Doors Without Numbers Read Free

time Hammond let himself into the house. He kicked his new trainers off dismissively under the coat rack that was over burdened with everything but coats; empty carrier bags, umbrellas of all sizes and colours, clean shirts that were waiting to be ironed, a few tea towels from the occasions when he had answered the door whilst drying up and quickly flung onto the hook before opening the door. A library book, long past its return date teetered precariously between the two hooks on which it rested. He mused, as he shuffled past in his socks, that coat rack hides a multitude of sins. Now, like the many other forgotten objects hidden under the bundles, his new trainers will also be lost. Not a bad thing he winced as the newly formed blisters paid homage to the now abandoned footwear.
    Hammond paused to check call minder on the phone before climbing the stairs. The tone alternated between high and low tones indicating he had messages. He sat amongst a pile of folded clean laundry on the bottom stair as he dialled 1571. He had three messages, one was from the sports shop on the high-street telling him that his treadmill will be delivered sometime between 10am and six pm on Friday the sixth of December, he noted to call them back and cancel the order. The second message was from Paul, his twenty-four year old son, asking for some money, the third message more surprising. “Wallace, its Lloyd, Lloyd Harris. I would like to talk to you when you are not in the office so give me a call. Perhaps come down to the club. Speak soon.” the message beeped to the end. Hammond pressed two to save the last message. Lloyd Harris. He hadn’t seen him since his retirement four years previously and there hadn’t been much opportunity to talk due to all the many well wishers competing for Harris’ attention. The last time he had enjoyed a real conversation with Harris must be at least six years ago, he remembered. Harris had come round for a meal when he was still married to Lyn. It had been around the time when Lyn had moved into the spare room. Hammond wondered if Harris had noticed the tension that hung in the air of the house. It had been a difficult time. He expressed his regrets in a long drawn out sigh and phoned Paul’s mobile which rang for several seconds, left a message saying he would transfer money into Paul’s account and pulled himself up the stairs towards the bathroom.
    By the time Hammond had encouraged his Peugeot Estate through the downpour onto the M20, he had accomplished three of the mornings’ objectives. The first, after showering and shaving had been to throw the scales away. His expanding stomach was happier being filled with food that tasted good. If the scales tried to make him feel guilty for allowing himself this luxury, they should go. His second task was to call Harris. They hadn’t talked much since the retirement party, so it would be good to catch up. He had arranged to meet his old friend over lunch at the golf club near Maidstone later that day. Thirdly, £400 had been transferred into Paul’s account to pay his son’s rent for the month. Hammond‘s conscience nagged him about Paul. He sighed as he clunked the car into fifth gear, Paul had always been a mummy’s boy so it had been natural that he had chosen to side with Lyn after the divorce. Not that taking sides had been necessary, Hammond had willingly given Lyn whatever she wanted. There had been no point in trying to dissuade her from leaving. It was obvious she had been unhappy for a long time, she had felt second best next to his career, and anyway, she had never liked overweight men, so sex had dried up as soon as the weight began to pile on. Paul couldn’t forgive Hammond for not fighting for the marriage. Hammond remembered the way Paul had confronted him a year ago, “You should have proven that Mum meant more to you than your career, you should have made more of an effort to make yourself attractive”. He knew he could have fought to