“Honestly, you’re trying too hard!” Margaret threw her hands up in exasperation. “Forty years I’ve watched you *try*! Remember when you bought that holiday home in Cornwall? A complete disaster!”
“How many times must we go over this?” Margaret tossed a stack of papers onto the kitchen table. “The pension office wants proof of income for the last five years, and for three months, you’ve been handing me useless scraps!”
“Margie, I explained,” Victor said with a guilty shrug. “The archives said the records from ’98 were lost during their move. What could I do?”
“Use your brain for once!” She stood and paced the room. “Did you ask HR at the factory? Speak to the old manager? Or is shrugging your only skill?”
Victor winced. Retirement had turned into a daily gauntlet of criticism, leaving him feeling like a scolded schoolboy.
“The factory closed years ago,” he muttered. “And the old manager passed away in the 2000s.”
“Exactly!” Margaret spun to face him. “You should’ve sorted this *ages* ago instead of waiting till the last minute. Now we’ll lose our extra pension because of your incompetence.”
Victor stared at his shoes. She was right, as usual. He *had* put it off, assuming things would sort themselves out. Now, without proof of his hazardous work conditions, he’d miss out on the top-up.
“I’ll try the county archives,” he mumbled.
“Oh, *brilliant*,” she snapped, shuffling papers. “Like you tried with Sophie’s housing paperwork when she got married? Two years of running in circles before she fixed it herself.”
Victor sighed. That still stung. He’d made grand promises, only to exhaust everyone with his dithering.
“Maybe we should ask Sophie?” he ventured. “She works in council admin—she might know what to do.”
“Sophie has a *job*, Victor. Must she solve your problems too?” Margaret crossed her arms. “Be a man and handle it yourself.”
*Be a man.* Victor scoffed. He’d worked forty years as a lathe operator, provided for his family, never touched a drop—yet somehow, he’d still ended up feeling like a failure.
“Fine. I’ll go to the county archives tomorrow.” He rose stiffly from the sofa.
“Don’t forget your *passport* this time,” she called after him. “And write the address down properly—unlike last time, when you wound up in *Cardiff*.”
Victor nodded and retreated to the kitchen. Outside, streetlights flickered on as dusk settled. He sipped his tea, wondering when life had gone so pear-shaped.
Margaret hadn’t always been this sharp. Thirty years ago, she’d been warm, patient—the sort to cheer him up after setbacks. Now, every misstep was a lecture.
“Vic, you *are* joining me for dinner?” she called.
“Yeah, ’course.”
“Then peel the potatoes. I’ll do the sausages.”
The mindless task soothed him—until the phone rang.
“Dad! How’s it going?” Sophie’s voice was sunshine.
“Love! Just got your text—how’s little Emily?”
“Thriving, loves nursery. Listen, Mum mentioned the pension paperwork nightmare?”
Victor spilled the saga.
“Right. Have you tried the *Pension Service*? They’ve got contribution records back to ’92.”
A pause. *Why hadn’t that occurred to him?*
“No, I—d’you think it’ll work?”
“Absolutely. Go first thing.” Her tone softened. “And Dad? Don’t fret. We’ll sort it.”
After hanging up, Victor felt lighter. Sophie always knew what to say. He finished the spuds and marched back to Margaret.
“Sophie says the Pension Service can help.”
“*There’s* a thought,” Margaret said dryly. “Shame you wasted months on wild-goose chases.”
Victor bit his tongue. Arguing was futile.
The next morning, the Pension Service queue moved briskly. A woman behind the counter frowned at his records.
“There’s a gap in ’98. The factory never submitted those contributions.”
Victor’s stomach dropped. “But… the factory’s *gone*.”
“Try their liquidation archives.” She scribbled an address. “Documents should’ve been transferred there.”
He trudged home.
“Well?” Margaret demanded.
“Need paperwork from the factory.”
“*I told you* that’d be pointless!” she erupted. “Now we’ll lose *three hundred quid* a month, thanks to you!”
“Margie, please—”
“*Please* what? You bungle everything! That ‘bargain’ car that died in a month? The ‘prime’ holiday home that was *swampland*?”
Victor sank onto the sofa, hands over his face. Every word was a lash—and the worst part? She wasn’t wrong.
“Maybe we *should* ask Sophie,” he whispered.
“For heaven’s sake!” Margaret sat beside him—not to comfort, but to jab a finger. “You’re like a teenager—running to Mummy or daughter to fix your mess. When will you *grow up*?”
Victor looked up, stung. Once, she’d called him her ‘rock’. Now?
“I *did* provide. Forty years of honest work—”
“And zero backbone,” she cut in. “Remember when they passed you over for foreman? You just *took it*.”
He remembered. He’d never been one for elbows-out ambition.
“I don’t play dirty.”
“No, you just *lose*.” She stood, pacing again. “And now? Tiny pension, missing records—all because you won’t *fight*.”
The next day, Sophie took charge over tea at her house.
“This happens all the time with closed factories,” she said, typing briskly. “We’ll file a claim—use your payslips, tax records as proof.”
“But court—what if I—”
“Dad.” She squeezed his hand. “You *earned* this. I’ll walk you through it.”
For the first time in years, Victor felt a flicker of hope.
A month later, the magistrate ruled in his favour.
Margaret blinked at the verdict. “You actually *won*?”
“Yeah,” Victor said quietly.
“Huh.” She shook her head. “Never thought I’d see the day.”
Even now, she couldn’t just *be happy* for him.
Sophie’s call that evening was balm. “So proud of you, Dad!”
“Couldn’t have done it without you, love.”
As he sat alone later, the victory felt hollow. The real issue wasn’t paperwork—it was *him*. Forty years of letting life happen *to* him, not *through* him.
But today—tiny as it was—he’d taken a step. And maybe, just maybe, that was the start of something new.
