In The House

‘Who lives in the house?’ Tilda asked.
‘Which house?’ her Mum asked, sounding distracted and a bit annoyed.
‘That one,’ Tilda pointed a sticky finger out the car window, just as the house disappeared from sight.
‘There aren’t any houses there darling, that’s an industrial estate,’ Mum said.
Tilda wasn’t sure what an industrial estate was, but that didn’t really matter anyway because Mum had obviously been wrong. There was a house there, Tilda had seen it.

The next day, when they drove past on their way to see Grandma after school, Tilda kept an eye out for the house. Sure enough, just after the traffic lights on the bridge, there it was.
It was an old looking house. That wasn’t unusual, this part of town was full of houses that looked the same, but this wasn’t just a house that had been built a long time ago. It looked tired, Tilda thought.
Its bricks were dark, coated in thick black muck and there were cracks and crumbly parts in the walls. The window frames looked grey, not pure white like the ones at Tilda’s house and you couldn’t see inside at all because there were dingy grey net curtains blocking the view. The upstairs windows were worse; you could see faded old newspapers stuck up with sticky tape through the grimy glass.
‘Who lives in the house?’ Tilda asked.
‘Oh, not this again!’ her Mum exclaimed, ‘What house? There aren’t any houses here, it’s all shops.’
Tilda fell silent, jutting out her lower lip as she stared solemnly across the street at the small house. It was there! She could see it, as plain as day: One small, old, tired looking house in the middle of a street that was full of great big shops and factories.

Day after day they drove past the house as they went to visit Grandma. Tilda didn’t ask her Mum about the house again, she quite liked the fact that she could see the house when no one else could and she didn’t want her Mum to look too closely in case she saw it too.
Tilda tried to memorise every detail of it, so she could see if anything changed. Were the newspapers always the same in the windows? Had anyone moved the net curtains to look out? Was the gate open, or closed? Had more rubbish blown in? Had some been cleared away?
Thoughts of the invisible house crowded into her mind even when they weren’t going past; when she was sitting in the family room at the hospital, while her Mum talked to the doctors, and when she was lying in bed at night, listening to her Mum walking up and down in her own room. Mum had something very important to worry about just now, Tilda knew. Dad had told Tilda that she mustn’t be a nuisance, because Mum was very sad about Grandma. Tilda was trying very hard not to be a nuisance.

One day, on their way to the hospital, Mum had to stop at the corner shop so they could pick up a puzzle magazine for Grandma. Mum parked the car on the opposite side of the road to the invisible house, but even then she didn’t seem to notice it.
Tilda could barely breathe with the excitement of being so close to it, of having the time to spend looking out the window and seeing what the house was really like.
There were details that she hadn’t spotted before, like the house number, which was number 42. There was a hanging basket on one side of the door, but there was nothing in it but some dead bits of old flowers. It swung in the breeze and Tilda spent a while just watching it go backwards and forwards. It was sort of peaceful. The front door was a really nice colour of red, not bright like a fire engine, but a warm colour that reminded Tilda of a nice, ripe apple. Like everything else, the door was dirty; except for one thing, a shining brass knocker. Tilda filed away all these wonderful details in her memory, so she could replay them later in the day.

When they got to the hospital that day, the Doctors hurried Mum away to talk to her. Grandma was asleep, so Tilda crept up to the chair by her bed and put a small hand in Grandma’s and gave her fingers a squeeze. Tilda was surprised at how light Grandma’s hand felt. It was like she was hollow. Her skin wasn’t soft and warm like it used to be, it felt a bit scratchy and cold.
Usually when they got there, Grandma smiled happily at Tilda and asked her to talk about the things she’d done at school that day. Grandma always listened really carefully, her eyes shining, but today she wasn’t listening at all because she was asleep. So today, Tilda told Grandma the thing that she really wanted to tell her about. She told her about the invisible house.
‘It’s magic, Grandma. No one but me can see it,’ she said, ‘but I don’t think anyone lives there, because you never see anyone go in or out. It’s all dirty, and I think the house is a bit sad and lonely. It needs someone to go and look after it.’ She poured out all the details she could think of, and all her ideas about who might live there, ‘and there is a lovely shiny knocker on the door, Grandma. If you wanted to, you could just walk up the steps and give a loud knock and I’m sure they’d invite you in for tea!’
Just then, Mum came back with red eyes and she gave Tilda such a cuddle it felt like her ribs were going to crack.
‘Daddy’s going to come and pick you up,’ Mum said, ‘I need to stay with Grandma tonight.’
Tilda nodded. She could tell her Mum was really sad about something so she didn’t want to say or do something that would make her a nuisance.

They didn’t go to the hospital again. At breakfast the next morning Mum explained that Grandma had died in the night. Tilda didn’t really understand what dying meant, and when she asked her Mum, she just said that Grandma had gone to a better place. Tilda thought it was probably a place that had lots of puzzle books and cups of tea; those were things that Grandma had really enjoyed.

A few weeks later they were out shopping when Tilda realised that they were on the road that lead to the invisible house. Eagerly she leaned close to the window to see what it looked like now. She hadn’t realised how much she had missed seeing her special place and thinking about something that was a secret that only she knew. Except today, it was all different.
All the mucky black had been cleaned off the bricks, and there wasn’t a scrap of rubbish to be seen. The net curtains had been taken down and some new ones put up, but they only covered half the window so now you could see in. A light was shining inside.
The upstairs windows were clean too, the paintwork all neat and bright white and even the hanging basket had beautiful flowers growing in it. The house didn’t look sad any more, it looked wonderful! It was a much happier place. So much better…better? Tilda’s heart did a little leap. A better place! Was this where Grandma was?
They were past it in a flash, and Tilda opened her mouth to ask her Mum if they were going to see Grandma today but then she remembered how her Mum sort of crumpled, like a balloon that had a puncture when anyone mentioned Grandma, so she didn’t say anything. It didn’t matter anyway, Tilda knew where Grandma was and she knew that she was all right. She had just gone to live in the invisible house.