The Wheelbarrow and the Spare

Iker believed that every problem had a plan, and every plan needed a spare. That was why an old bicycle tyre hung on the wall of the repair café.

The café opened in the community hall every second Saturday. Volunteers sat at long tables with lamps, toolboxes and hand-written signs. Anyone could bring a broken thing and watch it come back to life. Iker's sign said, "We fix anything. Almost."

Samir arrived at nine with a box of screwdrivers and a worried frown. He had joined the café only a month earlier. So far he had sewn on buttons and changed three plugs.

"You put that sign up again," Samir said.

"It's good advertising," Iker said. "People trust honesty."

"People trust a toaster that works," Samir said.

Iker laughed and tapped the tyre on the wall. "Don't worry. If anything goes wrong, we have the spare."

"That tyre has hung there since March," Samir said. "Nobody has ever used it."

"That is the beauty of a spare," Iker said. "It waits for its moment."

The first customers came at ten. A woman brought a toaster that burned everything on one side. Samir found a loose wire and fixed it in ten minutes. A boy brought a toy robot with a stuck arm. Iker oiled the joint, and the robot waved at the whole hall.

By eleven the hall was loud and warm. Drills whined, a sewing machine rattled, and somebody laughed at every table. Iker felt wonderfully useful.

Then the double doors banged open. A tall man in muddy boots pushed a wheelbarrow into the hall. One wheel squeaked, and the tyre was as flat as a pancake.

"Is this the place that fixes anything?" the man asked.

Iker pointed proudly at his sign. "Almost anything. What is the problem?"

"I run the community garden," the man said. "We have a plant sale at one o'clock. I must move forty sacks of compost, and this thing won't roll."

Samir crouched beside the wheel and pressed the rubber with his thumb. "There's a hole the size of a coin," he said. "We could try the patch kit."

Iker shook his head. "A patch won't last under forty sacks. This job needs a new tyre. And we happen to have one."

Samir looked up at the wall. "That is a bicycle tyre," he said. "It looks much bigger than this wheel."

"Rubber stretches," Iker said.

"Does it stretch that far?" Samir asked.

"I have a feeling it does," Iker said.

The man checked his watch. "I don't mind how you do it," he said. "I only need it to roll by one."

Iker lifted the spare from its nail with a flourish. Several volunteers drifted over to see what was happening. Samir took the wheel off the wheelbarrow and set it on the table. Iker pulled the flat tyre off the rim in two minutes. It was the easiest part of the whole morning.

Then he held up the spare against the empty rim. The bicycle tyre was far too long. It flopped around the little wheel like a loose belt.

"It just needs a little persuasion," Iker said.

"It needs a different wheel," Samir said.

Iker ignored him. He pushed one edge onto the rim and worked around it with two levers. He pushed, he pulled, and he breathed hard. The tyre gave a little, then a little more. A small crowd had gathered by now.

The lever slipped. The spare sprang off the rim with a loud smack and flew over the table. It bounced off a stool, knocked over a bowl of oranges and rolled straight through the open doors.

Everyone ran to the windows. The tyre bounced down the ramp and rolled across the car park. A delivery driver stopped his van and stared at it. Three volunteers chased it past the bins. A girl on a scooter finally stopped it with her foot.

The whole hall clapped. Iker bowed as if the flight had been part of the plan.

When the tyre came back, he hung it on its nail without a word. Then he sat down heavily on a stool. It was half past twelve, and the wheelbarrow still would not roll.

"I'm sorry," Iker said to the man. "I was very sure."

"It's all right," the man said, though he did not look all right. "Maybe I can borrow a trolley."

"Wait," Samir said slowly. "My cousin has a wheelbarrow that never goes flat. He filled the tyre with foam."

"Foam?" Iker said. "A tyre with no air in it is not a tyre. It is a cushion."

"Exactly," Samir said. "A cushion that rolls."

Then the man smiled for the first time. "Does it work?" he asked.

"It has worked for six years," Samir said. "It is heavier, and it bumps a little. But you can't puncture a cushion."

Samir was already walking to the donation corner at the back of the hall. He came back with an armful of treasure. There was a yoga mat, two pool noodles and a sofa cushion with a broken zip. Iker cut them into long strips, and he was grateful to have a job again.

"These pieces must be tight," Samir said. "If they are loose, the tyre will feel like a sack of socks."

They fitted the old flat tyre back on the rim, leaving one side open. Samir pushed the first strip inside. It stuck at once and would not move. He tried a second strip, and the first came out again.

"This is not working," Iker said.

"It is working slowly," Samir said. "I need something slippery."

The man held up a bottle from the kitchen. "Washing-up liquid?" he asked.

"Perfect," Samir said.

He rubbed the liquid around the inside of the tyre. This time the foam slid in like a letter into a post box. Iker held the tyre open, and Samir fed in strip after strip. The man pressed the foam down with a rolling pin that somebody had donated.

At ten to one, the last strip went in. Samir closed the rubber over it and tightened the wheel onto the frame. The tyre looked round and plump. When Iker pressed it, it felt firm like a ripe apple.

The man loaded one sack of compost into the wheelbarrow and pushed it across the hall. The wheel squeaked once, then rolled smoothly. He loaded a second sack, then a third. The wheelbarrow kept rolling.

"It's heavy," the man said, grinning. "But it will never be flat again."

"Welcome to the cushion wheel," Samir said.

The man shook hands with both of them. He promised to bring two pots of tomato plants next month. Then he rolled the wheelbarrow out of the hall. The sound of the wheel faded across the car park.

Iker watched him go. "I was wrong about the spare," he said.

"Only about the size," Samir said. "The idea of keeping it was good."

"What idea?"

"The idea of not stopping when the first plan fails," Samir said.

Iker laughed. He went back to his table, took a marker and added two words below his sign. When he finished, it said, "We fix anything. Almost. Ask Samir."

The afternoon passed quickly. By four o'clock most of the visitors had gone home. The volunteers stacked the chairs and switched off the lamps one by one.

Samir was the last to leave. He closed the door gently behind him. In the quiet hall, the old bicycle tyre swung slowly on its nail.