and led the way. The balcony was glazed, but freezing, crammed with boxes and jars. The bike was upright by the wall, covered with an old sheet. Dad took the sheet off like he was unveiling something precious, and softly laid his palm on the frame. “It’s yours,” he said. “Remember? We got it for your birthday.” The son remembered. Remembered riding in the courtyard, the falls, how Dad would silently pick him up, brush sand off his knees, check the chain. Dad rarely praised him, but always looked at things as if they were alive, as if he was responsible for them. “The tyre’s flat,” the son noted. “That’s nothing. There’s a crunch in the hub too, and the back brake’s useless. Took a spin yesterday, about had a heart attack,” Dad quipped, but the smile was brief. They carried the bike to the “workshop”— not a real one, just a corner: a desk by the window, a mat, lamp, toolbox. On the wall: pliers, screwdrivers, spanners, everything sorted. The son took it in automatically, as always: Dad kept order wherever he could. “Can you spot the thirteen mil spanner?” Dad asked. The son opened the box. The spanners were lined up, but thirteen was missing. “There’s a twelve, a fourteen… no thirteen here.” Dad arched an eyebrow. “What? It should…,” he trailed off, as if the word “always” wouldn’t come. The son rummaged through, pulled out the drawer—nuts, washers, tape, sandpaper. Found the spanner under a bundle of rubber gloves. “Here we are,” said the son. Dad took it, held it in his palm like testing the weight. “So I tucked it there myself. Memory,” he grunted. “Right then, hand us the bike.” The son laid the bike on its side, putting a rag under the pedal. Dad crouched down, slowly, with caution, as if wary his knees might fail. The son noticed, but acted as if he hadn’t. “Let’s get the wheel off first,” Dad said. “You hold it while I loosen the nuts.” He took up the spanner, twisted. The nut resisted, and Dad tensed, lips pressed tight. The son took over, and the nut yielded. “I would’ve managed,” Dad muttered. “I just…” “I know. Hold it so it doesn’t drop.” They got on with the job, barely speaking: “hold this,” “don’t pull,” “here,” “mind the washer.” The son realised he found it easier this way—words, limited by the job, with no need to second-guess. Wheel off, on the floor. Dad produced the pump, checked the hose. Old, battered handle. “The tube’s probably fine. Just dry,” Dad said. The son wanted to ask how he knew, but let it go. Dad always sounded sure, even when he wasn’t. While Dad pumped, the son checked the brake. Pads worn, cable rusty. “Needs a new cable,” he said. “Cable… there’s a spare somewhere.” Dad rummaged under the table, got out one box, then another—each with parts labelled on scraps of paper. The son watched him sort through, seeing not just neatness, but a fight to keep time in order. As long as everything’s labelled and in place, nothing unravels. “Can’t see it,” said Dad with irritation, slamming the box shut. “Maybe it’s in the cupboard?” the son suggested. “Cupboard’s chaos,” Dad said, as if confessing a crime. The son grinned. “You? Chaos? That’s a first.” Dad shot him a look, but the eyes held a glimmer of gratitude for the joke. “Go on, check. I’ll just…” Dad went back to pumping. The cupboard was tiny, crammed with boxes. The son flicked the light on, pushed aside bags. Top shelf—cable reel, wrapped in newspaper. “Got it!” he called. “There you go! Told you so,” came Dad’s reply. The son brought the cable. Dad inspected the ends. “Looks good. Just need to find the right caps.” He found the tiny metal sleeves. “Let’s sort the brake.” The son held the frame, Dad undid the fixture. Dad’s fingers were dry, cracked, nails clipped short. The son remembered, as a boy, thinking those fingers strong and unbreakable. Now they had a different strength: patient, economical. “What are you staring at?” Dad asked, eyes down. “Just…wondering how you remember all this.” Dad snorted. “I remember. Not always where I put stuff. Funny, isn’t it?” The son wanted to say “not funny,” but understood Dad wasn’t joking. He was afraid. “It’s normal,” the son said. “Happens to me too.” Dad nodded, as if accepting permission not to be perfect. When they broke down the brake, a spring was missing. Dad stared at the space for a long time, before meeting his son’s eyes. “I was tinkering yesterday, might’ve dropped it. Looked on the floor, couldn’t see it.” “Let’s look again,” the son said. On their knees, hands sweeping along the floor, peering under the table. The son found the spring by the skirting, next to a chair leg. “Here it is.” Dad took it, peered closely. “Thank God. I’d started to think…” He didn’t finish. The son knew he wanted to say “I’d started to think I couldn’t remember anything anymore.” But he didn’t. “Fancy a cuppa?” Dad asked brusquely, as if tea might cover the pause. “Go on, then.” In the kitchen, Dad set the kettle, got out two mugs. The son sat, watching Dad’s movements between stove and cupboard. They were the same old movements, just a bit slower now. Dad poured the tea, put a plate of biscuits in front of him. “Eat. You’re looking thin.” The son wanted to say he wasn’t, just a bulky coat, but left it. In that sentence was all the care Dad knew how to show. “How’s work?” Dad asked. “All right.” Then, to fill the gap: “They shut down the project, so starting a new one.” “Mm. Long as they pay you on time.” The son smiled. “You always think about money.” “What else d’you reckon I should worry about?” Dad looked him straight in the eye. “Feelings?” The son felt something tighten inside. He hadn’t expected Dad to use *that* word. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. Dad was quiet, then cupped the mug with both hands. “Sometimes…I wonder if you come round out of duty. You know. Sign in, then off you go.” The son set the mug down. The tea steamed, burning his fingers, but he didn’t flinch. “You think it’s easy coming here? It’s all…like I’m a kid again. And you always know best.” Dad smiled, not unkindly. “I *do* think I know better. Habit.” “And you never—” the son exhaled, “—you never really asked how I am. Not really.” Dad stared into his mug, as if answers might be at the bottom. “I was scared to ask. If you ask, you have to listen. And I…,” he looked up, “I don’t always know how.” The son felt lighter, as though the plain words made space in his chest. No “I’m sorry” or justifications, just honesty. It was closer to the truth than any big speech. “Me neither.” Dad nodded. “We’ll learn. Through the bike,” he added, with a wry smile, as if surprised by his own words. They finished the tea, and went back to the room. The bike lay there, wheel detached, cable on the desk. Dad set to work with new determination. “Right. You thread the cable, I’ll line up the pads.” The son did as told, fingers less deft than his father’s, frustrated at himself. Dad saw. “Don’t rush. It’s patience, not strength, that matters.” The son glanced up. “Talking about the cable, or…?” “About everything,” Dad answered, turning away as if he’d said too much. They set the pads, tightened the bolts. Dad pressed the brake lever a few times, testing. “That’s better.” The son pumped up the tyre, listening for hissing. The tube held. They put the wheel back, tightened the nuts. Dad asked for the thirteen spanner; the son handed it over wordlessly. It fit his palm as if it belonged there. “That’s that,” said Dad, when they were done. “Let’s give it a try.” They took the bike downstairs. Dad held the handlebars, son by his side. The courtyard was empty bar a neighbour with shopping, who gave them a nod. “Hop on. Try it out,” said Dad. “Me?” “You. I’m not the acrobat I once was.” The son sat on the bike. The saddle felt low, like childhood, knees high. He rode a couple of circuits around the flower bed, tried the brake. The bike stopped on a dime. “Working,” he said, climbing off. Dad tried walking it himself, slowly, no rush. Then stopped, foot to the ground. “Good. Worth the fuss.” The son looked at Dad and suddenly realised it wasn’t about the bike. It was about calling him over. “Keep the toolkit,” said Dad unexpectedly. “You’ll use it more than I will. You do everything yourself these days.” The son wanted to object, but understood this was Dad’s way—his way of saying “I love you” was “take it, you’ll need it.” “All right. I’ll keep it. But don’t lose the thirteen spanner. That’s the king.” Dad grinned. “I’ll put it where it belongs from now on.” They went back up. In the hall, the son took his coat. Dad lingered nearby. “Will you pop by next week?” he asked, casually. “That… top cupboard door’s squeaky. Needs oiling. My hands aren’t what they were.” He said it calmly, no excuses. The son knew it wasn’t a complaint, but an invitation. “I’ll come. Call first, so I don’t barrel in, yeah?” Dad nodded and, as he shut the door, added quietly, “Thanks for coming.” The son walked down the stairs, holding a few of Dad’s wrenches and screwdrivers, wrapped in a cloth. They felt heavy, but didn’t weigh him down. Outside, he glanced up at the third-floor window. The curtain shifted slightly—Dad, watching. The son didn’t wave. He just walked to his car, knowing he could now come not only “to do a job,” but because of what really mattered—the job they’d finally agreed was worth it.

The Key for 13

His call came just after breakfast, sounding almost casual:

Could you pop by today? Theres a bicycle that needs shifting. Id rather not fuss with it myself.

The way he said pop by and Id rather not landed strangely, side by side. Normally, Dad only spoke in terms of have to and Ill sort it myself. His grown son, his temples already streaked with grey, noticed himself searching for some hidden catch, just like in the old days. But there was none, only a simple request, and that made things more awkward, somehow.

He arrived at midday, climbed the stairs to the third floor, paused on the landing as the key scraped around in the stiff lock. The door swung open at once, as if Dad had been standing right there, waiting for him.

Come in. Shoes off, Dad said, stepping aside.

The hallway was untouched by time: the mat, the little cabinet, newspapers folded just so. Dad looked the same, and yet his shoulders seemed narrower, his hands unsteady for a moment as he tugged at his sleeve.

Wheres the bicycle? the son asked, not wanting to ask anything else.

On the balcony. I stuck it there to keep it out of the way. Thought Id fix it myself, but then Dad waved a hand and led the way.

The balcony was glassed in but icy, crowded with old boxes and jars. The bicycle leaned against the wall, shrouded in an ancient bed sheet. Dad pulled it off as if uncovering something important, and ran his palm cautiously over the frame.

Its yours, he said softly. Remember? Got it for your birthday.

The memory was sharp: cycling in circles round the green, falling off, Dad wordlessly hauling him upright again, brushing off his grazed knees and checking the chain. Dad had never really praised, but he always eyed things as though they were alive and he had to answer for them.

The tyres are flat, the son observed.

Thats nothing. The hubs rattling too, and the back brakes knackered. Tried to have a go yesterdayheart stopped at the noise, Dad gave a wry half-grin.

They carried the bike in together to Dads workshopnot a room, just a corner by the window: desk, rubber mat, lamp, a battered toolbox. Pliers, screwdrivers, and spanners lined the wall, all perfectly ordered. The son took it in with a reflexive glance; Dad always kept a kingdom of order wherever he could.

Can you find the thirteen-millimetre spanner? asked Dad.

He opened the box. Spanners lay in neat rows, but the thirteen was missing.

Twelve fourteenNo thirteen here.

Dads eyebrows shot up.

Not possible. I always He trailed off, the word always hanging unspoken.

The son sifted through the rest of the tools, rummaged in a drawer full of old washers and sandpaper, until he finally found it beneath a stack of rubber gloves.

Got it.

Dad held the spanner for a second, weighing it in his hand.

So I put it there myself, did I? Memory playing tricks. He let out a dry chuckle. Right then, bring the bike over.

He turned the bike on its side, wedging a rag beneath the pedal. Dad squatted down beside it, slower now, cautious as if his knees might betray him. The son noticed, but pretended he hadnt.

Well get the wheel off first, Dad said. You hold; Ill loosen the nuts.

He gripped the spanner, strained. The nut wouldnt budge. He tensed, lips pressed in a line. The son reached for the tool, lending a hand, and the nut yielded.

Id have managed, Dad muttered.

I just

I know. Hold it steady, yeah, so it doesnt slip.

They worked quietly, speaking in short exchanges: Hold that, Not so much, Here, pass it, Mind that washer. The son realised he actually preferred it this way. When talk stayed tied to tasks, there was nothing hidden beneath the words.

They laid the wheel on the carpet. Dad fetched the pump, checked the nozzleancient thing, handle scuffed and worn.

Tubes probably fine. Just perished a bit, Dad declared.

The son nearly asked how he could be so sure, but left it. Dad always sounded sure, even when he wasnt.

As Dad began to pump, the son inspected the brake. The pads were thin, the cable rusted through.

This cables done for, he said.

Cable Dad paused, wiping his palms on his trousers. Got a spare somewhere.

He dug beneath the desk, brought out one box, then another. Each was filled with bits and pieces, labelled carefully. The son watched, and saw more than practicalitysaw a man trying to keep time itself in order. As long as everything was labelled, arranged, nothing could get lost.

Not in here, Dad said, snapping the lid shut, frustration plain.

Maybe in the airing cupboard? the son ventured.

Theres a proper mess in there, Dad admitted, sounding as though confessing a crime.

The son smirked.

You? A mess? Thats a turn-up.

Dad shot him a sidelong look, but something grateful flickered across his eyes.

Go on, fetch it, Ill carry on here.

The airing cupboard was tiny, crammed with bags and boxes. He flicked on the light, rummaged about. On the top shelf, he found a coil of cable wrapped in newspaper.

Got it! he called.

There you go! Dad answered. Knew itd turn up.

Dad inspected the cable, rolling it between his fingers, checking the ends.

Decent. Just need to dig out some ferrules.

He rustled about in a tin and found two shiny metal caps.

Lets get the brake off, then, Dad said.

The son held the frame steady while Dad unscrewed the bolt. Dads fingers were dry and cracked, nails trimmed almost to nothing. The son remembered thinking, as a child, that those hands were iron-strong, invincible. Now their strength was differentcareful, deliberate.

What are you staring at? Dad asked, not looking up.

Oh. Just wondering how you remember all this.

Dad snorted.

Remember this, yeah. Where I put the spanners, not so much. Funny, isnt it?

The son wanted to say, Not funny, but suddenly understood that Dad meant It frightens me.

Its normal, he said simply. I forget stuff all the time.

Dad nodded, as if sealing an agreement that neither had to be perfect.

When they took the brake apart, a spring was missing. Dad stared at the empty spot for a while, then raised his eyes.

I mightve dropped it yesterday. Searched the floor, no luck.

Lets have another look, said the son.

On hands and knees, they traced their palms along the carpet, peered under the desk, until the son found the spring by the skirting board.

Here it is.

Dad took it, holding it up to the light.

Thank God. Thought Id He broke off.

The son knew he meant, Thought Id lost it for good. But he didnt say so.

Tea? Dad barked suddenly, as if tea could fill the awkward silence.

Yes please.

In the kitchen, Dad set the kettle going and reached for two mugs. The son sat at the table, watching Dad move aroundhis movements familiar, just a little slower now. He poured the tea, set down a plate of biscuits.

Eat up. Youve gone thin.

The son was tempted to argue, say it was just the jacket, but held back. In those words was everything Dad ever knew about showing concern.

Hows work? Dad asked.

All right. Old projects done, started a new one.

Good. As long as they pay you on time.

The son smiled.

Always about money with you.

What else should I ask about? Dad replied, meeting his eyes. Feelings, is it?

Something clenched tight inside the son. Hed never expected to hear Dad even mention the word.

I really dont know, he admitted.

Dad was quiet, then gripped his mug in both hands.

You know he hesitated, as if measuring out the risk, sometimes I think you just come to see me because you feel you have to. Tick the box and leave.

The son placed his mug down. The tea scalded his fingers, but he didnt flinch.

And do you reckon its easy, coming here? It all he let out a breath, feels like Im back to being a child. You still know everything best.

Dad managed a smile, not unkind.

I like to think I do. Force of habit.

And the son drew in the air, you never really asked how I was. Not really.

Dad gazed into his tea, as if he might find the truth in the dregs.

I was afraid to ask. Because if you do, you have to listen. He looked up. Ive never been good at that.

The son felt something ease in his chest; the words were so simple. Dad didnt say sorry, didnt explain himselfhe just admitted not knowing how. That rang truer than all the apologies they never made.

Me neither.

Dad nodded.

Suppose well have to learn. Through a bike, for now, he said, wry amusement in his voice as though it surprised him, too.

They finished their tea and returned to the lounge. The bicycle waited, wheel and cable lying side by side. Dad squared his shoulders, renewed determination in his face.

Right. You thread the cable, Ill line up the blocks.

The son obediently fed the cable through its sheath and fixed it in. His fingers lacked Dads deftness, and he silently cursed himself. Dad noticed.

No rush. Doesnt need strength, just patience.

He looked up.

You mean for the cable, or?

For everything, Dad said, turning away, as if that risked saying too much.

They fixed the brake pads, tightened the nuts. Dad squeezed the lever a few times, tested the resistance.

Thats better.

The son pumped the tyre up tight, checked the seal. It held. Together they set the wheel back in place, tightened the nuts. Dad asked for the thirteen-mil spanner, and the son passed it over without a word. It rested in Dads palm, weighty and familiar.

Done, Dad said at last. Lets see how she goes.

They carried the bicycle outside. Dad gripped the handlebars, the son walked beside him. The square was empty; just Mrs Jenkins from number ten was loading shopping bags and gave a quick nod.

Go on, have a ride, Dad coaxed.

Me?

Who else? Im no stuntman these days.

The son swung onto the saddle. The seat was too low, just as it was long ago, knees bent high. He cycled a couple of slow laps round the tiny flowerbed, squeezed the brake. The bicycle halted smartly.

All sorted, he declared, getting off.

Dad took the handlebars, wheeled the bike a few feet himself, not picking up speed, careful. Then he stopped, foot on the ground.

There we are. Worth the effort, eh?

The son looked at Dad and realised he didnt just mean the bike. He meant the call, the morning, all of it.

Keep the tool set with you, Dad said suddenly, gesturing towards the box of tools theyd used. Ive got enough heremight come in handy for you. Youre always fixing things yourself, after all.

The son was about to refuse, then understood: this was Dads language. Not I love you, but take these so your lifes easier.

All right, Ill hold onto them. But keep your thirteen-mil. You cant manage without it.

Dad cracked a smile.

Ill put it back where it belongs this time.

They went back upstairs. In the hallway, the son shrugged on his coat. Dad stood quietly by, not rushing his goodbye.

Youll come round next week? Dad asked, as though it were casual. Still got that cupboard door on the top landingits sticking. Id oil it myself, but my hands not what they were.

He spoke plainly, not apologising. The son heard an invitation, not a complaint.

Ill come by. Just ring first so Im not racing over like mad.

Dad nodded, and as he closed the door, added, almost inaudibly:

Thanks for coming.

The son carried a bundle of Dads toolsspanners and screwdrivers wrapped in a ragdown the stairs. They felt heavy, yet somehow lighter than before. Outside in the chilly street, he glanced back up at the windows of the third floor. The curtain shifted slightly, as if Dad stood watching. The son didnt wave. He simply walked to his car, knowing now he had permission to visitnot just for odd jobs, but for the one task theyd both finally admitted mattered most.