The Spanner Number Thirteen
He called in the morning and spoke as if it were nothing at all:
Will you pop round? I need to lift up the bike. Can’t be bothered wrestling with it alone.
The words pop round and cant be bothered sounded odd together. Normally, his father would say must and Ill do it myself. The grown-up son, grey already at the temples, found himself searching for a catch in this invitation, just like in their old conversations. But there was no catchjust a simple requestand somehow, that made it awkward.
He arrived around lunchtime, climbed to the third floor, lingering for a moment as the key twisted in the lock. The door opened at once, as if his father had been standing behind it, waiting.
Come in. Shoes off, please, his father said, shuffling back to make room.
Hallway as ever: doormat, shoe cupboard, neatly stacked newspapers. His father looked the same, only his shoulders seemed narrower now, and his hands, when he pulled down his shirt sleeve, trembled for a second.
Wheres the bike? the son asked, skirting the topics he really wanted to mention.
On the balcony. Put it there so it was out the way. Thought Id manage on my own, but then His father waved a hand and led the way.
The balcony was glassed in but chilly, with boxes and jars about. The bicycle leant against the wall, covered with an old sheet. His father lifted the sheet with a peculiar care, as though unveiling something that truly mattered, and gently ran his hand over the frame.
Yours, he said. Remember? Bought it for your birthday.
The son remembered. He remembered riding round the estate, falling off, and his father wordlessly picking him up, dusting off gravel from his knees and checking the chain was still on. Back then, his father rarely praised, but always looked at things as if they were alive and he was answerable for them.
The tyres flat, the son observed.
Thats nothing. The hubs grinding as well, and the back brakes dodgy. Tried spinning it yesterday, gave me quite a fright, his father gave an odd little chuckle, though the smile was brief.
They hauled the bike into the living room, where his father had a sort of workshop in the cornermore of a patch by the window than a separate room: worktable, mat, lamp, a box of tools. Every tool on the wall, pliers, screwdrivers, spanners, all lined up and sorted. The son noticed this by instinct, as always: his father kept order wherever he could.
Can you find the thirteen mil spanner? his father asked.
The son opened the box. Spanners lay in neat rows, but thirteen was oddly missing.
Heres twelve, fourteen No thirteen.
His father raised his eyebrows.
Hows that? Its always He trailed off, as if always was a word that had grown risky to trust.
The son began rummaging through the tools, pulling open the desk drawer. Old bolts, washers, electrical tape, a bit of sandpaper inside. The spanner showed up beneath a bunch of rubber gloves.
Got it, said the son.
His father picked up the spanner, weighing it in his hand as if testing its memory.
Must have shoved it there myself. My memory, he snorted. Right, pass us that bike.
The son laid the bike on its side, tucking a rag under the pedal. His father crouched down, slowly, gingerly, as if his knees might betray him. The son noticed but acted as though he hadnt.
First, lets take the wheel off, his father said. You hold it, Ill loosen the nuts.
He wrapped his hand around the spanner, tried turning it. The nut resisted and the fathers face tightened. The son grabbed the spanner to help, and the nut loosened.
Id manage myself, his father muttered.
I just
I know. Hold on, dont let it fall.
They carried on in silence, only using short, practical phrases: steady, dont pull, put it here, mind the washer. The son realised it was easier this way. When words were fenced in by a task, nothing had to be guessed between them.
The wheel came off, settled on the floor. His father picked up the pump, checked the hose. The pump was old, the handle worn smooth.
The tubes probably all right. Just gone dry, his father commented.
The son almost asked how he knew for certain, but let it go. His father always spoke confidently, even when there was doubt.
As his father pumped, the son examined the brake. The pads were worn, the cable corroded.
Cable needs replacing, he said.
Cable his father paused, wiped his hand on his trousers. Got a spare somewhere.
He rummaged in the drawer beneath the table, fetched down one box, then another. Each held parts, labelled in his neat handwriting. The son saw more than just neatness in thisthe effort to stay in control of time. As long as everythings labelled and in order, nothing falls apart.
Cant see it, his father said, irritated now, snapping the box shut.
Maybe in the cupboard? the son suggested.
Cupboards a mess, his dad admitted, as if confessing to some grave error.
The son grinned.
A mess? You? Thatll be the day.
His father shot him a look, but his eyes flickered with gratitude for the joke.
Go on then, have a look. Ill see to this here.
The cupboard was small, packed with boxes. The son switched the light on, pushed bags around, found a coil of cable on the top shelf, wrapped in newspaper.
Got it! he shouted.
There you go, came his fathers reply. Told you it was there.
He brought the cable. His father twisted it, checking the ends.
Good enough. Need to find end caps now.
He poked through another box, retrieved some little metal tips.
Lets sort the brake, his father said.
The son held the frame while his father loosened the screw. His fathers fingers were dry, cracked, nails clipped short. The son rememberedwhen he was a childthose fingers seemed invincible. Now their strength lay elsewhere: steady, sparing.
Why are you looking at me like that? his father asked, not meeting his eyes.
Just Wondering how you remember all this.
His father snorted.
I remember most things. Its where I leave things that escapes me. Funny, that?
The son nearly answered not funny, but realised his father wasnt joking. He was talking about fear.
Happens to me too, the son said quietly.
His father nodded quickly, as if that gave permission to leave off perfection.
When they dismantled the brake, one spring turned out missing. His father stared at the empty spot for a long time, then looked up.
I mustve dropped it yesterday. I looked on the floor, didnt spot it.
Lets try again, said the son.
Both knelt, running hands over the floor, peering under the desk. The son found the spring by the skirting, near the chair leg.
Here it is.
His father took the spring, held it to his eyes.
Goodness. I but he didnt finish.
The son understood that his father wanted to say, I thought I was losing it entirely. But he didnt say it.
Fancy a cuppa? his father asked abruptly, as if tea might fill the uneasy gap.
Love one.
In the kitchen, his father flicked the kettle on, fetched two mugs. The son sat at the table, watching as his father moved between hob and cupboard. His movements were familiar, only a tad slower than before. His father poured the tea, set out a plate of digestives.
Have a biscuit. Youve got thinner.
The son almost protested he wasnt, it was just the coat, but kept quiet. That line, he knew, was all his father could say about caring.
Hows work? his father asked.
Not bad. He added, so the answer wasnt empty, Finished one project, onto another now.
Long as they pay on time, thats what matters.
The son gave a short laugh.
Always on about money.
What should I be on about, then? his father stared him down. Feelings?
The sons chest tightened. He hadnt expected his father to actually say that word.
Dunno, he replied honestly.
His father was quiet, then cupped his mug in both hands.
You know he began, pausing as if weighing if it was too much. Sometimes I think you come to see me simply out of duty. Quick visit, tick the box, off you go.
The son set down his mug. The tea scalded his fingers, but he didnt pull away.
Do you think its easy for me? he asked. Everything here feels like being a kid again. As if you still know best.
His father smileda tired, but peaceful little smile.
I probably do think that. Habit.
And another thing, the son said, exhaling. You never really asked how I am. Not really.
His father stared at the tea, as though answers might swirl in the cup.
Was afraid to ask. If you ask, youve got to listen. And I he finally looked up. Im not always good at that.
The son felt something loosen in his chest. His father hadnt said Im sorry, hadnt made speeches about where it went wrong. He simply admitted he wasnt good at it. And it was the truest thing hed ever heard.
Im not good either.
His father nodded.
Well, well have to learn, wont we? Through fixing bikes, he added, wryness in his voice as though amused by his own line.
They finished their tea and went back to the living room. The bike lay as before, wheel off, cable on the worktop. His father attacked the job with fresh purpose.
Come on, you thread the cable, Ill set up the brake pads.
The son threaded the cable through the sheath and clamped it down. His fingers were clumsier than his fathers, and he couldnt help feeling annoyed with himself. His father noticed.
No rush. It isnt about strength, just patience.
The son looked up, catching his fathers eye.
Talking about the cable, or everything?
Everything, his father replied, then turned away, as if hed said a bit too much.
They set the brake pads, tightened the nuts. His father squeezed the lever a few times, tested the movement.
Much better.
The son pumped the tyre firm, listening for leaks. The inner tube held. They put the wheel back on and tightened it up. His father asked for the thirteen spanner, the son wordlessly passed it over. For a moment, it was as though the spanner had always belonged in his fathers hand.
Right, his father said as he finished. Lets give it a go.
They whisked the bicycle downstairs. His father held the handlebars as the son walked beside him. The courtyard was empty,, only the neighbour from Number Four watching from her door, gave them a nod.
Hop on, give it a spin, his father said.
Me?
Who else? Im not up to circus tricks any longer.
The son climbed on. The saddle was just as low as he remembered; his knees up high. He rode a couple of loops past the flowerbed, squeezed the brake. The bike stopped instantly.
Works a charm, he said, hopping off.
His father wheeled it himself, carefully, slowly. Then stopped and put one foot down.
Brilliant. At least it wasnt for nothing.
The son looked at his father, suddenly understanding he wasnt talking about the bike. He meant calling him over.
Take the tools with you, his father said, out of the blue. That setuseful for you. Ive got plenty. Anyway, you always sort things out yourself.
The son wanted to protest, but heard this was his fathers way. Not I love you, but heremake your life easier.
All right, Ill take them. But you keep the thirteen spanner. Thats your main one.
His father grinned.
Ill put it back in its place from now on.
They went back up. In the hallway, the son grabbed his coat. His father stood nearby without rushing.
Will you drop by next week? he asked, as if it were just a small favour. That top cupboard doors creaking. Meant to oil it, but these hands not quite what they were.
He said it plainly, no apologies, and the son heard not a complaint, but an invitation.
I will. Just ring ahead so I dont tear in here in a hurry.
His father nodded and, shutting the door, quietly added:
Cheers for coming.
The son went down the stairs, clutching a handful of his fathers spanners and screwdrivers bundled in a rag. They were heavy, but not a burden. Outside, he glanced up at the third floor windows. The curtain twitched slightly, as if his father was watching. He didnt wave. He simply walked to his car, knowing he could visit next time not just for a job, but for the kind of job theyd finally admitted mattered.
