“Oh, you’re trying, are you?” Margaret threw her hands up in exasperation. “Forty years I’ve watched you ‘try’! Remember when you bought that holiday cottage in Cornwall?”
“How many times must we go over this?” Margaret huffed, slamming a stack of papers onto the kitchen table. “The pensions office needs proof of your earnings for the last five years, and for three months you’ve been bringing me these useless scraps!”
“Love, I told you,” Victor said with a helpless shrug, “the archives said the records from ’98 were lost in the move. What am I supposed to do?”
“Ever thought of using your brain?” Margaret pushed back from the table and paced the room. “Did you check with the factory payroll? Speak to the old manager? Or is shrugging your shoulders the only thing you know how to do?”
Victor winced. Retirement had turned into a daily ordeal. Margaret always found something to fault him for, making him feel like a naughty schoolboy.
“That factory shut down years ago,” he muttered. “And the old manager passed back in the 2000s.”
“Exactly!” Margaret spun to face him. “You should’ve sorted this years ago instead of waiting till the last minute. Now thanks to your carelessness, we’ll miss out on that pension top-up!”
Victor looked down. She was right, as usual. He’d put off sorting the paperwork, hoping it would sort itself out. But now, without proof of his hazardous work conditions, they’d lose the extra £200 a month.
“I’ll try the county archives tomorrow,” he mumbled.
“Oh, you’ll try,” Margaret scoffed, shuffling papers. “Like you tried when you promised to sort Emily’s council tax exemption when she got married? Two years running about, and in the end she fixed it herself.”
Victor sighed. That was still a sore spot. He’d made big promises, then left everyone stressed.
“Maybe we should ask Emily?” he offered. “She works in the council offices—might know what to do.”
“Emily has her own life,” Margaret snapped. “Stop relying on our daughter to fix your messes. Be a man and handle it.”
Be a man. Victor gave a bitter smile. He’d worked forty years as a lathe operator, provided for his family, never drank—yet somehow, he still felt like a failure.
“Right. County archives first thing,” he said, hauling himself off the sofa.
“And don’t forget your passport this time,” Margaret called. “And write the address properly, not like last time when you ended up in bloody Devizes.”
Victor nodded and shuffled to the kitchen for tea. Outside, streetlights flickered on. Staring at the familiar cul-de-sac, he wondered when life had gone so wrong.
Margaret hadn’t always been this harsh. When they’d married thirty years ago, she’d been warm, encouraging. Now every mistake was a lecture.
“Vic, you eating dinner?” Margaret called.
“Yeah, course.”
“Then peel the potatoes. I’ll do the sausages.”
The mindless rhythm of peeling soothed him—until the phone rang.
“Dad! How’s things?” Emily’s voice lifted his mood instantly.
“Love! How’s little Sophie?”
“She’s grand, loves nursery. Listen, Mum mentioned your pension paperwork nightmare?”
Victor explained the missing records.
“Wait—have you tried the Pensions Service directly? They’ve had digital records since ’92!”
Victor blinked. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“Go tomorrow,” Emily urged. “And Dad—don’t stress. We’ll sort it.”
After hanging up, Victor felt lighter. Emily always knew how to help, unlike Margaret.
“Oh, brilliant,” Margaret said dryly when he told her. “Could’ve gone there months ago instead of wasting time.”
Victor stayed quiet. Arguing was pointless.
Next morning, the Pensions Service queue moved quickly.
“Proof of contributions?” The clerk tapped her keyboard. “Hmm. There’s a gap for 1998—seems your factory never submitted those records.”
Victor’s stomach dropped. “So what now?”
“Request a wage statement from your employer.”
“The factory’s been closed twenty years!”
“Then try the liquidators’ archives.” She scribbled an address.
Margaret was waiting. “Well?”
Victor explained.
“I told you it was a waste of time!” she exploded. “Now we’ll lose that £200 because you can’t think ahead!”
“They said I could appeal to a tribunal…”
“You? In court?” Margaret laughed. “You’d stammer through your own name!”
That night, Emily called. “Dad, let me help. My mate’s a solicitor—we’ll draft the appeal together.”
The next day, over tea in Emily’s neat Milton Keynes flat, they worked for hours. She showed him how to present his case.
“Just speak clearly,” she said. “You earned that money.”
At the tribunal, Victor’s hands shook as he explained. But remembering Emily’s advice, he steadied his voice. The judge ruled in his favour.
Margaret stared at the verdict. “You actually won?”
“I did.”
“Well. Never thought I’d see the day.”
Even now, she couldn’t just say well done.
Later, Emily called. “So proud of you, Dad!”
Victor smiled, but the victory felt hollow. The real issue wasn’t the paperwork—it was how small he’d let himself become. Margaret wasn’t wrong—he’d spent his life avoiding conflict, drifting along.
But today, he’d fought back. However small the step, it was a start.
