In the early years of my retirement I would wake before the alarm on my ancient mobile phone, even though the alarm never rang. I still set it out of habit, a relic from the days when I worked night shifts at the steelworks in Sheffield and feared missing the startup. Now there was nothing to fear, yet each evening my hand would reach for the handset, turn the dial to 7:00 and, as I lay down, a strange calm would settle over me at the thought of that tomorrowmorning chime.
I usually rose at half past five. While I lay there I could hear the flats frontdoor slam, the upstairs neighbour a young lad hurrying off to his office dropping something heavy onto the floor. The flat was chilly; the old wooden frames never received double glazing because the council never offered a grant. On the sill sat a lonely mug, its rim still stained with yesterdays tea. Needs washing, I thought, and turned onto my other side, buying a few extra minutes before I had to get up.
The flat had come to me and my late wife, Margaret, in a houseswap back in the nineties. Two rooms, a kitchen, a narrow hallway everything familiar down to the tiniest scuff on the linoleum. In the bedroom stood an aged sideboard that housed dishes, photographs and a few folders of papers. I never liked opening those folders; they contained my whole life employment records, medical certificates, copies of orders, letters and each glance at them left me weary.
I slid out of bed, pulled a woollen dressinggown over my shoulders and shuffled to the kitchen. I lit the gas, set the kettle, and glanced at the little pots of geraniums that Margaret had once adored. Now I watered them by a schedule I invented, sometimes muttering to them when the house grew too silent.
My grandson, Tom, had promised to drop by that evening, help with the new smartphone and bring a flash drive with fresh pictures of my greatgranddaughter. Tom spoke quickly, sprinkling his sentences with Americanisms that I pretended to understand with a nod, lest I appear completely out of step. My son, Andrew, lived in the neighbouring suburb, worked at a garage, came home on weekends, delivered groceries and was forever in a rush.
My pension barely covered the essentials council tax, medicines, food. When I managed a little extra I bought a tin of herring and a slice of ham. I set aside a modest sum each summer for a trip to the cottage, which by now resembled a tangled garden more than a holiday retreat. Yet that ramshackle cottage still held a small hearth, and whenever I visited I felt I could still do something with my own hands.
I have always been a nonconfrontational sort. All my life I tried not to argue, not to demand more than necessary. At the steelworks, where I spent over thirty years, they respected me for keeping my head down and meeting the quotas. When the time came to claim my state pension, I signed whatever forms were handed over, glanced over them halfheartedly, and went home. What they give is what they give, I told Margaret then. We dont need much.
Margaret had been gone for six years now, and sometimes I caught myself speaking to the empty chair opposite me, especially at dinner when I turned on the telly. The chair sat exactly where it always had, and I never dared move it.
One crisp winter morning I went to the local health centre to collect my bloodtest results. A cold had seized my heart a few months earlier; the doctor prescribed tablets and asked me to have regular blood checks. As usual, there was a queue in the reception. People stood on stiff wooden chairs, muttering under their breath, others staring solemnly at the floor.
I took a spot by the wall and waited. Two women ahead of me were animatedly chatting; at first I ignored them, then a phrase caught my ear.
Theyve recalculated her pension, said one, adjusting her knitted cap and tugging at a shopping bag. Shes getting an extra two thousand pounds now. Apparently they underpaid her before, didnt count all her years.
No way, the other replied skeptically. Did they just decide that on their own?
The son found something online, a change in the records. We wrote a request, went to the archive. Turns out her work at the cooperative wasnt recorded, so now theyre paying her extra.
The words years, cooperative, archive were familiar. I remembered a stint in a construction firm in Manchester before returning to the steelworks. When I applied for my pension theyd told me the paperwork was missing, the archive had burned down, and I signed off with a resigned shrug.
Fine, thats that, I thought then. Well live with it. That was the way I always reasoned.
The women drifted onto other topics, but the phrase an extra two thousand pounds lingered. Two thousand could cover a months medication, the winter council tax, or if I stretched myself a brief trip to the cottage in spring.
When I left the health centre the snow crackled under my boots, a crowd gathered at the bus stop. I boarded, pressed my face to the window and began tallying my monthly outgoings in my head: tablets, groceries, heating. Those two thousand pounds could shift everything a little.
Silly thoughts, I chastised myself. Whats the point of chasing after paperwork? Itll just wear me out.
Back home I poured tea, sat at the kitchen table while a talkshow droned on about rising energy tariffs. I didnt listen. My eyes fell on the sideboard, on the lower shelf where the folders rested.
I lingered a while, then rose, opened the sideboard and pulled out the topmost folder labelled Documents. Inside were the yellowed pages my work record, copies of orders, salary slips. I ran my finger down the lines, trying to recall where the missing years in the construction firm had vanished. A note from the pension office listed my total years of service and insurance contributions. The entry for the construction period was blank.
That evening Tom arrived, shed his coat, let out a loud sneeze and trudged to the kitchen.
Granddad, how are you? he asked.
Living, I replied. Tom, could you look up something on the internet about pension recalculations?
Whats that? he asked, eyebrows rising.
I recounted the womens conversation in the queue, the missing archive, the extra two thousand. He listened, scratched his head.
Sure, you can file a request online through the Government Services portal. Or you could go to the Department for Work and Pensions in person, but they love to send you round in circles.
What if the documents are gone? I asked. They said the archive burned.
If the archives gone, its tougher, but you can still write formal requests. First to the city archive where you worked, then perhaps to the national records office. I can help, but it wont be quick.
I nodded. Inside me two voices battled: one urging me to stay in my quiet corner, the other whispering that after thirtyplus years of labour I deserved to be heard.
When Tom left, I sat at the table, staring at the opened work record. Eventually I slipped the papers back into the folder, but instead of hiding it in the back of the sideboard I left it on the chair beside me, as if I might need it again tomorrow.
Two days later I set off for the DWP office. I pulled on woollen socks, my best sweater, and spent a long time deciding which papers to take. In the end I shoved everything work record, salary slips, the faded letter from the construction firm into an old leather briefcase.
The DWP office was crowded. Inside it was warm, smelling of dust and cheap coffee from a vending machine. Posters announced new benefits, a queue of people milled around a touchscreen terminal, unsure where to click. I watched a young mother with a toddler fumbling with the screen, then approached a woman at the counter.
Excuse me, could you tell me how to get a claim form? I asked.
She tapped a few keys, handed me a small green slip with the number 132.
Take this to the pension officer, she said.
I thanked her, took a seat, watched the display board flash numbers, heard a monotone voice calling out names. Time dragged. I observed the others some nervously shuffling documents, some whispering to companions. Their faces all bore the same mix of fatigue and faint hope.
When my number appeared, I rose and approached a window. Behind the glass sat a woman in her midforties, glasses perched on a neat nose, hair pulled back. Her badge read Pension Officer. She nodded.
Good morning. Heres your claim form, she said, sliding a paper across.
I placed my briefcase on the sill, opened it, and said, Id like to know if my time at the construction firm can be added to my pension. When I applied they told me the records were lost.
She sighed lightly, took my passport, typed something.
Your pension was calculated in 2006. It shows this amount of service and the coefficient applied. What specifically are you contesting?
The phrase contesting struck a chord, but I swallowed.
I worked five years for the Midland Building Co. in Manchester before I joined the steelworks. When my pension was processed they said the archive had burnt, so they omitted those years. I have a copy of my work record here, I said, sliding the yellowed page.
She examined it, turned the page.
Yes, I see a line for that period, but without corroborating documents we cant adjust the service record. The archive would need to confirm your employment.
She looked up over her glasses.
Requests to the archive are your right, but we dont make them. You must contact the Manchester City Archive yourself and obtain a verification. If the archive cant produce anything, we have no basis to change the calculation.
A familiar resignation rose in my chest. I thought of the quiet life Id accepted for decades. Yet a faint spark of defiance lingered.
Can I still submit a revised claim? I asked, surprised at my own firmness.
She raised an eyebrow.
Yes, you can fill out a new form, but without fresh evidence the decision will likely be negative. Ill give you a blank form.
I took the paper, the pen trembling in my hand. In the box for Reason for enquiry I wrote, Request to include five years of employment at Midland Building Co. and recalculate pension.
When I signed and dated it, she stamped it and said, Youll receive a response by post within a month. Youll also need to send your archive request to the city council.
I left the office into the chilly dusk, a brief breeze ruffling my coat. I felt a mixture of exhaustion from the queue and a quiet pride that I had at least tried.
Later that evening I called Andrew.
Dad, I went to the pension office, I began. Ive filed a request for a recalculation.
There was a pause.
Do you really need to go through all that? Its a hassle, and theyll probably say no, Andrew said, his tone weary. Just keep taking your tablets and look after yourself. I can help with the paperwork if it comes to that.
I was told I can ask the archive for proof. Maybe theyll find something, I replied.
Fine, if youre set on it, he sighed. Just dont wear yourself out.
I hung up, the phones silence filling the kitchen. The words of the women in the queue two thousand pounds echoed again, but now it seemed less about the money and more about being recognised for the years I had spent labouring.
Two weeks later Tom returned with his laptop.
Granddad, Ive found the Manchester Archives online request form. Its straightforward just fill in the details and submit. He turned the screen toward me.
I read the fields: name, dates of employment, position, employer. I recited the name of the construction firm, the foremans name, the years 1973 to 1978. My memory supplied the details, though some were fuzzy.
What if I get it wrong? I asked.
Its okay, Tom reassured. If the dates dont match what they have, theyll tell you. The important thing is that youve made the request.
When we hit Submit, a confirmation appeared: Your request has been registered. A modest swell of pride rose within me the man who had struggled with a rotary phone now sent an official request through the internet.
Good job, Granddad, Tom smiled. Now we wait.
Weeks later a thick white envelope arrived, stamped with the DWP crest. I opened it slowly, the paper rustling. Inside was a letter stating that, after review of the additional documents, the recalculation could not be approved because the archive had not supplied a formal verification of the missing years. The wording was dry, the conclusion final.
I set the letter on the table, feeling neither surprise nor disappointment. After all the years of quiet acceptance, I had known this could happen.
A few days after that, a parcel from the Manchester City Archive arrived. Inside was a thin sheet of paper noting that some of the construction firms records survived the fire, but the specific personnel file for my employee number was missing. It did, however, contain a register listing all workers present in the period I had cited.
I turned the page, eyes lingering on my name, the fiveyear span highlighted. It was a small vindication: the archive had not erased me entirely.
That evening Andrew dropped by with a bag of groceries.
Whats the news? he asked, setting the bags down.
Ive got a response from the pension office theyve increased my pension a little, I said, sliding the DWP letter across the table. Not the two thousand pounds the lady in the queue mentioned, but a modest rise.
And youre happy? he asked, a hint of relief in his voice.
Im content, I replied. Its not a fortune, but it shows theyve finally counted those five years.
He smiled, the tension in his shoulders easing. Good. Youve fought for whats yours. No need to go to court now.
I nodded. The idea of a courtroom, with its rows of benches and solemn judges, seemed distant and expensive. I was too old for that kind of battle.
A few days later Tom visited again, this time with a notebook.
Granddad, why dont we write a short article about what youve been through? It might help others who discover their pension doesnt include all their service.
Why bother? I asked, amused.
Because you always said people shouldnt think they have no rights. If someone else reads it and decides to look into their own record, thats something, he replied.
I thought about it. The word fight felt too harsh for my quiet kitchen, but the notion of sharing the knowledge felt right.
Maybe, I said. Lets see how it goes.
When Tom left, I placed all the papersnot hidden deep in the sideboard any more, but on a shelf within easy reach. They were no longer a burden but evidence that I could still assert a claim.
I poured another cup of tea, settled into my favourite armchair, and watched the streetlights flicker on outside. Childrens laughter drifted from the playground across the lane, couples hurried home with grocery bags, and the world turned on, each person carrying their own queue, their own right to be heard.
I rested my hands on the table, the soft rustle of the papers beside me, and felt a quiet certainty settle over me. I had spent a lifetime saying, Ill just get on with it. Now I could also say, I have a right to be recognised, without any shame.
The night deepened, the flat grew still, and I tucked the letters back into the folder, not locking it, but leaving it open on the shelf. In that simple act I acknowledged that, however modest the change, those five years of my life were finally acknowledged, and that was enough.
