“You’re trying!” Margaret threw up her hands. “Forty years I’ve watched your trying! Remember when you bought that cottage?”
“How many times must we go over this?” Margaret tossed a stack of papers onto the table. “The pension office needs proof of income for the last five years, and for three months, you’ve brought me useless scraps!”
“Margie, I explained,” Victor said with a guilty shrug. “The archive said the records from ’98 were lost in the move. What can I do?”
“Ever tried using your head?” Margaret got up and paced the room. “Did you check with the factory’s payroll? Speak to the manager? Or do you just shrug and give up?”
Victor winced. Since retiring six months ago, every day had been an ordeal. Margaret always found something to criticise, and he felt like a scolded schoolboy.
“The factory closed years ago,” he muttered. “And the old manager died in the noughties.”
“Exactly!” Margaret turned on him. “You should’ve sorted this years ago instead of waiting till the last minute. Now, because of your carelessness, we’ll miss out on that pension top-up.”
Victor looked down. She was right, as usual. He hadn’t bothered sorting the paperwork in time, hoping it would sort itself out. Now he couldn’t claim the extra payment for hazardous work without proof of earnings.
“I’ll try the county archives,” he mumbled.
“Oh, you’ll try,” Margaret said, flipping through papers. “Like you’ve always tried. Remember when you promised to sort Lucy’s council tax when she got married? Two years running around offices, and she ended up fixing it herself.”
Victor sighed. That still stung. He’d made big promises and only worn everyone out.
“Maybe we should visit Lucy?” he offered. “She works in the council—she might know what to do.”
“Lucy has her own life,” Margaret snapped. “Stop relying on your daughter. Handle your own business, for once.”
His own business. Victor gave a bitter smile. He’d spent his life trying to be the man of the house—working as a lathe operator, bringing home his wages, never drinking or smoking. Yet somehow, he still felt like a failure.
“Fine. I’ll go to the county archives tomorrow,” he said, standing.
“Don’t forget your ID,” Margaret called after him. “And write the address down properly. Last time, you went to the wrong place.”
Victor nodded and headed to the kitchen. Outside, the streetlights flickered on. He stared at the familiar view, wondering when his life had gone so wrong.
Margaret hadn’t always been so harsh. When they married thirty years ago, she’d been kind, supportive—even when things went badly. Now every mistake was a lecture.
“Vic, are you eating dinner?” Margaret called.
“Yes, love.”
“Then peel the potatoes. I’ll fry the chops.”
Victor set to work, the rhythm calming him—until the phone rang.
“Dad! How’s things?” It was Lucy.
“Sweetheart!” He brightened. “How’s the little one?”
“Emily’s fine—loves nursery. Listen, Mum mentioned the pension paperwork?”
“Yeah. Can’t get my earnings proof. The archive says the records are gone.”
“Have you tried the pensions office? They must have your contributions logged.”
Victor paused. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
“No. D’you think it’ll work?”
“Course! They’ve had records since ’92. Go tomorrow—don’t drag it out.”
“Alright. I will.”
“And Dad,” Lucy softened, “don’t let it get to you. It’ll sort out.”
After hanging up, Victor felt lighter. Lucy always knew how to lift him, unlike Margaret. He finished the potatoes and hurried to share the news.
“See?” Margaret said. “Should’ve gone there first instead of wasting time.”
Victor stayed quiet. Arguing never helped.
The next morning, he went to the pensions office. The queue was short, and soon a woman at the counter asked, “Proof of contributions? We can print that. But there’s a gap—1998 isn’t showing.”
“A gap?” Victor frowned.
“Your factory might not have sent those records. You’ll need a wage slip from back then.”
His heart sank. Back to square one.
“But the factory’s gone,” he said weakly.
“Then try the company archives. They’d have taken the records when it closed.”
She gave him the address. Victor trudged home, deflated.
“Well? Got it?” Margaret asked.
“No. They need proof from the factory.”
“I told you it was a waste of time!” she snapped. “Think, for once!”
“Margie, I’m trying,” he muttered.
“Trying!” She threw up her hands. “Forty years of trying! Remember that cottage? Promised a proper house, and you bought a shack on a swamp! Or that car? A wreck that broke down in a month!”
Victor sank onto the sofa, covering his face. Each word stung—because she was right. He’d messed up the cottage paperwork, been swindled on the car.
“Maybe Lucy can still help?” he whispered.
“Grow up!” Margaret sat beside him, not to comfort but scold. “She’s got her own family. You’re acting like a child—running to Mum, running to his daughter. When will you be a man?”
A man. Victor looked at her. Once, she’d called him her rock. Now…
“I worked my whole life, provided for us,” he said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Provided, yes,” Margaret said. “But what for? You never fought for anything. Let others push past you at work—silent as a mouse. While the loud ones got promoted.”
He remembered. Promises of promotions that never came. He’d never learned to push back.
“I don’t elbow my way through life,” he said.
“Exactly! And what’s it got you? A tiny pension, missing paperwork, and now this top-up might vanish. All because you won’t stand up for yourself.”
Victor stayed quiet. She wasn’t wrong. He’d always been passive, avoided conflict. Now he was paying for it.
“Alright,” he said finally. “I’ll try the company archive tomorrow.”
“Try,” Margaret scoffed. “But this time, don’t just sit there. Demand answers. You’ve got rights.”
The next morning, Victor went to the archive—a crumbling building with peeling paint. An elderly woman in glasses sat at reception.
“I need proof of my wages,” he said, handing over his papers.
She checked. “Metalworks factory? We have some records, but many were lost.”
“Anything from 1998?”
She disappeared, returned shaking her head. “Nothing on wages. Just staff numbers.”
Victor’s hope died.
“What do I do now?”
“Try court,” she suggested. “Sometimes they restore lost records.”
Court. The idea terrified him.
At home, Margaret asked, “Well?”
“Nothing. They’re lost there too.”
“Brilliant! Fifteen hundred quid a month, gone—thanks to you!”
“They said I could go to court.”
“You?” She laughed. “You’d stammer your way through it!”
Victor said nothing. She was right—he hated official places, always had.
“Maybe a solicitor?” he ventured.
“With what money? No, you’ll have to sort it yourself.”
That evening, Lucy called. “Dad, any luck?”
He told her everything.
“Look,” she said, “I’ll help with the court papers. A mate at work knows a solicitor—he’ll advise us.”
“Love, I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re my dad. Come round tomorrow—we’ll fix this.”
After hanging up, Victor felt lighter. Someone was helping without blame.
“Lucy’s sorting the court papers,” he told Margaret.
“Good,” she said. “At least someone’s got sense.”
Victor flinched. Even now, she made it sound like his fault.
The next day, Lucy welcomed him warmly, tea in hand.
“Right,” she said, opening her laptop. “Tell me everything.”
He did. She took notes, then nodded.
“This happens. When firms closed, records got lost. But court can order a reconstruction based on other proof.”
“Can I do this?” he asked weakly.
“Course! I’ll help. We’ll draft the claim, gather evidence.”
They worked for hours. Lucy explained what to say in court, what papers to bring.
“Just don’t panic, Dad. You earned that top-up. The records are missing—that’s not your fault.”
Victor left with the claim form and a plan. For the first time in ages, he felt steadier.
“Well?” Margaret asked at home.
“Sorted. Filing the claim tomorrow.”
“We’ll see,” she said sceptically.
A month later, the court date came. Victor was nervous, but Lucy’s advice echoed in his
