His father’s hands always smelled of Swarfega.
Even after the second wash, even after dinner — it lingered. Oil and metal and that green, gritty soap that scraped the dirt off like sandpaper.
He used to come in from the driveway wiping his hands with an old tea towel. A Rover Haynes manual in one hand, a socket wrench in the other, the car bonnet still open. He never raised his voice. Never ran late. Never called in sick.
He fixed things. That’s what men did.
The house never felt poor. Not rich, but never uncertain. Mortgage got paid. Food showed up. Heat came on when it was cold. There were crisps in the cupboard. Lemonade in the garage.
And Dad fixed things.
The fence. The gutter. The kettle. The telly got a slap if it rolled. The aerial got a wiggle. The world could be mended, one weekend at a time.
Levin stares at his own hands now. They’re not much older than his dad’s were back then. But they look it. Dry, cracked, faint smell of stale pastry.
He hasn’t fixed anything in years.
Not really.
You don’t fix spreadsheets. You don’t fix risk management roles. You don’t fix poverty. You navigate it. You endure it.
He remembers watching his dad at the wheel. Cigarette in the ashtray. Elbow on the window ledge. Driving back from Texas Homecare or Homebase. The boot full of something useful.
He looked so sure of himself.
Not smug. Just settled. Like he had a deal with life.
Put in the work. Get the rewards.
Raise the kids. Own the home. Die in your chair watching the news.
Levin remembers thinking: that’ll be me, one day.
It wasn’t.
There was no deal.
There was effort. Plenty of that.
Careful planning. Caution. Prudence.
He followed all the rules. Cut coupons. Made spreadsheets.
And for what?
A car full of bin liners. A toothbrush in the glove box. A polite demotion and a comment on YouTube calling him boring. Cold mornings. Wet socks. Cheap coffee. No one asking if he’s okay.
His dad never talked about dreams. Not really. But Levin suspected he had some.
And maybe that’s what men really do.
They bury their dreams somewhere behind the shed, next to the bag of cement and the tins of old paint.
But now even that feels noble.
There was a shed. There was a bag of cement.
There was room for dreaming, even if you didn’t use it.
Now?
Now it’s gig work and credit checks.
Now it’s ten-hour shifts and hunting yellow stickers in the supermarket.
Now it’s trying not to cry when the rent goes up again.
And eating in your car.
And deleting the comment.
And counting coins in your lap while the engine idles.
He thought about that last conversation with Dean.
The one where Dean said “I did what I could.”
Levin believed him.
That was the worst part. He believed him.
And now, as he watches condensation pool on the inside of the windscreen, he realises something new. Something clear:
“I’m not part of this world anymore.”
He says it out loud. Calmly. Resolutely.
Not angry. Not sad.
Just… done.
He remembers his father once fixed a broken toaster using a fork and some pliers. Took the whole thing apart on the kitchen table. When it finally popped up toast again, Dad smiled and said,
“Nothing’s ever really broken. Just waiting to be understood.”
Levin wanted to believe that. For years.
But not tonight.