A short story by Dilys Rose

A couple worked away from home a lot. On one of their trips they brought back an intricately woven rug, brightly coloured with natural dyes squeezed from the petals of flowers, boiled from the roots and leaves of vegetables, ground from seeds and kernels. They were pleased with their purchase but didn't have time to appreciate it fully as not long after they returned from being away, they had to go away again.

Where in their pleasant, sunny flat the rug would look best was a decision which would have to wait until their return but they unrolled it anyway, admired it briefly, tried to figure out the story it was meant to tell, of man and animal, their vital but precarious relationship with the earth - at least that's what the rug seller's yarn suggested. After they had identified some of the emblematic animals and birds and giant moths and butterflies, they rolled up the rug again and slipped it carefully back inside its coccoon of brown paper.

All the clothes from their last trip had to be washed and their bags had to be packed again almost as soon as the laundry had dried. In between hanging several loads of washing on the line, they opened their mail and checked the messages on the answering machine. It was always faintly disappointing how little interesting communication awaited them on their return home. They replied to essential correspondence, mostly work-related, and made a few phone calls to friends.

As there was no food in the house and little time for shopping and cooking, and due to being paid a lump sum at the end of their last contract, they were feeling flush and ate takeaways every night.

They would have been content to stay at home in familiar surroundings instead of rushing around, heads full of timetables and itineraries. The flat was comfortable and they'd got it as they liked it. As they were away a lot they didn't bother much about house plants - a cactus garden was all that survived months without watering - but they did have an interesting collection of textiles - rugs, cushion covers, curtains and wall-hangings, many of which they'd picked up on their travels.

Upping and offing so soon after returning home was a bit of a pain but everything went according to schedule and the trip turned out to be one of the best ever. The place was spectacular, the people friendly, accommodation comfortable, comestibles plentiful and affordable, the work challenging but rewarding. It was all so good that they considered extending their contract but eventually decided that, in spite of all the attractions, they wanted to be back home with their own belongings around them.

The return flight came in before dawn and first light was breaking as the taxi dropped them off at the flat. Mail was piled up behind the door so it took a bit of manoeuvring to open it. The hall smelled a bit musty as it always did when they'd been away but otherwise it was just as they had left it, the framed photos on the wall, the varnished floorboards. They left their bags in the hall and went through to the living room, each carrying an armful of envelopes.

What they saw was baffling. There were no longer any curtains on the window, only the plastic hooks hanging on the rail. The sofa had been stripped to its metal frame. Zips from cushions covers dangled between the springs like centipedes. A rubber slipmat was all that remained of the carpet. The rolled brown paper which had held the rug they'd brought back on their previous trip was as empty as a sloughed-off skin. Two plastic soles peeping out from under the skeleton of the sofa was all that remained of a pair of woollen slippers. One the wall where two silk tapestries had formerly hung, were two framed rectangles of nothing. The living room was stripped naked, a textile-free zone. It was only when they saw the moth carcasses, piled up in corners of the room like drifts of old leaves and they realised that the rug, in its brown paper wrapping had contained more than they'd bargained for, that the word threadbare took on a painfully personal significance.

Dilys Rose's new collection of short stories, Lord of Illusions (ISBN 1 84282 076 1 PB £7.00) will be published in February 2005. For more information on Dilys, visit her website at www.dilysrose.com.