Aftermath

The morning after Edward 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.

Hugo opened the correspondence carefully—he didn't recognize 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 odor.
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 so many times that his wastepaper basket had overflowed, his pen needed refilling time and again and his fingers had ended up mass of black ink.

Lamont was greatly touched by the strong emotion that seemed to our 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. Hugo 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 could be negotiated by a go-between.

Hugo 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, Hugo might find that 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.

Lessons in Love

Dr. Coppersmith was supposed to be marking papers from his students, but he was more interested in watching, through his window, the progress of a golden head across the court. That’s my friend Dr. Stewart. He walks along the river with me and listens to all my latest theories, even if he doesn’t understand a word of them. Three weeks previously, Orlando had no-one in his life he could ever call friend. Then, into his world of gown-black and stone-grey, half tones and half a life, had come this vision of blue and gold, like a ray of spring sunshine against a cloudless sky.

My friend, Dr. Stewart. We go to chapel together and he’s never bothered that I sing all the hymns and responses out of tune. It was strange for Orlando to have reached the age of twenty-eight without finding anybody he wanted to be close to. His life had been bound by the university, the college and the maths department--all of them important and serious. And now he’d found that most frivolous of things--someone to share his thoughts and ideas with—although in reality Jonty had come along and found him, stealing his chair in the process. It made Orlando feel more alive than he’d ever felt and more than a little frightened.

My friend, Dr. Stewart. He comes along and says “We’ve been invited to drinks, Dr. Coppersmith, so get your best bib and tucker ready!” We. Suddenly Orlando had a social life, whether he wanted one or not and it was as part of a pairing. Somehow all the things he’d always dreaded—making small talk, being sociable—had become possible, so long as he had his colleague with him to jolly him along. Unexpectedly, life had a distinctly more enjoyable flavour.

Coppersmith turned his attention back to the papers on his desk, only to find that he’d written My friend, Dr. Stewart on the topmost one and now had to scratch it out furiously before anyone noticed.

Lessons in Desire

At two o’clock in the morning the heavens opened, torrential rain driving against the window panes and thunder pealing as load as cannon fire. Orlando leapt out of bed and without a second thought made his way through their little sitting room into Jonty’s bedroom. He didn’t knock, knowing by now that any threats from Stewart about finding company were all bluster, and found his friend standing by the window, shivering.

“Come on, Jonty; you’ll get cold, you know.” Coppersmith put his arms around the man’s shoulders, which felt icy through his silken pyjama jacket. Stewart both hated thunderstorms and was fascinated by them. Orlando had often found him looking out of the window of his room at St. Bride’s while the lightning rent the sky and the college’s very foundations seemed to shake. Jonty could go into almost a dreamlike state, distracted and seemingly unaware of his surroundings, having to be coaxed back gently into the real world. Coppersmith did wonder whether some of the awful things that had happened to the man at school had taken place during storms, but he’d never been brave enough to ask.