previous night, shouted one afternoon. 'Get the fuck out!'
'How ill-bred!' Adrian had exclaimed as Gaston ejected the radio producer instead.
Like Adrian, most of the boys were self-employed; one or two had ponces, but in general pimping was a feature of the more highly structured sister profession of female prostitution. The boys were free to come and go as they pleased, no one was going to tell them where they could set up their stall, no one was going to take a cut of their hard-earned cash. The cash did come in at a pleasing rate but Adrian found he had little to spend it on. Drink didn't really appeal to him much and he was too afraid of drugs to be tempted to take so much as a single pill or a single puff of anything illegal. Every day he would walk to the post office behind St Martin's-in-the-Field and deposit his earnings into an account he had opened under the name of Hugo Bullock. It was all building up rather nicely.
Chickens worried him, though. These were the children of eleven, twelve and thirteen. Some were even younger. Adrian was no Mother Teresa and far too much of a coward to beg them to go home. They were tougher than he was and would have told him to get lost anyway. Besides, they had left their homes because life there was worse, in their eyes at least, than life on the streets. If there was one thing those children knew, it was where and when they were unhappy: there was no cloud of morality obscuring the clarity of their states of mind. They weren't popular with the majority of rent-boys, however, because they attracted television documentaries, clean-up campaigns and police attention, all of which interfered with and militated against the free flow of trade. Their customers, known not unnaturally as chickenhawks, were more nervous and cautious than Adrian's brand of client, so the chickens would have to do much more of the running than he could ever have dared to do. They would spot when they were being eyed up and step boldly forward.
'Lend us ten p for the machine, mister.'
'Oh, yes. Right. There you are.'
'Second thoughts, Dad, let's go away from here.'
It was unsettling to think of them being the same age as Cartwright. Cartwright would be sixteen going on seventeen now of course, but the Cartwright he would always know was thirteen going on fourteen. The chickens leant up against the Meat Rack pushing their tightly denimed bums against the rails when, if only the stork had dropped them down a different chimney, they could have been clothed in white flannels, driving the ball past extra cover for four runs or wrestling with ablative absolutes in panelled classrooms. If there was an accurate means of measuring happiness, with electrodes or chemicals, Adrian wondered if the schoolboy would prove to be happier than the rent-boy. Would he feel less exploited, less shat upon? Adrian himself felt freer than he ever had, but he had never been sure that he was representative.
After three weeks he decided to take advantage of his flexible hours and spend five days at Lord's watching Thompson and Lillee tear the heart out of the English batting in the second Test. He arrived at the Grace Gate early and walked round to the back to see if he could get a glimpse of the players warming up in the nets.
As he made his way past the Stewards' Offices and the members' stands he thought he caught a glimpse of a familiar figure striding towards him. He turned and started to walk in the opposite direction.
'Adrian! My God, Adrian!'
He quickened his step, but found himself blocked by the incoming tide of spectators.
'Adrian!'
'Oh, hello, Uncle David.' Adrian smiled weakly up into the thunderous face of his mother's brother.
'Where the hell have you been this last month?'
'Oh, you know . . .'
'Have you been in touch with your mother and father yet?'
'Well... I have been meaning to write.'
Uncle David grabbed him by the arm.
'You come along with me, young man.
Adrian had the lowering experience of being publicly dragged into the MCC offices like an errant schoolboy, which he supposed was by and large what he was.
'Morning, David, caught a yobbo have you?' someone called as he was pulled up the steps.
'I certainly have!'
They bumped into a tall blond man in a blazer coming the other way who smiled at them.
'Morning, Sir David,' he said.
'Morning, Tony, best of luck.'
'Thanks,' said the tall man and walked on. Adrian stopped dead as it suddenly dawned on him who it had been.
'That was Tony Greig!'
'Well who did you expect to see here, you idiot? Ilie Nastase? This way.'
They had reached a small office whose walls were covered with prints of heroes from the Golden Age of cricket. Uncle David closed the door and pushed Adrian into a chair.
'Now then. Tell me where you are living.'
'Muswell Hill.'
'Address?'
'Fourteen Endicott Gardens.'
'Whose house is that?'
