The Broken Chariot by Alan Sillitoe

He remembered the wet tents he had slept in. ‘I can hardly believe my luck.’
    The response was a don’t-know-you’re-bornlook. ‘There’s no such thing.’ Isaac called from the alcove where he was changing into pyjamas. ‘Everything’s pre-ordained, as you’ll find out more and more as you go on.’
    Herbert opened his eyes. Sunlight, albeit watery, came into the room. He folded his blanket with cadet neatness and cleared the space, feeling as if the awareness of freedom all through the night had doubled the intensity of his sleep. Waking up penniless gave him no worry at all.
    â€˜Borrow this cap,’ Isaac said after breakfast of sugarless tea, bread and jam, ‘for when you go to the Ministry of Labour, otherwise they’ll take one look at you and make you a penpusher. You’ll earn a lot more in a factory, and mix in better. But watch your accent. Act the silent sort, as far as they’ll let you, and get a grasp of the accent as soon as you can. You’ll find they’re a lot more tolerant in a factory than an office. Another thing is that for a while anyway say yes to whatever you’re asked to do. As for your proper name, forget it. Tell ’em at the Labour that you’ve just left school and your certificate’s coming from Ireland where you were evacuated.’
    He cleared the table and took out a box of pens and rubbers and inks. ‘Give me your Identity Card.’ Herbert looked at it as well, opened before them both. ‘This is one advantage in having been a printer,’ Isaac said. ‘I’m going to alter it so that Ernest Bevin himself wouldn’t know the difference.’
    â€˜Isn’t it a bit criminal? I mean, what if I’m caught out?’
    â€˜You won’t be.’ Isaac cracked his fingers to make the joints supple. ‘A little innocent forgery to fox the bureaucrats never hurt anyone. We’ll make your surname into Gedling, which is a district around here. Bert Gedling you’ll be, and a good honest name it sounds. If and when you want to join the army I’ll change it back for you.’
    Herbert wondered if they still wouldn’t smell him a mile off for what he was, while Isaac sipped the rest of his cold tea as delicately as if it had stayed hot and sugar had been magicked into it. ‘Now where’s your ration book?’
    â€˜Ration book?’
    â€˜We might as well alter that while we’re about it.’
    â€˜I don’t have one.’
    â€˜You didn’t bring it?’
    â€˜I never thought to. And I could hardly ask them.’
    Isaac’s shake of the head came from thinking what babies there were in the world. ‘All right. Perhaps it won’t matter. They aren’t too particular these days. When you’ve got your employment cards, and they’ve found you a job, go to the Food Office and ask for a ration book. Tell ’em you lost it. Or just look as if it’s your God-given right to have one. They don’t let people starve in this country. At least they haven’t during the war. So good luck to you, or whatever it is. I’ll let you stay here two more nights, in which time you’ll have to get digs. The firm you find a job with will lend you a few pounds to tide you over. That’s what they do for Irish labourers who come over. And don’t look so worried. I’m sure you’ll be all right.’

Four
    By the end of the day Herbert had employment cards, a ration book, and a job at the Royal Ordnance Factory. The wages clerk in the machine shop arranged a three-pound loan till his first wages came due. On Isaac’s advice, he spent six bob on a second-hand pair of overalls hanging outside a pawnshop on the Hockley. His cadet boots would look right on any factory floor, as soon as the shine wore off.
    â€˜I knew you had it in you, after the education you’ve had. You’re obviously from the right