Key Number 13
He called in the morning, as if it were the most casual thing in the world.
Can you pop round? Need a hand shifting my old bike. Could do it myself, but to be honest, I cant be bothered.
The words ‘can you’ and ‘cant be bothered’ hit me as unusual. Dad usually just said ‘it needs doing’ or ‘Ill sort it myself.’ Even now, with my own specks of grey above my ears, I found myself searching the request for a hidden catch, as Id done my whole life. But there was nothing, just a simple askand, for some reason, an odd sense of awkwardness grew in its place.
I arrived just before lunch, headed up to the third floor, hesitated on the landing as the key scraped in the lock. The door opened right away, as though Dad had been standing there listening for my step.
In you come. Shoes off, please, he said, stepping back.
In the hallway, everything was as I remembered: the doormat, side table, neat stack of The Times. Dad looked the same tooonly now his shoulders seemed narrower, and when he adjusted his sleeve, his hands trembled for barely a second.
Wheres the bike? I asked, just to avoid asking anything else.
On the balcony. Put it there to keep it out of the way. Thought Id manage, but He gave a little wave and led the way.
The balcony was glassed in but chilly, cluttered with old boxes and jars. The bike stood against the wall, covered by a faded bedsheet. Dad folded it back with care, as though unveiling something important, and let his hand rest with a gentle pride on the frame.
Yours, you know. Bought it for your birthday, remember?
I remembered all right. I remembered racing it round the block, falling off, Dad picking me up in silence, brushing grit from my knees and checking the chain. He never praised much back then, but I always caught the way hed look at thingsas though they were alive and in need of safeguarding.
Tyres flat, I said.
Thats nothing. Hubs making a racket and the back brake wont hold. Was fiddling with it yesterday and my heart nearly packed in. Dad chuckled at his own joke, but the smile was brief.
We lugged the bike into what Dad called his workshopreally just a corner by the window with a tabletop, lamp, and a biscuit tin filled with tools. On the wall, pliers and screwdrivers hung in neat order, spanners lined up by size. As ever, I took in the arrangement automatically, like I always did. Dad kept order wherever he could.
Can you find the thirteen-millimeter spanner? Dad asked.
I rooted through the tin. All in rows: twelve, fourteen but thirteen had vanished.
Got a twelve, then a fourteen thirteens not here.
Dads eyebrows drew together.
Hows that? Its always He trailed off, as if the word ‘always’ wouldnt quite come.
I rummaged deeper, sliding open the desk drawer. Odd bolts, old washers, a ball of tape, a scrap of sandpaperthen at last, under a pair of rubber gloves, was the thirteen.
Found it, I said.
Dad took the spanner, weighing it as if to check if it still felt familiar.
Mustve shoved it there myself. My memory He managed a grunt of laughter. Right, bring the bike over.
I tipped the bike onto its side, sliding an old cloth under the pedal to keep the floor clean. Dad squatted beside meslowly, wary of his knees. I noticed and pretended not to.
Wheel off first, he said. You hold it steady, Ill crack the nuts.
He put the spanner to work, struggling a little until I grasped it toothe nut gave way.
I couldve managed, Dad grumbled.
I know, just
Go on. Hold it steady then.
We worked almost wordlessly, swapping quick directionshold this, dont tug it, hand us that washer. I realized I liked it better that way; when theres work to do, theres no need to dig for hidden meanings behind words.
We got the wheel off and set it on the rug. Dad grabbed his old pump, checked the hosewooden handle worn shiny from decades of use.
Inner tubes probably finejust dries out over winter, Dad said.
I bit back the urge to ask how he knew; he always sounded certain, even when he was just guessing.
While he pumped, I fiddled with the brake. The pads were worn to nothing, the cable gritty with orange rust.
Cables had it, I said.
Hm got a spare somewhere.
He knelt at the old sideboard, rooting through boxes, each one with a neatly written label. I watched him sorting through bolts and bits, seeing more than just ordera way of keeping time from slipping beyond his grasp. As long as everythings in its place, nothing falls apart.
No sign of it, he said, snapping a box shut in irritation.
Maybe in the cupboard? I offered.
That cupboards a tip. He said it like an admission of guiltunthinkable, for him.
I grinned. Since when is anything you keep a tip? Thats new.
He glared, but there was the barest flicker of gratitude in his eyes for the joke.
Go on, have a look. Ill finish up here.
The storage cupboard was cramped and overflowing. I flicked on the light, squirmed past binbags and boxes. Right at the top, I found a coil of bike cable, wrapped tightly in last weekends Guardian.
Got it! I shouted.
Knew itd turn up somewhere, Dad replied.
I took him the cable; he checked it over, gave the frayed ends a squeeze.
Fine, but well need the ferrules. He fished out a handful of tiny end caps from somewhere I couldnt see. Lets strip the brake, then.
I held the frame steady as Dad got to work. His fingers were dry, nicked, the nails trimmed close. As a kid, they seemed indestructible; now, their strength was quieter, slower.
Why dyou keep staring at me? Dad asked without glancing up.
Im just thinking, I said. How you remember where everything goes.
He snorted. I remember most things. Not where I leave me tools, mind. Bit funny, eh?
Funny wasnt the word. Terrifying, maybebut I only said, Happens to me as well.
He nodded, as if accepting my permission to stop pretending to be perfect.
With the brake disassembled, we found that one of the return springs had gone missing. Dad stared at the empty slot for a long while before looking up.
I was fiddling yesterday, must have dropped it somewhere. Searched, couldnt see it.
Lets get on our knees, check again, I said.
We both knelt, running fingers along the floor, peering under the desk. I uncovered the spring by the skirting board, pressed flat under the chair leg.
Here.
Dad held the spring to the light. Thank goodness. Thought Id lost it for good He left the rest unsaid.
I knew hed meant, I thought Id lost myself.
Fancy a cuppa? Dad asked abruptly, as if tea could erase the gap that had opened between us.
Ill have one.
In the kitchen, Dad busied himself with the kettle and two battered mugs. I sat down, watching him shuffle between the counter and the cupboard. His movements were practised but just a shade slower than I remembered. He poured the tea, fetched a plate of digestives.
Eat. Youre looking scrawny.
I nearly arguedsaid it was just this blasted jacketbut left it. In that one line was all the care he ever showed.
Hows work, then? he asked.
All right. To fill the silence: Finished one project, moving on to the next.
Hm. Just so long as they pay on time.
I barked out a laugh. You and your money.
Well, what should I fret about, then? He looked me right in the eye. Feelings?
That caught me. Something inside tensed with surprise; I never thought my dad would bring up feelings first.
I dont know, I said truthfully.
He paused, then cradled his mug.
You know sometimes I feel like you visit me out of duty. Like you tick the box, then get off.
I set my mug down; the hot tea almost burned my fingers but I made no move to pull away.
And do you reckon its easy for me to come round? I asked. Feels like being a kid again. You always act like you know best.
Dad gave a little laugh, but there was no sting in it.
Old habits die hard. I probably do.
And I took a deep breath. Youve never asked how I actually am. Not properly.
He stared into his tea for a long while.
I was scared to ask, he admitted. If you ask, you have to listen. And Im well, Im not always good at that.
A weight I hadnt noticed in my chest seemed to lifta plain truth was worth more than any sort of apology. He wasnt explaining, or excusing, just admitting. That was enough.
Im not much better, I said.
He nodded.
Well then, well learn. Through bike repairs, apparently. He tried for a smile, almost teasing himself.
We finished our tea and got back to the room. The bike was still there, wheel off, cable waiting. Dad straightened up, suddenly more purposeful.
Right, you thread the cable through; Ill set the brake pads.
I fumbled the cable into place, hands less sure than his. It annoyed me. He picked up on it.
No hurry. This isnt about brute force. Takes patience, is all.
I looked at him.
You mean for the brake?
For everything. He turned away, as if hed said too much.
Pads in place, nuts tightened, Dad squeezed the brake lever, testing the bite.
Better already.
I pumped up the tyre, spinning the wheel to listen for any hiss. The inner tube held. We put the wheel back on together. Dad reached out his hand, and I passed him the thirteen without a word. It fit in his grip like it belonged nowhere else.
There we go, he said at last. Lets take it out and see.
We rolled the old bike out to the green behind the flats. Dad held the handlebars, I strolled alongside. It was quiet; only Mrs McCarthy from number seven hovered by the entrance with her shopping, nodding at us as we passed.
Go on, give it a whirl, Dad said.
Me?
Who else? Ive given up acrobatics for Lent.
I climbed on; the saddle was much too low, knees sticking out as I pedalled circles around the flower beds. Brakes worked. I stopped right beside him, got off.
Sorted.
Dad gripped the handlebars, swung a leg over, stood holding the bike steady but didnt ride.
Not bad. Glad you came round, otherwise itd have just sat there gathering dust.
Watching him there, I realisedhe wasnt talking about the bike at all. He meant the call, the invitation, the time together.
Take the tool set with you, Dad said suddenly, nodding to the canvas roll. Ive got what I need. Youll make better use.
I wanted to protest, then saw: this was his way of showing love. Not I love you, just Take it for yourself. Makes things easier.
All right then, I agreed. But you keep the thirteen. Wouldnt let you lose your best spanner.
He let out a real laugh. Ill put it back where it belongs, from now on.
We climbed back up to the flat. I grabbed my coat; Dad lingered beside me, not rushing.
Will you call in again next week? he asked, as if in passing. The cupboard door up tops creaking. Could do with a dab of oil. Id do it, but my hands theyre not what they were.
He said it plainly, not apologising, just stating fact. I heard the invitation in it.
Ill come, I said. Give me plenty of warningdont want to turn up in a tizz.
Dad nodded. As he closed the door, he said quietly:
Thanks for coming.
I made my way down the stairs, the old spanners and screwdrivers wrapped tight in a rag. They were heavy, but not burdensome. Outside, pausing at the car, I glanced up at the third floor windows. The curtain twitched, suggesting Dad was watching. I didnt wave. Just carried on, knowing that now, I had a reason to come backone we could finally both admit mattered.
