THE GOSSAMER THREAD

A little spooky, but lovely with it!

This story was published earlier this year in PAUSE, a N.Z, anthology. I wrote this originally in the style of Katherine Mansfield, who wrote about houses and gardens as well as odd characters. I enjoyed creating this piece It is one of my favourites.

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THE GOSSAMER THREAD

My heart swells as I crest the rise and catch my first glimpse of home. Plumes of smoke curl above the chimneys that adorn the roof line. They peep above the buttress of native bush that protects the house from the rigors of the spring equinox. Their smoke rises then trails on the breeze like windsocks at the end of a runway. It’s always good to know which way the wind is blowing, weather-wise and otherwise.

The road unravels down the slope, the twisty corners revealing the house in all her glory; double-storied, old and weather-worn she sits like a duchess on a green velvet swathe, a little tired but maintaining an essence of grandeur.

I stop the car in the portico, turn off the engine and catch the scent of the gardenias, confined in large pots at the base of the pillars, vibrant green and well-fed, despite their imprisonment.

I’ve arrived and contentment douses me like a warm shower. The front door, solid and strong, stands against the world, keeping evil at bay. Its polished rimu slabs reflect the low sun. Made from the planks of an old sailing ship, the wormholes and nail scars are smoothed and polished to give it an air of rakish defiance; recycled wood daring to be grand.

I lift the brass knocker and bang it several times, to enjoy the rifle-shot sound echoing inside. I offer a quick prayer of thanks to the travelling fairies for my safe arrival and carry my bag over the threshold.

The foyer greets me with beams of light and dancing dust motes. I pause, inhaling the fingerprint of home; a scent of mould, or perhaps mushrooms, mixed with furniture polish and a hint of sulphur from smouldering coal. The stained-glass panel above the door, splashes sunshine in gold, green, red and blue squares onto the polished wood floor. The red rug from Afghanistan, a souvenir of my parent’s pre-nuptial world trip, luxuriates in the warmth, faded and tatty. It snags at my memory. It used to be somewhere else in the house, didn’t it? Has Mother moved it?

My gaze follows the polished kauri banister carrying the stairs in a gentle curve to the left, rising to the mezzanine, to create a three-sided embrace of the bedroom doors. I wonder if on this visit I’ll catch another glimpse of Mother’s favourite ball gown as she disappears into her room. Sometimes a waft of her favourite perfume lingers in a passage. This makes me pause and talk to her, hoping she’ll hear.

I spend a moment remembering the view from my bedroom; a green swathe curving and rolling to meet the dark forested hills in the distance. On a clear day the snow-capped peak of Ngauruhoe appears, in a dip in the horizon, as if to view the house and check it’s still here.

To my left the fireplace in the library crackles and sparks, calling to me and the smell of hot scones wafts from the kitchen. This is home.

I drop my bag and hurry, following the aroma; knowing the number of steps, the doors to pass through and the corner to take. I end up in Ada’s arms and rest my head on her ample bosom, soft with the beat of her heart under my ear, reassuring, constant and strong.

Ada has been our cook for as long as I remember. She is the stalwart who has carried me from youth to womanhood. Her love and advice offered but never forced. She is everything I imagine a cook should be: rotund, red-cheeked, whisps of fine hair escaping a headscarf, a dab of flour on her cheek.

She holds me until I’m satisfied and pull back. I stroke her cheek, smudging the flour away and give her a light kiss.

“Welcome home, missy,” she says and hugs me again in a brief affirmation of her words.

I sit at the large table, my palms caressing the worn smooth surface and then reach for a scone, or two. The butter and jam are handy and I begin the familiar actions to feed my stomach and soul. From behind me, the sound of the jug being boiled, the door of the Aga stove being opened, and the embers being riddled, ease my heartache and soothe my twitching nerves.

I stretch and yawn, the sugar rush making me sleepy, but I have plans to discuss with my father and he may not be pleased.

“Oh, it’s so good to be here. Where’s Dad?”

“He’s out back, in the garden, lovey, where he always is when the weather is kind enough.”

“Do we have many guests coming this weekend? Do you need a hand?”

I can’t see her face but I can hear her thinking. She hums when pondering. “There’s a few beds need making up, still. And, perhaps another of the fireplaces could be lit. The forecast is for bad weather tomorrow and nothing upsets guests more than being cold.”

“I can do all that for you.” I shovel the last of my scones into my mouth and stand. “I’ll just go and find Dad, then you can consider me your servant.” She’s busy at the stove, stirring a large pot of what smells like chicken soup. I wrap my arms around her waist, and lean against her broad back. “So good to be home, Ada. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Nonsense, missy. Away with your flattery. Your father will be glad to see you.” She turns, wipes her hands on her ever-present apron and tilts her head. “Aye, you’ve put on a bit of weight. Good though. You were a mite thin last visit. He does miss you dreadful-like, not that you will hear him say so. Go on with you.” She wipes her eyes and flaps her hands at me and I leave through the back door, skirting past the shoe rack where my father’s collection of outdoor footwear vies for a place. It looks as if there’s been a skirmish and only the big boots have made elevation, leaving the trainers scattered in defeat. So much footwear for two people. Perhaps these are spares for guests to use? Something new since I was last home.

The garden is expansive. It has to be, to feed the turnover of guests. In some areas it is tamed, weeded and regimented, in other places it appears to be a wilderness. Here vegetables fight for room among the wild flowers, herbs and useful weeds that repel some insects. Nothing has changed. Father’s companion planting continues in a haphazard manner but the plants are vigorous and the warm air vibrates with the sound of insects at work.

There is no sign of him. For a moment my heart leaps, a sudden ache in my chest, remembering the loss of my mother, then common sense prevails. He has probably moved on to another chore further over the farm. I wander down the side of the house, pulling rosemary from long stems and crushing it between my fingers. The aroma reminds me of soft pillows and a warm bed. Mother used to throw twigs of rosemary into the fireplace last thing at night. Some ancient practice from her Irish ancestry, I guess. I pick some stems for later and walk on, to the corner.

In the middle of the turnaround in front of the house, the large copper beech stands in all its burgundy glory. ‘I am here,’ it silently states.

Every homecoming requires me to climb as high as I can up the sturdy trunk. I’m reminded of the hours I spent in the swing, hanging from the lowest branch, where I’d go when the loss of my mother overwhelmed me. I would feel her behind me, her energy giving me that extra push, again and again. I climb it now and find, carved high on the trunk a heart with the initials C M loves A F. Two strangers have violated my tree with their teenage passion. I will check the Visitors Book on the table in the foyer to see if I can find out when this happened. My skin itches as I imagine the wound the tree suffered from this effrontery. Then I shake my head at such silliness. I’m too old to consider such nonsense.

I am an adult in years. A university graduate on the verge of deciding on a career – aligned, but not what I’ve spent four years at university training for. I will need to tread softly and lead my father into an agreement. His hard labour and the forfeiting of his peace and tranquillity has paid for my education. He suffers without complaint, the paying guests who bring with them, city ways, entitled children, noise and demands, all of which we try to satisfy.

Over all the summers and long weekends, our home is filled with strangers, determined to enjoy the atmosphere of grand living. Families who come for a rural experience interspersed with days at the beach. Thank God for the sea. While it stole my mother it at least gives the house a brief respite from the constant noise.

Later, I light the fire in the Rose Room. Its chimney has a sad history. When guests complain of a child sobbing in the night, we raise our eyebrows and discuss at length how the wind catches that peak in the roof and makes the roof cry and whistle, and how we must check for a loose board. We don’t tell them of the small child who climbed into the chimney on Christmas morning looking for Santa Claus. The wee mite became stuck and choked to death on soot. Searchers assumed the child had wandered outside, and by the time the whole household began the internal search it was too late. Before our time, luckily, but I wonder if Mother is keeping the child company. Perhaps that’s the reason she won’t leave.

I throw some rosemary branches on the fire to appease Mother and soothe the child. Perhaps tonight all guests will sleep soundly and there will be no need for our practiced lies in the morning.

I’m tethered to this house by an invisible thread. It’s the ache I can’t soothe and the itch I can’t reach. Gossamer thin, strong as steel, elastic and long, I wonder if it will allow me to follow my dream or will the tug of its grasp make me return?

Is it Mother who pulls me back each time - or my desire to catch another glimpse of her?

On the way back to the kitchen, a waft of Lily of the Valley halts my hurried steps and I whisper into the gloom.

“Mother, I’m home. I have my degree and I want to go overseas. Visit the art galleries of Europe and spend time studying the architecture.”

I look around but there is no glimpse of the hem of her gown slipping through a doorway, no rustle of silk, nor the soft pad of slippers on the polished wood floors.

“I’m worried you and the house won’t let me go. Can I go, Mother? Please.” I tilt my head, listening for a whisper. A thought occurs, “You could come with me.” No answer.

My sigh breaks the silence. I shrug and return to Ada’s warmth and sustenance.

Next week I’ll leave and try to stretch the gossamer thread round the world, hoping to fulfil some of my dreams before it pulls taut… and I return.

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I recently heard I was a finalist in the WAWA (Wild Atlantic Writers’ Awards), Ireland, which confirmed I’m ;getting there; with my short fiction. The theme was ‘A Secret’ and I will be publishing this story later on next year. So watch out for ‘You Had to be There’ later in 2026.

My books available on Amazon as e-books or hard copies and are often on special through Range Road Press. https://www.amazon.com/author/derynpittar

Please share with others who might enjoy my fiction.

Cheers Deryn Pittar