Spanner No. 13
Hed rung one morning, speaking as though it was nothing at all:
Could you pop by? Need a hand with the old bicycle Id rather not tackle it alone.
The words pop by and would rather not were strangely soft paired together. Usually, his father used to say needs doing or Ill sort it myself. The grown-up son, now silver at the temples, found himself listening for a hidden catch, as with those conversations of years ago. But there was no catchjust a small, simple request, which made him feel oddly awkward.
He arrived around midday, climbed to the third floor, and paused on the landing as the key finally turned in the lock. The door opened straight away, as though his father had been waiting just behind it.
Come in. Mind your shoes, his father said, stepping aside.
In the hallway, everything was in its proper place: the mat, the cabinet, neatly stacked issues of The Times. His father looked much as he always had, only somehow narrower at the shoulders, and, as he adjusted his sleeve, his hands trembled a moment before steadying.
Where’s the bike, then? the son asked, so he wouldn’t have to ask anything else.
Out on the balcony. Put it there to keep it out of the way. Thought I could have a go, but His father gave a vague wave and led the way ahead.
The balcony was glazed, cold despite it, cluttered with boxes and old jars. The bicycle stood by the wall, draped in a faded sheet. His father drew it off with something like ceremony, gently running his palm down the frame.
Yours, he said. Remember? We got it for your birthday.
He did remember. The laps round the garden, the tumbles, his father always picking him up, briskly brushing the dirt from his knees, checking the chain. His father hardly ever praised, yet looked at things as though they were alive and his to answer for.
Tyres are flat, the son observed.
That’s nothing. The hubs grinding, and the back brakes gone. Tried spinning the wheel yesterday, heart skipped a beat. His father gave a dry little laugh, but it didnt quite become a smile.
They hauled the bike into his fathers work nookin truth, just a corner: a table by the window, mat, lamp, a box of tools. On the wall, pliers and spanners and screwdrivers hung, all in neat order. The son registered it instantly, as always: his father kept things in order where he could.
See if you can find the thirteen mil spanner, his father said.
He opened the box. The spanners were arranged in rows, but the thirteen was somehow missing.
Heres twelve, then fourteenbut not thirteen.
His father frowned. How can it not be there? Its He fell silent, as if unwilling to tempt fate by saying always.
The son rummaged deeper, slid open the table drawerold nuts, washers, electrical tape, a scrap of sandpaper. The spanner appeared under a pile of rubber gloves.
Here it is, said the son.
His father took it, feeling the weight as if to test it.
Mustve been me put it there. Memorys a funny thing, he murmured wryly. Right, then, bring the bike over.
The son tipped the bicycle onto its side, padding the pedal with a rag. His father crouched downslowly, with care. The son noticed, but allowed his gaze to slip away.
Well get this wheel off first, his father instructed. You hold on, Ill crack the nuts.
Spanner in hand, he strainedthe nut resisted, jaw set tight. The son stepped in, giving the spanner a twist, and the nut gave way.
I couldve managed, his father said gruffly.
I just
I know. Hold it steady, would you?
They worked on in near silence, talking only in short phrases: hold on, careful now, that goes there, mind the washer. The son found it easiernot having to decipher what lay behind the words.
Wheel off, they set it down on the floor. His father fetched the pump, checked the tube. The pump was old, handle worn to the bare wood.
Probably just perished rubber, he declared, doubt its a puncture.
The son nearly asked how he could be sure, but left it. His father always did sound certain, even when was only half so.
While his father pumped, the son checked the brake. The blocks were rubbed thin, cable rusted.
This cablell need replacing, he said.
Cable… His father wiped his hand on his trousers, then began rummaging beneath the table for a spare. One box, then anothereach one full of carefully labelled bits and bobs. The son watched his father’s fingers leafing through them, seeing in the gesture not only thrift, but an attempt to hold time at bay. As long as things were labelled and filed, nothing could unravel.
Doesnt look like it, muttered his father, snapping a lid shut with irritation.
Try the cupboard? the son suggested.
Thats a muddle in there, his father said with an odd kind of confession.
The son smirked. A muddle? You?
His father shot him a sideways look, but it came with a trace of gratitude for the joke.
Go on, have a rummage. Ill keep at the pump.
The cupboard was cramped, packed with boxes and carriers. He flicked on the light, pushed things about. On the top shelf, he found a coil of cable wrapped in a newspaper.
Found it! he called out.
There we are then! rang his fathers reply. Told you itd turn up.
Back in the room, his father twisted the cable in his hand, inspecting the ends.
Looks sound. Only need to find the proper ferrules.
Another rummage in the tin yielded tiny metal caps.
Lets strip the brake, his father directed.
The son steadied the frame. His father undid the clamp. The old hands were dry, nicked, nails clipped short. The son recalled how, as a child, those hands had seemed invincible. Now, their strength was different: measured, enduring.
What are you looking at me like that for? his father asked, not looking up.
Oh, just wondered how you remember where everything is.
His father gave a small grunt.
I doWell, not where I put the spanners. Its ridiculous, isnt it?
The son swallowed a laughhe knew his father wasnt really joking. He was admitting fear.
Its all right, he said. Happens to me too.
His father nodded, accepting permission not to be perfect.
When they dismantled the brake, they found a spring was missing. His father stared for a moment at the empty space, then met his sons eyes.
I was fiddling with it yesterday. Mustve dropped it. Had a hunt, couldnt see it anywhere.
Lets check again, said the son.
They got down on hands and knees, searching the floor, under the table. The son found the spring beside the skirting, by the chair leg.
Here we are.
His father took the spring and held it up with a controlled sigh of relief.
Thank goodness. Otherwise Id He left the thought unfinished.
The son understoodId thought it was all slipping awaybut nothing needed spelling out.
Want a cup of tea? his father asked abruptly, as if that might smooth over the frailty.
Id like that.
In the kitchen, his father set the kettle on, fetched two mugs. The son watched him pottering, slower than before, but methodical. His father filled two mugs, put some biscuits on a plate.
Tuck in. Youre looking thin.
He wanted to protest, to say he wasnt thin, just wearing his bulky coat, but let it pass. The phrase carried all the care his father could voice.
Hows work? his father asked.
All rightfinished one project, started another, he answered, adding it so the conversation wouldnt shrivel and die.
Good. As long as the pay turns up, eh?
The son smiled wryly.
You always worry about money.
Well, what else should I worry about? His father looked straight at him. Feelings?
The son tensed insidehed not thought his father would say such a word out loud.
Im not sure, he admitted honestly.
His father was silent for a while, mug in both hands.
You know, he began, hesitating to judge the weight of it, I sometimes think you visit out of duty. Tick the box, then off you go.
The son set his mug down. The tea was scalding, stinging his fingers, but he didnt move his hand.
You think its easy for me? Coming back here? His voice was uncertain. Everythingfeels like Im little again. You always had all the answers.
His fathers smile was rueful, not unkind.
Old habits die hard, son. And, you know, you never really asked how I amnever really.
His father looked into his mug, as if the answer were hiding in the bottom.
I was afraid to ask. If you ask, you have to listen to the answer. And Iwasnt always up to it.
Though his father had not uttered sorry or offered explanations as to whyhed simply admitted he couldnt. The son felt the tightness ease in his chestthis was nearer the truth than any pretty words.
Neither am I, really, he said.
His father nodded.
Well, then, well learn. Over the odd bicycle, maybe, he said with a trace of dry humour that surprised them both.
They finished their tea and returned to the small room. The bicycle lay just where theyd left it, the wheel beside it, the cable on the workbench. His father returned to the task with fresh resolve.
Right. You feed the new cable through, Ill adjust the pads.
The son carefully threaded the cable, fastening it as best he could. His fingers were less nimble than his fathers had been, and the sense of it vexed him. His father noticed.
Dont rush. Its patience, not strength, that does it.
The son looked up.
Just talking about the brake, are you?
About most things, really, his father replied lightly, already glancing away.
They set the pads, tightened the bolts. His father pressed the brake repeatedly, testing its movement.
Much better.
The son pumped the tyre until it grew firm, listening for a hissnone. The tube held. Together, they reassembled the wheel, tightening the bolts. His father reached for the thirteen mil spanner, the son handing it over wordlessly. The spanner fit his fathers hand precisely, as though it had always belonged there.
There, his father said, standing up. Shall we see how she goes?
They took the bicycle out into the garden. His father steadied the bars, the son walking alongside. The garden was emptyonly the neighbour from downstairs nodded at them, shopping bag in hand.
Go on, hop onsee how she feels, his father urged.
Me?
Well, Im not much of a circus act any more.
He swung himself onto the saddle. It felt strangely low, just as it had as a child, knees rising high. He circled the flower bed, pressed the brake. The bike pulled up, obedient.
She works, he declared, dismounting.
His father took the handlebars and wheeled the bike a few steps himself, gingerly, without hurry. Then, satisfied, he drew the brake, planted his feet.
Well done. Worth the trouble.
The son looked at him, and grasped that his father didnt mean the bicycle. He meant asking him to come round.
You should keep hold of the tool kit, his father said suddenly, nodding to the bench. Got enough for myself. Youll make use of them. You always do like fixing things.
The son thought to refuse, but understood this was his fathers version of something like I care about you. Not I love you, but take these, it’ll help.
All right. Ill keep them. But the thirteen spanner stays with you. Its the main one, after all.
His father smiled lopsidedly.
This time Ill put it away properly.
They climbed back to the flat. In the hallway, the son zipped up his coat, while his father stood beside him, unhurried.
Will you drop by next week? his father asked, lightly. Need a hand with the cabinet doortop ones creaky. Id oil it myself, but, wellhands arent quite what they once were.
It was said simply, without any pretence. The son heard it not as complaint, but invitation.
I will. Give me a ring first though. Dont want to rush in mid-havoc.
His father nodded, and, as the door closed, added softly:
Thanks for coming, son.
Down the stairwell, carrying several old spanners and screwdrivers wrapped in a rag, the son felt their weightsubstantial, yet not burdensome. Outside, he glanced back at the third floor window; the curtain stirred, as though his father was stood there watching. The son didnt wave. He just headed for the car, sure now that a visit wasnt only for a job, but for something theyd at last acknowledged: the real business of being family.
