Standing Your Ground: The Right to Queue

03April

I rose before the alarm on my old mobile, though I never needed it. Still, habit kept me setting the clock at 7:00am, a relic from the days I worked night shifts at the steel plant in Sheffield and feared missing the start bell. Now there is nothing to fear, yet each evening my hand drifts to the phone, pushes the numbers, and I lie down feeling a strange calm at the thought of tomorrows ringtone.

Usually I wake at half past four. I lie there listening to the hallway doors slam, to the neighbour upstairs a young fellow hurrying to his job dropping something heavy onto the floor. The flat is cool; the singleglazed window lets the chill in, a cheap substitute I never could afford to replace with double glazing. On the sill sits a mug with a dried tea ring from yesterday. I should wash it, I think, and turn onto my other side, buying a few more minutes before I must get up.

The flat came to me in an exchange with the late Eleanor back in the nineties. Two rooms, a kitchen and a narrow corridor, all familiar down to the tiniest speck of wear on the linoleum. In the bedroom stands an aging sideboard that holds crockery, photographs and a few folders of paperwork. I never touch the folders; they contain my whole life employment records, certificates, copies of orders, letters. Looking at them makes my shoulders slump.

I swing my legs over the side, throw on a warm robe and shuffle to the kitchen. I turn on the gas and set the kettle. On the sill sit the few pots of geraniums Eleanor once tended. Now I water them on a schedule I invented myself and sometimes talk to them when the house feels too quiet.

My grandson Daniel promised to pop round this evening, help with my old handset and bring fresh photos of my greatgranddaughter on a USB stick. Daniel talks fast, slipping English words into his Russian sentences, which I nod at so as not to look outoftouch. My son, Andrew, lives in the neighbouring suburb, works at a garage, comes over on weekends with groceries and is always in a hurry.

My state pension barely covers the bills council tax, prescriptions, food. When I manage to save a little I treat myself to a tin of sardines and a slice of brawn. I set aside a modest sum for a summer trip to the cottage, which now looks more like an overgrown garden than a holiday retreat. Still, the little house there reminds me I can still do something with my own hands.

I have always been a nonconfrontational sort. I tried not to argue, not to demand more than necessary. At the plant I spent over thirty years, my colleagues respected me because I never stirred up trouble and always met the targets. When the pension paperwork arrived, I signed what was handed over, took the envelope and went home without reading the fine print. What they give is what they give, I told Eleanor then. We dont need much.

Eleanor has been gone six years now. Sometimes I catch myself speaking to the empty chair opposite me, especially at dinner when the TV is on. The chair sits exactly where it always has; I never have the nerve to move or discard it.

It was a snowy morning when I went to the surgery to collect bloodtest results. Last winter my heart had given out; the doctor prescribed tablets and asked for regular tests. As usual there was a queue in the reception people perched on stiff chairs, some muttering complaints, others staring down at the floor.

I took a spot by the wall and waited. Two women in knitted hats were chatting loudly enough for me to hear.

Their pension was recalculated, one said, adjusting her bag. They added £2,000. Apparently the old records missed some years.

Really? the other replied skeptically. Did they do it themselves?

No, her son found something online, submitted a request. Turns out her work at the collective farm wasnt counted, so theyre now paying more.

The words pension, collective farm, archive struck a chord. I remembered a stint in a construction trust in a different city before I returned to Sheffield. When I applied for my own pension, they told me the files were lost in a fire, so I signed the consent with a sigh. If its not there, its not there, I thought then. Well manage.

The women moved on to other topics, but the phrase an extra £2,000 lingered. Two thousand pounds could cover a months medication, a winters council tax bill, or, if I stretched it, a weekend trip to the cottage in spring.

Leaving the surgery, the snow crunched under my boots. At the bus stop a crowd gathered. I boarded, pressed my face to the window and began mentally tallying my monthly outgoings tablets, groceries, heating. What could an extra two grand shift? I muttered, trying to brush it off as nonsense.

Back home I made tea, sat at the kitchen table while a daytime chat show droned on about rising prices. My gaze fell on the sideboard, on the lower shelf where the folders lived. I opened the topmost folder labelled Documents. Inside lay a faded work record, copies of orders, salary slips, the pension award letter stating my years of service and insurance contributions. I traced the lines with my finger, searching for the missing years in the construction trust. There was a note about a transfer, then nothing.

That evening Daniel arrived, shed his coat, sneezed loudly, and headed to the kitchen.

Hey, Granddad, hows it going? he asked.

Living, I replied. Listen, could you look online about the pension recalculation? I heard there might be a way to appeal.

He raised an eyebrow. You mean the queue conversation?

I explained the two womens remark, the missing farm work and the archive claim. He listened, scratched his head, then said, Yes, you can submit a request on the Gov.uk portal, or go to the pension office. Theyll ask for proof, though.

What if the proof is gone? I asked. They said the archive burned.

If the archive burned, its trickier, but you can still write to the local records office, request any surviving documents. I can help with the letters, but it wont be quick.

Inside me a battle raged. One voice whispered, Leave it be, stay quiet. The other hissed, You worked, you deserve recognition.

When Daniel left, I sat at the table, the work record spread before me, and eventually placed it not back in the sideboard but on the chair beside it as if it might be needed tomorrow.

Two days later I went to the pension office. I dressed in my woollen socks and my best sweater, packed my old leather briefcase with everything: the work record, salary slips, the yellowed letter from the construction trust. The office was busy, warm, smelling of stale coffee and dust. Posters about digital services plastered the walls, and a queue of people waited at a selfservice kiosk.

I approached a young mother with a toddler and asked, Excuse me, could you tell me how to get a token?

She tapped a few buttons, handed me a slip that read Proceed to counter 132. I thanked her, took a seat, and watched the electronic board scroll names. When my number flashed, I stood and walked to a window where a woman in her midforties, glasses perched on her nose, greeted me.

Good morning. Heres your token.

I handed it over. Id like to ask about a pension recalculation. I was told some of my years werent counted.

She glanced at my passport, typed, then said, Your pension was set in 2006, based on the records we have. What period do you think is missing?

I produced the work record. I worked for five years at the Riverdale Construction Trust before coming back to the steel plant. The archive there supposedly burned, but I have this letter confirming my employment.

She examined the document, frowned slightly. We cant add the years without corroborating evidence from the former employers archive. Youll need to request a formal confirmation from the Riverdale records office. Once we have that, we can reopen your case.

I felt the familiar resignation settle in. So I must write to them, I said.

She handed me a blank form. You can fill it in now. State that youre requesting a reconsideration based on the missing fiveyear period. Without the archive confirmation, we cant adjust the amount.

I signed, handed the form back, and she stamped it. Youll receive a reply by post within a month.

Outside, the air was crisp and fresh. I stood at the bus stop, the cold biting my cheeks, and thought of the twothousandpound figure again. It could mean a month of heating, a few extra meals, maybe a short trip to the cottage. It felt both absurdly small and oddly hopeful.

Later that night I called Andrew.

Dad, I went to the pension office. They want me to get a letter from the old construction trust.

He sighed. Honestly, youll waste your time. Theyre unlikely to dig up anything. Just keep your health, dont stress yourself.

I answered, Im not after money alone. I just want my years to be acknowledged.

There was a pause, then a softer tone. Fine, if it matters to you, Ill help with the paperwork. Just dont go overboard.

His words struck a chord; I realised I was no longer the passive man who simply said, Well get by. I was becoming someone who would fight for a piece of his own history.

Two weeks later Daniel returned with his laptop.

I found the Riverdale archives website. You can submit a request online. Just fill in the form and attach the work record you have.

We sat together, I read out my dates of employment, the position, my supervisors name. Daniel typed it all in, doublechecked, and hit Submit. A confirmation screen told us the request was logged. I felt a modest surge of pride; a man who had struggled with a flipphone now sent an official request over the internet.

Good job, Granddad, Daniel said, smiling. Now we wait.

The waiting was uneasy. A fortnight later a plain envelope arrived from the pension office. Inside was a letter: After reviewing the additional documentation, we are unable to adjust your pension as the period you claim is not substantiated by any official record. No further action can be taken. The wording was cold, the decision final.

I read it twice, feeling a mix of disappointment and a strange calm. I had expected this, yet the denial still stung because it meant those five years would remain invisible.

A few days after that, a letter from the Riverdale records office arrived. It said, Partial files from the 1970s survive; however, the personnel file for Mr. Harold Whitfield (my name) could not be located. Please provide any additional details such as exact dates, duties, or colleagues.

The phrase partial files meant the fire hadnt destroyed everything. There was still a chance.

I called Andrew that evening. Theyve said theres something left but need more detail, I told him.

He muttered, Well, its a waste of time. Do you really think theyll dig it up?

I answered, If they cant find it, at least I tried. I cant just go back to saying nothing matters.

The next day I sat at the kitchen table, pen in hand, drafting a reply with the extra information I could recall: the exact months I started and left, the projects I worked on, the name of the foreman, Mr. Collins. Andrew helped me type it up, grumbling about the bureaucracy but eventually sending it off.

Weeks turned into months. I made a few more trips to the pension office, each time meeting clerks who offered tired sympathy or blunt indifference. One young woman at the counter said, These cases are always tricky, but dont give up. Another older man, clearly burnt out, snapped, If the archive doesnt have it, theres nothing we can do.

I kept a notebook of every name, office, and number, like a mechanics logbook. The details formed a small map of the maze I was navigating.

In early May I received another envelope from the pension office, this time with a different tone. Following receipt of the additional documentation, we have recalculated your entitlement. Your pension will increase by £375 per year.

The figure was modest far less than the £2,000 the women in the queue had spoken of, but it was something. My five missing years had finally been recognised, however minimally.

I placed the letter on the table beside my tea, feeling neither triumph nor defeat, just a quiet acceptance. The system had finally acknowledged a fragment of my life.

Andrew called later that night. Well, you got something, he said. At least its not zero. You didnt have to go to court after all.

Exactly, I replied. Im not heading to court. Im just glad I didnt stay silent.

He laughed, a little embarrassed. Sorry I pushed you before. I was scared for you.

It’s alright, I said. I needed to see that I still have a voice.

The next morning Daniel dropped by again, a fresh cup of tea in hand. He flipped through the letter and chuckled at the bureaucratic phrasing. What if we wrote a blog about this? Others might need to know they can fight for a forgotten year.

I hesitated. Do I want the world to hear my story?

Maybe, he said, just so people dont think the system will always ignore them.

I smiled, feeling a new sort of resolve. I didnt need to become an activist; I only needed to know I had taken a step.

I tucked the pension letter into the same folder but left it on the open shelf instead of hiding it in the back of the sideboard. It was no longer a burden to be concealed; it was a reminder that I could still act.

I finished my tea, looked out the window at the street lanterns flickering on as dusk settled over the council estate. Childrens laughter drifted from the nearby park, adults shuffled home with grocery bags, each carrying their own queues and rights.

I sat back in my chair, palms resting on the table, and for the first time in years I felt a quiet certainty: whether the world changes little or not, I have managed to change a piece of my own story. I may not have the wealth of a king, but I have reclaimed a fragment of my dignity, and that, in its own way, is worth more than any amount the state can dole out.