Celia's new house

On the last day in the old house, Celia walked through the rooms with Dad. The walls were bare, the cupboards open, and her voice rang out as if she were in a cave. On the doorframe of her bedroom there were little pencil lines, one for each birthday. The lowest came up to her knees. The highest reached just under Dad's shoulder. "And how do we take that with us?" she asked. Dad scratched his head. "We can't," he said. "But we can take a photo." Celia looked at the lines for a long time, then laid her hand flat on the last one.

In the van, between two boxes marked KITCHEN and BOOKS, Celia held on her lap the box where her night-light slept. The drive took an hour and a half. When the car stopped, there was a big green gate, a cherry tree without leaves, and a house she didn't know.

Her room was upstairs. It smelled of fresh paint and new wood. "Hello?" said Celia. "Hello... hello... hello..." answered the room. There was a mattress on the floor, one box, and a window that looked onto a street where she didn't recognise a single car. Mum put a hand on her shoulder. "It'll feel strange for a while." Celia nodded, because she didn't have a word for what it was.

That evening they ate pasta sitting on the floor, from mismatched cups. Then Celia lay down, the night-light plugged into the wall, and listened. The house made noises she couldn't name. A creak on the stairs. A snore inside the wall. A clack, very high, above the ceiling. Celia pulled the blanket up to her chin. She wasn't scared. She wasn't at ease either.

Dad poked his head around the door. He was holding a pencil. "Not asleep yet?" "There are too many noises." "Then let's make a list," said Dad. "The creak, what's that?" Celia thought. "That's the stairs stretching." "The snore?" "The boiler sleeping." "And the clack up there?" She listened. "The roof saying good night."

"Perfect," said Dad. "The house has been introduced." He went to the bedroom door, crouched against the frame and said, "Stand up straight, miss." Celia stood in her socks. He drew a line in pencil at the height of her head, then wrote next to it, in tiny letters: "First night."

Celia looked at the brand-new line, all alone on the white wood. There would be more, one for each birthday, each a little higher than the last. She climbed back into bed. The night-light made an orange patch on the ceiling, and the streetlamp drew a cherry branch above her head, swaying gently.

The creak came again on the stairs, but this time Celia knew it. "The stairs stretching," she murmured. She closed her eyes. On the ceiling, the cherry branch swayed a little more, then stopped swaying altogether.