The Borrowed Drill

When Marcus moved into the flat downstairs, the first thing he needed was a drill to hang a single shelf.

He did not own one, and buying a whole drill for one shelf seemed wasteful. So he knocked on the door of his neighbour, an older man named Mr Okonkwo, whom he had only met once in the hallway. Marcus felt awkward asking a stranger for a favour.

"A drill?" Mr Okonkwo said, raising his eyebrows. "Of course. Wait here." He returned a moment later with a heavy red drill in a worn case. "This belonged to my late wife, actually. She was the handy one in our house, not me. Take good care of it."

Marcus promised he would. He thanked the old man and carried the drill downstairs as carefully as if it were made of glass. The shelf went up in ten minutes. He was about to take the drill straight back when he noticed something strange: the drill had stopped working. He pressed the trigger again and again, but it was dead.

His stomach sank. He had broken a dead woman's drill on the very first day. For an hour he sat staring at it, dreading the conversation he would have to have. He could simply buy a new one and pretend nothing had happened, but that felt dishonest.

Finally he plucked up courage, went upstairs, and confessed everything. "I'm so sorry," he said. "It just stopped. I'll replace it, whatever it costs."

To his great surprise, Mr Okonkwo started to laugh. "Replace it? No, no. Did you check the battery?" He took the drill, opened a little drawer, and pulled out a second battery. He clicked it into place, and the drill roared to life. "The old battery only lasts five minutes now. I should have warned you. I've been meaning to throw it out for years."

Marcus felt a wave of relief wash over him. He laughed too, partly at himself.

"You know," Mr Okonkwo said, "nobody has knocked on my door since Grace passed away. Most people just nod in the hallway and hurry off." He paused. "Why don't you stay for a cup of tea? You can tell me about this famous shelf."

So Marcus stayed. They drank tea in the small kitchen, and the old man told stories about his wife, who could fix anything from a leaking tap to a broken radio. By the time Marcus went back downstairs, he had not only a working shelf but the beginning of a friendship.

He had come for a drill. He left with something far more useful: a neighbour who was no longer a stranger.