Speak Its Name: A Trilogy (2 page)

He hadn’t gone home. He’d gone to a different club, one he’d heard guarded mention of. Here he’d picked up a young man and driven out to somewhere secluded. Lamont had his money’s worth this time—it was the first and last occasion he’d indulged in this particular pleasure, and he remembered it with very little joy but plenty of guilt. Afterwards he took the decision just to repress all his desires, to cultivate an image of cheerfulness and laughter, papering over the cracks of his unhappiness. And he’d succeeded, living an asexual life, disgusted with any desire for contact that he might feel. He particularly disgusted himself with the feelings he nurtured for the dark haired, first year chemistry student who’d appeared in the college the previous October.

Lamont had watched Easterby from the very first time he saw him at dinner in hall. He’d admired his dignity and bearing, his shyness and solemnity, and he’d wanted to kiss him, hold him and do the sort of disgraceful things that he’d done just the once in his car in a dark lane near Hampstead Heath. It had even made him begin to hate the man, a feeling that spilled out over the shoes incident much as Easterby’s stomach contents had.

The man’s an idiot,
Lamont had thought.
Just the sort of little toad that should never be allowed through the college gates. I know that the war affected us all, but why must Cranmer let its standards drop so very low?

Ironically, he might have detested him even more if he’d known that Easterby felt exactly the same about his own sex, except that
he’d
never given in, never put his desires into any sort of practice. Lamont would have been mortified to know Easterby had been observing him at that same college dinner and had fallen for the shining crop of hair and the dizzy laugh wafting over the table from five places down—just too far to talk, just too close to ignore. That he’d watched Lamont often since, but had been too shy to chat, didn’t dare make any sort of advance, despised himself for even thinking such things.

The last thing Hugo Lamont needed was a temptation that might let itself be given into.

~

The morning after Easterby had ended up so slaughtered, the whole college was woken by great crashes of thunder and forks of lightning slashing through the sky. The noise drummed into Lamont’s head and he found he couldn’t return to his slumbers. He contented himself with a pot of tea, a novel and trying to forget about the day before. When the rain had subsided enough to let him venture out, he sauntered to the porters’ lodge to look for his post. Marsh nodded to him, passing the time of day and regretting that the inclement weather had done the unforgivable thing of delaying the mail delivery. Despite that, a single letter was nestled in Lamont’s pigeon hole. He took it back to his set, 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 balance. He’d expected that the gap in their social and financial standing would help him to keep his distance but it didn’t—again and again his gaze drifted towards his visitor’s handsome, shy face.

Lamont had put together a plan to get him through, to let him enjoy the time spent with this attractive young man without disgracing himself. In the first place he wouldn’t use Christian names. He hadn’t known the real name of the young man he had picked up in London.

They call me Domino
,
for obvious reasons. One nudge in the right direction and I’m flat on my stomach.

Lamont hadn’t shared his own name at all, making the boy refer to him as “sir” throughout. It was cold and impersonal and while part of him had wanted the lack of involvement, the absolute anonymity, part of him had despised it. It kept reminding him that it had just been a sordid business transaction—no love or affection, not even friendship.

The second point was simple. He wouldn’t let Easterby touch him, not even for a handshake. There had been plenty of touching in Lamont’s car with Domino; he hadn’t left a bit of that lad’s body unexplored.

I don’t mind what my gentlemen get up to—do whatever you like, sir.

But the experience had been curiously unmoving—fun, of course and he’d had a final burst of unbelievable pleasure, but the whole thing was just disappointing. Perhaps it was because any trust, any friendship, any love, had been missing, so Lamont found it empty of all meaning. He wasn’t like other men seemed to be, he couldn’t disconnect the physical sexual act from the mental experience accompanying it, and that created a stalemate. If he wouldn’t let himself get close to someone—for fear of rejection, denouncement, violence—then he might never find the ultimate communion. The ultimate in pleasure.

So he and his visitor simply drank tea and talked. Easterby began to act less like a naughty boy called to the Headmaster’s study to explain his conduct and Lamont felt less like a lecherous satyr on the hunt for an innocent to debauch. They found some common ground—an interest in the stories about Sherlock Holmes, a fondness for stodgy traditional English puddings, an affection for the music of Gilbert and Sullivan. They even found things to laugh over in the exploits of an obnoxious physics student who’d come a cropper on the river in a crew of little ability but plenty of swagger. Easterby brought the laughter to a sudden end by leaping up, making a hurried apology and saying that he had to leave immediately.
Another engagement,
he pleaded,
so sorry
.

This proposed departure was so abrupt and unexpected it spurred Lamont into action. “But you’ll come again? I was planning a picnic on Saturday—can’t just take myself. Will you meet me here and we can go down to the river?”

“What time?” Easterby ventured, after a long pause in which he seemed to be mulling things over.

“One o’clock would be splendid.” Lamont bit his lip, knowing the danger he was putting himself in. He’d held out well this afternoon; how would he fare on some secluded river bank?

“Then one o’clock it is.” Easterby bowed slightly and left.

Lamont watched him go, fairly certain that the excuse had been a false one, not knowing why he’d been so rash as to extend the invitation to meet again. He went over to the still warm chair and ran his fingers along the back, where Easterby’s head had at last rested while he’d been relaxed and laughing. He sat down in the same seat and entertained his old thoughts—joy combined with guilt and self loathing.

~

Easterby almost ran to his room; there hadn’t ever been another appointment of course, he just wanted to get out of a place in which he was feeling far too much at home. He needed to be away from company in which he was feeling uncharacteristically at ease. Separate from the temptation to touch another man.

He’d found the last half an hour to be one of the best of his life. He’d found someone he could talk to and who seemed to like talking to him, and quite unbelievably that person had been Hugo Lamont. But to have accepted an invitation to a picnic on the river—to be risking an intimately close encounter—he wasn’t sure he was ready. Perhaps he’d never be ready.

Return to TOC

“Quails’ eggs?” Easterby felt puzzled by the elegant little ovals, unsure whether he should eat them or merely admire them.

“Indeed, Mr. Easterby,” Lamont grinned. “I can be quite a glutton for them.”

“Please, call me Edward, if that would be acceptable.” Edward was uncertain whether this was a touch too forward, but the champagne had put audacity into him that he hadn’t felt since he’d first come up to Oxford. He’d never been invited to a picnic by the river in all those months, even when October had brought a splendid Indian summer and everyone else seemed to be making the most of the sunshine. He would never in a million years have expected being asked along by such a man as Hugo Lamont, who had his free choice of companions and would hardly be likely to choose an unpopular and introverted guest. But chosen he had and Edward was very grateful. He attempted a little smile.

“If I’m to call you Edward, then you must call me Hugo.” His host smiled, but Edward thought it was forced. “I absolutely insist. You can’t be my guest and then not address me as my equal.”

Edward hesitated over the use of first names, happy to invite, reluctant to accept, but felt obliged to comply. “Hugo,” once he had used it, the name tasted as sweet as honey on his tongue, “I feel quite speechless at the spread you’ve produced for me. I’ve never seen half these things before, though I dare say I’d recognise the names.”

“You’ll have heard of this.” Hugo dipped a little spoon into a small jar of tiny black pearls. He motioned for Edward to put out his hand and dabbed a sample of the stuff on his fingertip. “Caviar—try it.”

He did. He grimaced. “So that’s what the stuff is like—seems an awful lot of fuss about nothing.”

Hugo lay back and roared with laughter. “Edward, you are such a breath of fresh air. So many people I know here are full of their own importance, want to show off about their knowledge or fine taste or exotic places they’ve been. But you are simply honest and decent and when I’m in your company, I don’t feel I have to make any sort of effort.” Except that he seemed to be making an effort not to touch Edward in any way. He’d kept his own fingers to the very end of the caviar-laden spoon.

Edward blushed. “You shouldn’t speak like that. It’s not proper.” He sounded like a parlour maid who had been given ‘sauce’ by a house guest, but his honour had been affronted. He fancied Hugo beyond all reckoning and was certain the man could never feel the same. Any sign that Hugo was being familiar would just raise his hopes unduly, and he did not want to even acknowledge the possibility that it might occur.

“Oh, why ever not? It’s the truth. There are very few people I just enjoy spending time with, and when they come along, I like to make it plain to them.”

Edward watched his new found friend smile and laugh, transfixed by his beauty—the red-gold hair that shimmered in the sunlight, the blue eyes that rivalled the sky for brilliance. He wondered what it would be like if Hugo let him touch that hair, how it would feel beneath his fingers, whether it would smell of lavender soap.

“Should we go and watch the cricket one day? I like nothing more than watching the lads getting themselves covered in grass stains. The sound of leather on willow, nothing like it.”