Speak Its Name: A Trilogy Read Free

alight with curiosity.
    Lamont opened the correspondence carefully—recognising neither the hand nor the style of paper. He lifted the envelope to his face and tried to detect if there was any faint hint of perfume or other odour. Defeated, he drew out the sheets and began to read. The immediate anger he felt when, as he always did, he looked at the signature first, dissolved as he read the words. They were stiff, proper, laden with regret and formality. He could imagine the younger man sitting and drawing every word out as if it were a recalcitrant tooth.
    He guessed right. Easterby had indeed drafted and redrafted this letter to so many times that his wastepaper basket had overflowed, his pen needed refilling time and again and his fingers had ended up a mass of black ink.
    Lamont was greatly touched by the strong emotion that seemed to pour out of the carefully chosen words. The letter began with profuse apologies— I should have known better, not fit behaviour for a gentleman— followed by gallantry— I’d be pleased to pay for a replacement pair . He smiled at this, well aware that Easterby couldn’t have the foggiest idea of how much those brogues had cost. Then there was contrition— I hope for forgiveness but I’d understand if this could not be found— finally, hopelessness— I’d understand if you wished to have no further communication. The matter of the new shoes can be negotiated by a go-between .
    Lamont put down the letter with a sigh. If it had been just about anyone else in the college, then he could have forgiven him easily enough, with a laugh and a drink. With Easterby, this seemed impossible. To approach the man, even in reply to this painful letter, would be inviting danger. Were they to be alone together, Lamont might find he couldn’t control his emotions. He’d managed to do so before, in some fairly strained circumstances, with other people he’d found attractive, but the intense desire he felt for this young man, desire that was strangely ignited again by this letter, might be beyond his ability to keep in check.
    His conscience pricked him; why should this Easterby have to pay for his, Lamont’s, faults? Why, because of his own perverted nature, shouldn’t they be able to resolve this matter like gentlemen? Easterby wouldn’t ever find him attractive anyway. Lamont couldn’t convince himself there’d be any chance of the other man returning his affection if he offered it, so it would be safe to invite him for tea and cakes at least. He considered the matter again, briefly, but once he made his mind up he became precipitate. Today—it should be today . He found a stiff piece of card, drafted an invitation and delivered it to Easterby’s pigeon hole. All forgiven—tea and a scone at four o’clock should you wish to confirm this fact .
    He was absolutely amazed when on the stroke of four a tentative knock struck his door. He opened it to find a still shamefaced Easterby who seemed like he wanted to talk to a spot that lay beyond Lamont’s right ear. “I hope I got the right time, I...”
    Lamont stopped him in painful mid flow; he couldn’t bear to listen to such an embarrassed introduction. “Come in, please. The kettle is boiling and it won’t do to keep the brew waiting.”
    Easterby entered, all awkward corners and shyness. He perched on the edge of a chair and looked pained. “Your shoes, I’ve brought my cheque book...” he reached for his pocket.
    “Oh, for goodness sake, there is absolutely no need. I managed to rescue the shoes, with help from my scout. There is no more to be said.” Lamont busied himself with the rituals of tea making, trying not to look at Easterby’s long, elegant fingers or his dark, feminine lashes. All the things that added to his allure. The man had turned himself out well, although his clothes had seen better days and Lamont knew he’d guessed correctly that a new pair of brogues would have made a severe strain on Easterby’s bank