There were those that said that a bicycle chain had to soak overnight to ensure the oil penetrated the joints, making the chain last longer, free of corrosion and wear and tear. Alfie Dibbs thought those people were bloody idiots.

No. Good care and attention made bicycle chains last longer. A good wire brush, used with a healthy amount of vigour, but not so much as to score the surface of the metal, put paid to any corrosion. Wear and tear was often fixed by ensuring that the links were all tight, in order, not buckled or bent. Bathing the chain in oil only made the workings smooth when putting the chain back on the bicycle.

He blew the shavings from the chain, adjusting glasses that now bordered on the useless. Old eyes. Old glasses. He should have had his eyes checked months ago, but he never seemed to have the time. A cloth, dipped in freeing oil, dabbed against the link as he held it up to the window in his little shed, the smell of metal and grease and oil felt more like home than the empty house not twenty feet away.

With the two ends of the chain gripped by the two clamps, attached to the old, worn workbench, Alfie placed the cleaned link between them. A nudge by an arthritic finger aligned them and two rivets placed in the appropriate holes awaited his gentle, but firm taps to secure them together. He could find the tiny ball peen hammer without even looking, knowing exactly where he placed each tool.

It wasn't practised, though he had performed this exact repair on hundreds of chains in his long, drawn out life, maybe thousands. Probably thousands. It was care. Tools placed in the right positions, looked after and repaired when needed, returned to their proper places when their work had finished, was a matter of caring about the work. He had cared as a boy and he cared now. Age couldn't diminish that kind of devotion.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Check. Tap. Tap. Tap. Check. Releasing the clamps, holding up the chain and paying attention to every detail, every possible chance that he had made a mistake, or whether the chain required more repairs. Running link after link through gnarled fingers blackened by hours of work within his little shed. Satisfied, he carried the chain back to the bicycle, upended and held in place by more clamps.

The rear wheel hung on the wall, to the side of the second, larger workbench, awaiting the moment to return to the frame of the bicycle, but only after Alfie fitted the chain, link by link, onto the chain ring, turning the ring to ensure the links fitted as the ring turned. Now the rear wheel, lifted from the hook, making sure the spokes didn't catch, carrying it to the upturned frame.

He lowered the wheel, lifting the chain back up with the other hand and attached it to the chain ring on the wheel. Only the one gear for this vision of beauty. No multiple gears. No derailleurs. Only the simplicity of sitting on the saddle, collecting the pedals into position and moving forward. No need to worry about the right gear. Only needing to peddle away, catching that wonderful breeze against a smile of glee. Not that Alfie rode bicycles anymore. Not at his age.

A slight turn to the side and his hand reached out, catching the correct drawer in his tool box for the spanners he required. In their correct place. Returned every time. There were those that used those multi-head spanners that came with most new bicycles, or, at least they used to, but Alfie had no use for them. The proper tool for the job. No half-way measures. No it'll dos. The right tool made all the difference.

Tightening the rear wheel to the spokes, Alfie ran it for several rotations, moving to the end of the workbench, laying a careful eye upon the spin, watching for any wobble, any imperfection. Only after he had made certain the bicycle was fully ready did he release the clamps, lifting the bicycle from the bench and returning it to its wheels. A little more difficult, these days. Old bones, old muscles, complaining with every movement.

He leaned the handlebars against the bench before returning the tools to their proper places. Two stands, taken from hooks on the wooden wall of the shed, placed on the floor, became the resting place of the bicycle, holding the wheels steady, the frame upright, giving him space to move around. Not only to inspect his work, but for the final, finishing touches.

His hand tucked into the pocket of his overalls, taking out a white handkerchief that had seen better days. Washed and washed, ironed and folded, tucked back onto his overalls pocket. Always in the correct place. He rubbed his nose with the handkerchief before folding it once again and returning it to the pocket. He could have replaced it years ago, should have, but, as his thump passed over the embroidered corner, he knew he would never part with it.

Hands on hips, he gave himself a little nod at his work. Found in a scrapyard, this bicycle was once the prized possession of a child. The vessel of that child's freedom, giving them the ability to rove far and wide, opening up a greater world. A world of exploration, of rushing wind and excited laughter as legs lifted, thrusting forwards, coasting down hills at ever greater speeds. Better days. Simpler days. That child had grown up, abandoning this bicycle, but Alfie never would. Grow up or abandon it.

Back at the smaller workbench, he lifted the mug of tea made earlier and grimaced. Flat cold and untouched. That wasn't a sign of age, he could at least take small comfort in that. The number of times the Duchess had puffed out her cheeks and scowled at him, berated him, for wasting a good cup of tea, he could probably write several books about. Sometimes, though, he simply became engrossed in his work.

It wasn't work anymore, though. Not for a good long while. A decent bicycle shop wasn't needed in an age where people could tap in an order and have their new toy delivered the next day. Alfie liked to think that that was the only reason he had closed the shop, but it wasn't. The new bicycles, with their ever-improved gear assemblies, had simply passed him by. He could have learned how to fix them, if he had tried, but, in truth, age had taken him and made everything so much more difficult. Even now, he missed working. Missed seeing those excited smiles as people took repossession of a beloved bicycle, repaired and its life extended.

Things changed. Times changed and Alfie hadn't changed fast enough to keep pace. Except here, in his shed, where he could change at his own pace. Like now. At one time, he would have disturbed the Duchess to get a fresh cuppa, trailing dirt and oil into the house, getting chased back out with the flick of a tea-towel until he took off his boots and washed. At first, after many many years of a tanned backside for his efforts, he had trailed a power cable from the house.

Now, he had those fancy solar panels on the roof of the shed, and on the house, but he spent more time here. He flicked the switch on the kettle, shaking his head that he gained the power to boil it from the Sun, even on an overcast day like today. A tiny sink, to the side, accepted his cold tea, draining away as the kettle boiled. Water rushed into the mug from the little tap, sloshed around the inside and then followed the wasted tea down the plug hole. Tea bag plopped in just in time for the kettle to finish boiling, allowing him to pour, and wait for the tea to stew.

With that done, taking the tea, without milk, back to the bench, he collected the tin of metal polish, two rags and a piece of steel wool. Even though his knees complained at him every time, he kneeled beside the bicycle on the stand and arranged the items around him, in their correct spots, where he could reach them without looking. The bicycle needed his attention, not the cleaning materials.

Everything took time and time was not something Alfie had an abundance of anymore, but he had time enough to afford for bicycles. Always. With the steel wool, he prepared the chrome and the steel of the bicycle before switching to the first cloth. Dabbing the corner into the metal polish, Alfie rubbed the mixture into every metal surface. Rubbing and rubbing until the milky swirls had covered every inch. The second cloth, a finer cloth, finished the polishing, bringing the bicycle to gleaming, glinting life.

With a groan, pushing against his own thigh to support himself, Alfie lifted himself to his feet, collecting everything and returning them to their correct places. Once again, he brushed his nose with the handkerchief, returning it to his pocket. A fine morning's work. A bicycle returned to use and beauty and, yet another mug of tea wasted. He tipped the mug to look at the cold contents. He couldn't blame his age, not unless he blamed his childish ability to forget everything but the work. The Duchess would have had words.

He ran the water from the tap, appreciating the cold flow as he rubbed his hands beneath it. A tub of specialised workers soap, to the side, provided the method of breaking down the grease and the oil ingrained in his skin, beneath his fingernails, in the cuticles. He rubbed and scrubbed until he had covered the entirety of both hands before swilling away the excess soap and drying his hands on a towel that had also seen better days, but did not have the sentimental value that the handkerchief held for Alfie. That, he could replace.

The door opened into the mid-morning light and Alfie switched off the lights inside the shed as he wheeled the bicycle outside, ready to add it to the ever-growing collection in the other, larger shed at the other end of the garden. He didn't like feeling proud of himself, the Duchess would have tutted at that, but he liked to think he had made a fine job of this one. From a wreck to a beauty. He would need another project now, but there were plenty of scrap merchants and junkyards to prowl for that. For now, he had saved another bicycle, and that was enough.

The ball appeared from nowhere, bouncing off the handlebars of the bicycle, almost into Alfie's face. A football, but only one of those cheap, plastic ones and, like Alfie's handkerchief and towel, had seen better days. Groaning as he leaned down, he teased the ball closer, collecting it on his hand.

"Here, pal!" A boy's face appeared over the top of the fence. "Give me my ball back, eh?"

Alfie had forgotten the new neighbours were moving in today.