The Land of the Yellow Sea – Opening Chapters

 

1

ROSE IRIS LAVENDER

ROSE IRIS LAVENDER walked with a wiggle and a waggle, not a girl of over-confidence but one simply full of life. Her mind soared free as a bird in a bright summer sky. She would swoop and glide, under and over, around and between her fresh and often original ideas, until she had finally exhausted herself. Any idea not fully thought through would be put aside in her brilliant memory, which was yet another part of her magnificent mind. Rose was never happy to let any question remain unanswered. Each stone set in her mind would one day be overturned, over and over and over again—of that there was no question. Unlike many people, she was prepared to accept that all her questions might never be fully or even acceptably answered. But these questions would not be allowed to just rest like ancient stones gathering moss. She had a healthy sense of fun, despite the dire situations she often found herself in. Rose was very creative and her imagination was probably the most incredible aspect of her magnificent mind. She could see things quite clearly that others were completely blind to.

She had no idea of all this though.

What she did have an idea of was that tomorrow was her birthday. She was very young and had not yet reached double figures. But at least she was closing in on them. Tomorrow, she would be nine.

However, there was one thing that stood in Rose’s way.

The world.

It had a nasty tendency of taking the most inimitable of people and turning them into soldiers of mediocrity, servants of nobody and mirrors of everybody. The world was calling out to Rose to be a particular type of girl and telling her how wonderful that would be. It was attempting to steal her individuality. The world had always been calling out like this, as it did to every man, woman and child. The difference now was that Rose was becoming old enough to hear it.

She was starting to lose herself.

She had no idea of all this though.

And one outward feature of Rose’s inimitableness that could not go unnoticed was her obsession with large black polka dots on her white clothes. It was her thing. Her dresses were always white with large black polka dots. And if she wore a T-shirt, a blouse or a jumper, it would be the same: white with large black polka dots. Her coats were fashioned in that way. Her favourite Wellington boots too. She insisted on it. Even her favourite toys were white with large black polka dots. Hillary the horse, Gregor the gorilla, Tolly the teddy bear, Deidre the dinosaur. And there was her quilt, pillowcases, wallpaper, school backpack, school pencil case and her piggybank. Yes, it was most definitely her thing.

There was no end to Rose’s large, black polka dot obsession. She was open to talking about it. Her mother, Mrs Lavender, Mrs Yasmin Violet Lavender, would always tell her she would grow out of it one day. But Rose had always told her mother that she wouldn’t. She even once said, “I bet when I die, it will be of a new strain of the measles. One that turns the skin white. One where the red dots are large black polka dots. My coffin will be white with large black polka dots, and I’ll be sleeping inside it in my white burial robes covered in my large black polka dots. Morbid I know, but the Lord God would want to see me in no other way. I can just tell.”

And right now, she was in the kitchen of an ordinary moderately run-down end of terrace house located on a run-of-the-mill housing estate on the outskirts of Cambridge, England. It was summer, and she had on her blue jeans and one of her white with large black polka-dotted T-shirts. She was with her mother, making every effort to make the most out of her late afternoon Tea …

She had just finished hugging her upset mother, who looked like a larger version of her. They both had shoulder length bright-red hair the colour of a Robin’s chest, and keen lime-green eyes. Rose would often hug her mother, because her mother would often get upset. It had always been this way since Rose’s father had gone missing almost a year to the day. The police had done their best to find him, but could find nothing. He had disappeared without a trace, never to be seen again.

Rose sat back and admired her chips, which her father for some reason called French fries. He also confusingly, called crisps, chips. When Rose asked him why he had to be so confusing, he told her it was because he was an American. And he told her it was just as well he was an American, or she could never have been born. Of course, this was just one more confusing thing that he had told her. She loved her father and didn’t believe for a second that he was dead. There were not many in her camp—and certainly not her English mother. Rose wasn’t sure if she considered herself English or American, or even a combination of both. She just considered herself to be herself. It was a shame the world was calling out for her to be things that she was currently not.

She had no idea of all this though.

The reason Rose was admiring her chips was because she had creatively repositioned them. And now she picked up the tomato ketchup squeezy bottle in an effort to creatively squirt even more tomato ketchup onto them.

“Rose! Not too much now,” said Rose’s mother, still wiping away the last of a new batch of tears from her eyes. She continued, “It’s bad for your teeth. Remember, there’s lots of sugar in that ketchup, you know.” Rose’s mother blew her nose with a degree of finality into a tissue. She looked a bit happier now.

“But I’ll brush my teeth well, Mum. I promise.”

“No. That will not stop your teeth rotting between times. So come on, Rose, be a good girl and at least put some of the ketchup to the side of your chips.”

“Aw, okay, Mum. You know better than my teeth, I suppose.”

Rose did what her mother ordered. Nevertheless, using her knife, she did at least manage to draw a picture of a smiley face with the ketchup she had put to the side, so the tomato ketchup wasn’t entirely wasted. And she smiled back at the face too.

Rose looked across the table to her mother and her smile grew as she tucked a hot chip securely into her mouth once again. She normally finished her Tea well before her mother, as she was a fast eater with a sweet tooth. Rose loved sweets, cakes, and lots of sugar, which naturally worried her mother. She even scoffed down honey-filled sandwiches. Rose was the proverbial dustbin when it came to almost any meal. But today, on the eve of her birthday, she did not seem in any hurry.

She began heartily singing to a chip she had pronged on the end of her fork as she lazily twirled it around in front of her keen lime-green eyes, a song she conjured up out of her unique quirky imagination. It was a duet, but Rose decided to help the chip out by singing its part:

 Oh big chip, big chip,

Will you marry me,

With the love of an Irish man?

(Oh no, little girl with your head in a twirl,

I don’t think I really can!)

Why not, big chip?

(Because, little girl … )

Because why, big chip?

(Because little girl …

I’m in love with a fish,

On another girl’s dish,

And I have no wish to love another one!’)

Rose’s mother had already started to wash the dishes, a person determined to keep herself busy.

“Why ‘with the love of an Irish man’?” she asked, scrubbing a stubborn stain off a bowl.

“Because potatoes mean a lot to the Irish, don’t they?”

“Oh … I see, I think …” Rose’s mother turned around briefly with her hands still busy in the turbulent basin. “Rose, what’s the matter? It’s not like you to be taking so long over Tea?”

“Oh, nothing really. Well, not really anything important, I don’t suppose. You see, Mum, I’m just thinking about things,” replied Rose, inspecting the serenaded chip she was still twirling around in front of her curious eyes. “Dad says these black bits are bad for you,” she commented, looking hard at some blackened patches on the chip. “What was it he would say …? Yes, that’s it, he would say”—Rose then launched into quite a good impression of her father’s Californian accent—“Black bits are hella tough on the digestables.”

“‘Digestables’? There’s no such a word, and you know it,” said Rose’s mother as she shoved some more dirty dishes and cutlery into the basin.

“Oh yes, but I like inventing words. I was inspired by the word ‘vegables’,” she said, while placing the dubious black-patched chip to one side of her plate with a few of its friends (just above the ketchup smiling face she had created earlier which she was careful to avoid as she wanted to preserve the face as long as possible). “And vegables are good for the digestables. It all makes sense eventually, Mum.”

“I’ll take your word for it, dear.”

“That’s 17 chips eaten, 1 egg and 22 peas, with 4 bad chips left above a small puddle of ketchup.” Rose pushed her plate to the side, having finally finished all the good bits, and drew her pudding bowl towards her.

Rose’s mother turned from the washing up sink and smiled at Rose with a mixture of encouragement and pride. “You and your counting … God knows how you do it? Remember when you won the Guess the Sweets in the Jar competition at the Parkside Fete?”

Rose nodded. “That was easy. I could just tell there were 843.”

“It’s funny how you make up inaccurate words, yet you’re accurate with numbers though, isn’t it?” said Rose’s mother.

“Dad says inventing words and even using them wrongly is good for me. He says I should nature the habit—only joking, it’s nurture the habit.”

“How about a nice fresh hot cup of tea to help you with your pudding?”

Rose stared down at her sugar-coated apple tart that pushed above the hot custard in her pudding bowl. “Dad says, if all you ever eat is sugar, then first your blood will turn to honey and then your skin will turn as white as snow, and then you’ll just drop down dead. Unless you jump into a giant cup of tea, in which case you’ll thaw out and survive—unless you can’t swim, that is! So I suppose a cup of tea should be good for a girl with a sweet tooth like me. Count me in, Mum.”

“Your father never told you such a thing. You have such strange inventing qualities that sometimes I wonder if we were given the wrong baby in the hospital. And by the way, you can’t even swim. So good luck jumping in a giant cup of tea!”

“Aw … I’m sorry, Mum. I just love inventing things. “When Dad comes back, we’ll soon be inventing things together again.”

This last remark caused Rose’s mother to start to cry again.

“Why must you persist in this fantasy, Rose?” she said sharply. “Why can’t you accept an obvious fact? Your father’s not coming back. He’s … well, dead.”

“He’s not dead, Mum, I promise,” squeaked Rose, and she pushed her pudding to the side and rushed up to hug her mother. She squeezed her little arms around her mother’s waist from behind and nudged her bright-red haired head into the small of her mother’s back as her mother stood sobbing over the sink with her hands deep in the washing-up basin gripping a plate. They both silently wept, swaying slowly from side to side as if they were a single forlorn creature.

Eventually, Rose went back to her chair at the kitchen table and set to gorging on her pudding. “Don’t cry anymore, Mum. I know everybody thinks Dad’s dead, but we know different, don’t we? You keep saying he’s dead, but I know you don’t believe it.”

Rose’s mother left the sink and walked over to Rose. She placed her slightly wet soap-sudded hands firmly upon her shoulders. She held her gaze squarely, and said, “Look, your father’s dead. You must accept it, Rose.”

“He told us he was going somewhere though—remember? He had to investigate something. And you know Dad. He can’t let go of an investigation. I think I’m a bit like him. Of course, I’m not a university lecturer at the University of Cambridge. So I’m not as clever. But that’s only because I’m eight. I know I might not grow up to be clever, but you’re just as clever as Dad. Dad told me you got higher marks than him when you were students at the university. So I reckon I’ve got a good chance of growing up and becoming clever. Though, I don’t mind if I don’t grow up to be clever. As long as I’m free to be the person I want to be. Does that make any sense, Mum?”

“It probably does to you.”

“Well, Dad’s coming back. He can’t have gone missing if he’s gone somewhere. I’m sure of that.”

“But he was talking nonsense, Rose. He worked too hard sometimes. And he worked with abstract things, Rose—very complicated things.”

“But, Mum, they didn’t find his body, did they?”

Suddenly, without warning, a flash of lightning ripped through a darkening summer’s afternoon sky which had been clear and sunny only a few minutes ago. Drops of rain started to kiss the kitchen window. The wind gathered up slightly, causing the clothes on the washing line to try desperately to escape their pegs, and a distant thunderclap rumbled in the distance.

“Looks like a real summer storm is brewing,” said Rose’s mother. “Funny, there was nothing on the online weather maps. I looked just an hour ago before making the dinner. Oh well, I’d best fetch in the washing. I forgot about it. Finish those dishes, Rose darling, can you?”

Rose’s mother quickly ran out of the kitchen back door and scuttled into the back garden, and snatched the clothes off the washing line.

Meanwhile, Rose finished the dishes and even cleaned the kitchen table because she felt a bit guilty for upsetting her Mum. She was quite upset herself.

Not too many minutes later, they were both sitting at the table sipping a hot cup of tea, watching the storm build up outside the kitchen window. It was only late afternoon but looked more like late evening. Clouds closed fast, and the sky went pitch black as if a shutter had been pulled down on the sky by the hand of God.

“This is a bit like the time we observed the total Eclipse of the Sun in America with your father a few years ago. That was in the summer too.”

“Oh, yeah. It definitely feels the same. It’s as if something strange is about to happen.”

It was so dark that Rose’s mother stretched up from her chair and flicked the kitchen light on.

Then suddenly, outside out of the whistling gale force wind, driving rain, flashes of lightning and distant thunderclaps, a particularly powerful lightning bolt almost blinded Rose and her mother. It was accompanied by an almost instant almighty crash of thunder.

Rose and her mother screamed as the kitchen window and kitchen back garden door rattled violently. The kitchen clock fell off the wall and landed with a clatter on the kitchen counter.

“Good heavens, that was close!” said Rose’s mother with a nervous giggle. “Very portentous indeed!”

“It’s an angry sky today, all right,” said Rose, who was also full of nervous giggles. “Dad says—‍”

“That’s quite enough, Rose,” quickly interrupted Rose’s mother. Her face was flushed with anger. “Go to the living room this very second and leave me alone. I’m sick and tired of hearing, ‘Dad says’. Just leave me alone!” And such was her ferocity that Rose darted out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Rose hated being told off for upsetting her mother, so she jumped on the settee, pulled a cushion over her head, and quietly sobbed.

Then something strange happened.

Something really, really strange …?

 

2

MIRROR, MIRROR THROUGH THE WALL …

ROSE THOUGHT SHE heard the sound of a piano playing. Not from the television, radio, computer or anything like that, but a real live piano? She was sure of it. And it was playing a tune she recognised!

“D-D-Dad?” she muttered, her face scrunched up in confusion.

It was one of her Dad’s Christmas songs. She remembered him making it up the Christmas before he went missing. She rushed up to the upright piano, which was up against the wall opposite the settee. But despite the howling storm, which could not be kept out of the house, she realised it was definitely not coming from that. She wondered where on earth the piano playing was coming from? She prowled around the living room, befuddled …

Eventually, she determined that the piano music was coming from behind the boarded-up fireplace.

So maybe her Dad was in the house next door!

And still the Christmas song continued …

But Rose, as hard as she strained her ears, could not hear her Dad’s accompanying vocals. She couldn’t see how anyone could know that tune or play it the way she remembered her Dad had played it. There was even his usual mistake when his thumb knocked the black note. Moreover, what made all of this so interesting was that he had told her he made the song up just for her as an extra Christmas present.

She ran back to the kitchen with her heart thumping excitedly in her chest.

“Mum! Mum!” she shouted above the raging storm.

Lightning strikes lit up the kitchen as if God had an interest in adding flashbulb photography of the Lavender’s kitchen to his infinite collection of photographs of humanity. Thunderclaps accompanied the lightning strikes, piggybacking on their heels, constantly pounding and shaking the entire house.

Rose tugged urgently at her mother’s arm.

“I won’t say anything, Mum. Just come into the living room. Something really strange has happened. Please, come on!” She looked intently into her mother’s eyes, and added, “And this time it’s not my imagination!”

So forceful was Rose that she managed to quickly wrench her mother’s prized cup of tea out of her hand and put it down on the kitchen table before dragging her reluctant mother into the living room.

“See? Listen! Hear it?”

“What? I can’t hear anything?”

“Well, the storm’s far noisier now, but I can still hear the sound. And Mum, don’t get upset, but I’m sure of it. I’m absolutely certain.”

“Sure of what?”

“Listen, Mum. Listen! It’s definitely Dad playing the piano!” Rose pointed emphatically at the boarded-up fireplace.

Rose’s mother was about to volcanically erupt when suddenly her face transformed into a living question mark.

“What the …? That does sound just like your father’s piano playing.”

She edged trancelike to the fireplace and bent her head down. Listening intently …

The piano music poured out from behind the fireplace’s boarding, bringing some sort of paradoxical harmony to the cacophonous storm. It was, without doubt, Mr Lavender’s Christmas tune and it was playing in his style.

“Good grief!” gasped Rose’s mother. “The Christmas Song he wrote for you. Well, I don’t see how it can actually be your father, Rose, but we must at least investigate.”

“It must be from next door. He might be there!”

“No, Rose—next door is on the other side of the house. On the other side of this wall is the street!”

“Oh yeah. The chimney column sticks out into the pavement. Silly me, Mum.”

“Well, where is the sound coming from—that’s what I’d like to know?” questioned Rose’s mother.

“Me too, Mum.”

“Hmm, it must be a top quality tape recorder, but I’ll be damned if I can answer the question as to how someone must have got behind the fireplace to put it there, and how it could suddenly switch itself on?”

“Maybe the storm shook it on, Mum. The whole house is rumbling and grumbling, pretty much.”

“Okay, Rose, this is a sick joke. I’m angry, but I’m on your side, dear, and I will leave no stone unturned until we solve this mystery.”

Rose liked the sound of that comment, and it was obvious where she inherited some of her mental characteristics from.

“And neither will I,” Rose added, determinedly.

Rose’s mother proved herself to be surprisingly resourceful. She quickly ran into the kitchen and returned with some bread knives and set to work at loosening the boarding.

She pulled it back …

The piano music could be heard a lot more clearly now, and the storm could not disguise it no matter how violent it was.

“There’s nothing there, Rose,” said her mother. “A lightning strike has knocked out all the bulbs in the chandelier except for one. I can’t see anything but black.”

But Rose’s mother’s eyesight was not as keen as her offspring’s.

“Nope,” said Rose, slowly shaking her head. “It goes back.”

“Back? What are you talking about? There’s nowhere for it to go back to.”

“Watch, Mum!”

Rose dug into her pockets and pulled out a ten pence coin. She threw it into the open fireplace …

It chinked on the floor as if it had landed five or six feet into the fireplace … which seemed an impossibility.

Just then, a lightning bolt lit up the living room and Rose and her mother could see quite clearly that there was a low-ceiling tunnel running down at a slight decline. They would have to go on hands and knees to explore it.

“Just hold on here a minute while I get a torch,” said Rose’s mother. “There’s quite a powerful one up in my bedroom.”

Rose’s mother quickly rushed out of the living room and returned within a minute with the torch.

“Well, it doesn’t make sense,” said Rose’s mother, shining a powerful beam of torchlight into the fireplace, confirming that the slightly declining tunnel was still there. “That tunnel just can’t be right. The gentle downward slope of the tunnel isn’t enough for us not to be seeing the street outside. We’ll get to the bottom of this. So come on then, let’s go. Let’s follow the piano playing.”

And so they got on their hands and knees with Rose’s mother leading the way with her powerful beam of torchlight, and Rose following close behind, looking a little like an inquisitive cheetah cub in her white large black polka-dotted T-shirt.

The tunnel slowly arced to the left and kept arcing.

“We’re moving in a circle, Mum.”

“I think so too.”

“And the tunnel’s sloping upwards now. Won’t we end up back in our house?”

“Perhaps we will. But unless a new hole has been made in our house’s wall, I don’t see how we can get back into it. One thing’s for sure, we can’t exit this tunnel through the fireplace, as that’s the place we entered it, and we’ve been walking on our hands and knees away from it ever since.”

“The sound of the storm has stopped,” said Rose. “The piano music has stopped too. It’s eerily quiet. I can hear myself breathing.”

“Ah … yes. There’s some light ahead, Rose. Looks like electric light too.”

The arc of the tunnel levelled out and Rose and her mother could see a square exit at a slight incline. Rose’s mother turned off her torch.

“Oh well, we’re approaching the exit to the tunnel, see?” said Rose’s mother.

“Yes, Mum. But isn’t that the living room ahead?”

“I think so. Looks like a new hole has opened up in the wall.”

Rose and her mother emerged from the tunnel into a familiar-looking living room.

But …

They had exited through the fireplace.

“We seem to be back in our living room, Mum. We’ve come out of the fireplace? But how can the tunnel have done that?”

“It can’t. And I can’t see any sign of the boarding that I put to the side …? This is all very peculiar.”

“Oh no!” gasped Rose, eyeing the living room with great uncertainty through knotted eyebrows. She squeezed her mother’s hand tightly.

“What is it, dear?”

“The living room’s back to front!”

“Er, oh yes,” said Rose’s mother, her eyebrows rising. “It’s a mirror image. It’s like we’re sort of in a Through the Looking-Glass situation.”

“At least there’re two of us. Alice only had herself.”

“Look, up there!” Rose’s mother pointed up to the chandelier. “We’re definitely in a different room. All the bulbs are working.”

“What if we’re in a world where everything is a mirror-image,” said Rose, “even the people?”

“The curtains are drawn,” said Rose’s mother. “I’ll pull them open and see if the world outside is a mirror-image. We can look at some car number plates and see if there written back to front.”

Rose’s mother rushed up to the bay windows and pulled down on the curtain cord that swished open the royal-mauve heavy felt curtains …

But nothing could be seen through the windows except a thick roiling snow-white mist.

“What does it all mean?” said a befuddled Rose.

“Well, at least you don’t have white skin covered in large black polka dots.”

“Huh?”

“The strain of measles that you said would kill you. By which I mean, I don’t think we’re dead.”

“Oh, yeah, I see. I didn’t think that maybe the lightning bolts had struck us through the windows and killed us. But if we’re not dead … what’s going on, Mum?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Well, that’s no good then, because my guess will only be as bad as yours.”

Just then, outside the living room, coming from the direction of the kitchen, the sound of a teaspoon chinking against some crockery sounded.

“Did you hear that, Mum?”

“Yes. It sounds like the way your father used to make his coffee. Always stirring his milky coffee and bashing the spoon on the inside lip of his mug before throwing it in the wash basin, hoping I would clean it up.”

“Yes, Mum. It does sound like Dad. And then he would trudge into the living room whistling one of his latest tunes and start making up new tunes and songs on the piano.”

Just then, the sound of whistling could be heard approaching the open living room door.

Rose and her mother pushed themselves back against the wall beside the fireplace, huddled together, frightened at what might enter the living room …

And into the living room, carrying a large mug of steaming coffee, entered the figure of Mr Lavender.

“Dad!” shouted Rose.

But her father showed no sign of noticing her as he walked towards the upright piano and placed his coffee cup on its lid. He pulled the piano stool out from under the keyboard, sat on it and lifted the piano’s keyboard lid.

Rose made to rush towards him, but her mother held her wrist tightly.

“Rose, that’s not exactly your father. It’s a mirror image of him. See the large freckle on his left cheek? That’s supposed to be on his right cheek. And his hair is parted on the opposite side to how it should be. I know my husband all right, and that man sitting at the piano is his mirror image. And when you shouted at him, he didn’t even flinch. He didn’t even notice us.”

“Yes,” said Rose. “I know my dad too. Yes, it is a back-to-front Dad.”

Mr Lavender then started to play the Christmas song that he had written for Rose as her extra Christmas present.

And he started singing. His mouth moved, the veins on his neck grew slightly—but no sounds came out of him.

“That’s strange …” said Rose’s mother. “We heard the spoon chinking on the coffee mug. And we can hear the piano playing. But we can’t hear your mirror father singing.”

“Well, it’s only fair. He can’t hear us, so we can’t hear him.”

“Yes, but he can’t see us, yet we can see him.”

“Look out, Mum. He’s stopped playing and I think he’s getting up.”

Mr Lavender pushed his stool back, stood up, took a sip of coffee, then turned towards the fireplace … and began walking towards it.

“He’s coming to talk to us, Mum!”

But Mr Lavender walked up to the front of the fireplace and ignored Rose and her mother, who were standing up against the wall to the left-hand side of it.

He took something out of his trouser pockets. It was some sort of credit card sized thin rectangular card. He flicked it, sending it spinning into the fireplace, then did an about turn, returned to his piano and grabbed his mug of coffee, before walking out of the living room.

Rose ducked back into the fireplace and retrieved the small, thin card.

“Look, Mum. It’s a train ticket.” Rose held out the train ticket for her mother to examine.

“It’s been printed back to front, of course,” observed Rose’s mother.

Suddenly, the living room door smashed forwards clean off its hinges and crashed onto the floor …

And there, standing in the open doorway, was a huge gorilla-shaped creature standing on two legs. Its skin was made up of a jigsaw styled arrangement of mirrors. It had huge, powerful glass fangs. Its head was covered in glass spikes. Its eyes were huge, bulbous mirrors.

It opened its mouth. And it sounds could be heard.

“Get out of my world!” roared the creature, casting a severe eye on Rose and her mother. “Another world is calling you and a power within it, far greater than mine, has yielded you a clue to find its unique entrance. A much more sophisticated entrance than my simple Mobius-mirror tunnel. Get out! Get out! Before I rip you to shreds and reverse each and every one of your atoms, so that they belong in my world.”

The creature then let out the most terrifying, jarring, high-pitched scream, spewing out shards of glass from its wide open mouth, which fired towards the wall on the vacant right-hand side of the fireplace. Each shard thudded and buried itself in the wall.

Rose and her mother did not need any further encouragement to leave the living room, to leave the mirror world.

They swept into the fireplace and moved on all fours with fear in their eyes, as if escaping a forest fire. This time, Rose was in the lead.

Heavily breathing and soaking in sweat, they reached their own living room in next to no time.

There was still just one bulb working in the chandelier, but now there was plenty of light streaming through the bay windows.

The storm had cleared. The only sound outside of the house was that of the odd passing car and the melodious, happy sound of birdsong.

When Rose and her mother looked back at the fireplace, it looked as a fireplace should with no sign of any tunnel.

Rose’s mother urgently put the boarding back into place. Then, with a huge effort and a little help from Rose, she pushed the heavy upright piano in front of the fireplace.

“At least if that terrifying creature should ever come into our mirror world, which it would surely look like to it, we’d hear it coming.”

“Gosh, Mum, that was really frightening, but guess what?”

“What?”

“I’m sure it must mean Dad is alive, as I’ve always believed. That world that the creature said is calling us. He must be in that world, mustn’t he?”

Rose’s mother looked at Rose, deep in thought.

“I did not think I would ever agree with you on this matter, but recent events have obviously made their mark. I agree with you. He must be in the other world. But where is this world?”

“We’ve got a clue, Mum. The train ticket. Unless you dropped it in our panic to get out of the mirror world …”

Rose’s mother whipped out the train ticket from the pockets of her jeans and held it up triumphantly.

“I shall read the printing on the ticket by holding it up to the mirror,” she said with a pleasant smile.

Rose’s mother held the train ticket up to the living room mirror that was on the wall opposite the fireplace. Rose quickly pulled up a chair and stood on it, so she could get a good look too.

“Barton on Sea, Hampshire,” said Rose. “Where’s that?”

“South coast of England. I spent a week there with your father before we got married.”

“But how is it a clue, Mum?”

“Look at the travel date of the ticket.”

“It’s for tomorrow. On my birthday.”

“Not quite. Unless we are talking about your eighth birthday. Look at the year. It’s last year.”

“Oh, the day Dad went missing!” said Rose excitedly, with wide-open eyes.

“Exactly. So just as your father gave you an extra Christmas present with his song, tomorrow we’ll be going on a week’s holiday to the seaside for your extra birthday present. If this other world does exist, and we haven’t just imagined everything that’s just in these last ten minutes happened, it has to be connected with Barton on Sea.”

Rose gave her mother a tight hug around the waist. And she lost herself in her thoughts, thoughts that she might actually one day see her dad again …

 

3

THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

THE VERY NEXT day, Rose and her mother were strolling onto the beach at Barton on Sea. It was her ninth birthday, a year to the day that her father disappeared.

Rose’s mother had rung the police yesterday evening and told them that she and her daughter Rose had found a train ticket for Barton on Sea. A ticket their father had purchased on the day he went missing. She did not tell them of the mirror world. They probably would have put the phone down. They told her to stay by her phone while they made some urgent enquiries …

They soon rang Rose’s mother back and confirmed that a pair of shoes that someone had left at the Barton on Sea shoreline had been found that day by an early evening dog walker. Rose’s mother confirmed that the shoes found matched the pair that Mr Lavender had gone missing in. The police concluded that the Case of the Mysterious Suicide at Barton on Sea and the Case of the Missing Mr Lavender were one and the same. They felt they had solved two cases in one phone call. Of course, they knew nothing of the mirror world or any other mysterious world. And Rose’s mother was never going to tell them. She was bright enough to know that if she did, it would lead to nothing but trouble for her and Rose and scupper their chances of ever finding Rose’s father.

“Let’s just find ourselves a nice pleasant spot,” said Rose’s mother, perusing the beach. “We have no idea if this so-called other world really exists. It might simply be that your father was lured to his death by something like that mirror world creature.”

“Maybe a monstrous sand creature chased him into the sea, Mum. Who knows, maybe this other world is a seaside world. Maybe he walked through some kind of invisible door, and the creature got him.”

“I don’t think that’s quite what must have happened. Because how would you explain that his shoes were found? If I left my purse in the mirror world living room, who would ever find it? His shoes were found in this world. So he must have taken them off in this world.”

“Not necessarily, Mum. The sand creature, or something like it, could have overpowered him. Yeah, maybe not even have chased him into the sea. The sand creature might have buried him beneath the sand of his seaside world. Anyway, whatever the creature did, it could have taken off Dad’s shoes and brought them back through the invisible door, or whatever entrance there was, and put them down by the shoreline. The creature probably wanted to protect its secret world.”

“I can’t argue with that. But the mirror monster did say the entrance to the other world was a sophisticated entrance compared to its simple Mobius-mirror tunnel. Remember? I’m not sure an invisible door is a more sophisticated entrance, or one more complicated than a Mobius-mirror tunnel, are you?”

“Dunno. I’m only nine. And only just.”

“Well, let’s go and relax in the sun. Maybe some idea will pop into our heads. Your father obviously went missing in the late afternoon when the beach would have been emptied, or at least emptying out. But today, on this annual event of the day he went missing, we’ll be on this beach, hoping for something as strange as what happened in our living room to happen on this beach.”

“Okay, Mum. Let’s at least have a holiday and enjoy the sea and the sunshine while the sun is still high in the sky.”

“How are you enjoying your other birthday present? I got it online. There’s so much choice these days. It’s great not to have to sew on the polka dots for once. Not that I mind. It’s just that I’m sure your dress is much more comfortable with no stitches to feel on your skin.”

“My dress is fantastic, Mum. It feels very comfortable. And it’s so sunny today that I feel my large black polka dots are sort of like sunspots. Mum, does the sun really have black spots?”

“It does. But I’m not sure they’re actually black. They just look black because of the much brighter surfaces around them.”

“Oh. I can’t really understand that. Do you know what causes them?”

“I’m not too up on things like science and astronomy, but it’s something to do with weather. Not whether like we have here on the Earth, of course. I mean, it doesn’t rain or get windy. At least not with air particles. It’s all to do with huge explosions and things. Huge nuclear explosions. That’s how the sun works. It’s so big that its gravity squashes some of its atoms regularly. And then you get nuclear fusion explosions. They’ve been going on for over 4 billion years. Amazing really.”

“Erm … yeah. Suppose so. But as I just said. I’m only nine. Maybe next year when I’ve reached double figures, we’ll come here again and you can explain how the sun works again.”

“We’ll see.”

“This looks like a nice part of the beach, Mum.”

“Yes, and there’s a nice spot just over there,” said Rose’s mother, gesturing with her head as her hands were full of bags.

And so Rose and her mother claimed their patch of sand and made efforts to make it their own. They quickly rented a daily pair of deckchairs and parasols, and they were set for the afternoon.

The burning sun hung in the clear blue sky like an angry celestial dragon, spitting down tongues of fire upon the happy holidaymakers enjoying themselves on the golden sands beneath it. The continual babble of excited people ascended high to the heavens, teasing and daring the celestial creature to throw down more of its potent fire.

Reflected sunlight randomly flashed along the beach as various metallic objects were agitated by the mass of holidaymakers.

Waves of the beautiful, deep-blue sea kissed the sands of the shoreline rhythmically, ignoring the efforts of the happy paddlers enthusiastically splashing about in it.

Wafts of refreshing clean, sharp, healthy salty sea air swept over the beach in the gentlest of summer breezes.

Paradise found.

Among the sight, sound and smell of the seaside, Rose relaxed in her deckchair next to her mother in hers, looking extremely pleased with both of her birthday presents—the best black polka-dotted white dress she had ever worn, and her trip to the seaside paradise.

“Oooh, it’s such a sunny day, Mum,” said Rose, and her mother reflected her big happy smile. “Thanks for all this, Mum. When I’m old enough and have lots and lots of money, I’m going to take you to the seaside for your birthday.”

“That’s a very nice thought, Rose dear, but my birthday’s in January which is in the winter, and the seaside’s not very nice in the winter.” Then she added as an afterthought, “Ah, but perhaps you could take me on a skiing trip to Switzerland where all around is filled with beautiful soft white snow.”

“Yes, yes. That would be really great,” said Rose, shaking her bright-red hair in the gentle summer breeze, and under the fierce summer’s sun, each single strand of hair on her head seemed to glow like the sorts of things you might find in the depths of an angry volcano.

Rose left her mother to relax in her deckchair while she decided to play at a safe distance in the golden sand.

Just under an hour later, when she had finished making some new friends and making and gleefully demolishing some unusual looking sand castles, she decided that she would like to paddle in the cool, inviting sea. And so she ran back to her nearby mother.

“Mum!” she shouted, her feet sinking into the hot sand as she approached. “Can I go for a paddle in the sea please, Mum? My feet are roasting.”

“Of course you can, dear,” said Rose’s mother brightly. “I can keep my eye on you from time to time as long as you’re in my line of view directly in front of me.” Then Rose’s mother cleared her throat and her face took on the look of someone about to say something of great importance, and she added, “But be careful. You know you can’t swim. Just go in so the water goes no higher than your dainty knees.”

“Oh, I will be careful, Mum, I will,” shouted Rose, her voice trailing off in the breeze as she pedalled her little legs enthusiastically to the shore.

To Rose, the sea looked incredibly beautiful, a silvery-blue expanse topped with snow-white waves rippling effortlessly to her bare, wriggling toes.

“Ooh, this water feels lovely and cool,” said Rose to herself as she waded in up to knee level, holding her new dress up just above the surface. As she looked at some of the large black polka dots, she wished that she had a swimming costume on, but she did not even own one, which is hardly surprising, as she could not swim. Swimming lessons were due at her school next year. She would have to get her mum to buy a white swimsuit covered in large black polka dots, of course.

So refreshing and inviting was the water that Rose waded out farther and farther and even—farther. It was still shallow, and she had given up holding her dress and suddenly realised she was wading at waist height.

I’d better turn around and give Mum a wave, thought Rose. And maybe I should start wading back to the shore. My feet have cooled off now.

But when she turned around, to her surprise, she appeared to have waded out so far that she could not see her mother. In fact, Rose could not see anybody. She couldn’t even see the beach.

Rose grew terribly frightened.

All she could see was sea.

“Oh dear!” she cried out aloud. “How on earth did I get this far out—it’s impossible! I’ve only waded out about thirty steps. I’m sure of it.”

Then Rose began to cry and say things like, “Mum, I’m really sorry. I’ll never paddle in the sea again—unless I’m holding your hand.”

On this occasion, Rose realised her independence had got the better of her.

Suddenly, Rose was aware of something eerie happening. She had the same sort of feeling that she had during yesterday’s storm. She was sure something strange was going to happen.

And of course, it did.

It seemed that the sun grew more intense, and the sea became yellow and completely still. There was not a wave to be seen. Rose looked up at the blinding sun. She couldn’t help herself. And the sight made her instantly dizzy …

Her knees gave way, and she sank beneath the surface of the sea.

Down, down, down she sank into a sea of yellow, holding her breath.

Help, I can’t swim! she screamed inside her head.

Fortunately, it was only a matter of seconds before she landed on the seabed. She quickly struggled to get to her feet, hoping her head would come above the water, or at least close to the surface.

Unfortunately, when the little girl finally got on her feet, she realised that the surface lay an impossible distance above her confused head. Looking up with glum lime-green eyes, she realised that even if she could swim, she could never have made it up to safety. She wondered how she could possibly have sunk so far in so little time. It didn’t make sense.

Oh dear, I’m going to drown, she thought, and it was hard to tell that she was crying because she was in the sea and desperately holding her breath.

Eventually Rose forced herself to close her eyes in an immense effort to concentrate on holding her precious breath.

But it was no good.

Her face fast became the colour of her bright-red hair and her lungs were literally about to burst.

Goodbye, Mum, she thought as she was finally forced to gasp for the air that was not there.

 

4

THE LAND OF THE YELLOW SEA

IT WAS TRULY AMAZING. Utterly fantastic, Rose found against all the odds that she could breathe under the water!

She thought at first that it was obviously some strange form of magic. But then she thought of all the science fiction films she had seen and decided that some sort of strange science might be a better explanation. Then she wondered if there was any difference between the two, magic and science. She decided on one thing—she had found the other world. And perhaps the entrance was more sophisticated than a Mobius-mirror tunnel. The problem was it was more frightening too. Anyway, there had to be a chance she might be able to find her dad. So for now, she was very happy.

Moving under the water was much more difficult than moving on the land, but after a lot of practise, Rose soon got the hang of it. She could not move as freely as she usually could, but at least her movements were more varied. For instance, instead of walking around a large rock, she could easily jump and dogpaddle over it. Yes, although she could not swim above the water, she could certainly swim below it.

To be honest, the yellow-tinged water was much easier to move in than ordinary water, but as Rose had never moved in ordinary water before, she did not realise this. Had she been able to swim and walk along the bottom of a swimming pool, it would have been obvious to her. Nevertheless, the water did affect her movements slightly. For instance, when she tried to run, she found that sometimes she would take off from the seabed and launch into an impromptu swim.

This other world was indeed a strange place. There were paths crisscrossing everywhere, leading to many unknown destinations, many of which were lined with strange underwater plants. The paths were built upon a rough, rocky surface.

Rose noticed the odd fish swimming to and fro between the rocks. Somehow she had not expected the bottom of the ocean to look like this. The fish always stopped and took a good look at her. They didn’t look like the dead fish she saw in the supermarkets. Or the fish she saw in the Cambridge Aquarium Centre. They had very expressive eyes. They looked quite clever. She half-expected them to talk to her. But they always swam off after giving her a good look over.

Rose thought that the watery land all about her, bathed in yellow, was rather beautiful; nevertheless, she began to think of a way to get home. She wondered what her mum must be thinking right now. But she did not know which direction to take to get home. Should she go north, south, east or west? She would have to guess these directions, anyway. And worse still, maybe she could go up. Or even maybe down into a distant valley, she spied. She was quite good at geography in her own world. But this was not her own world. It really did seem hopeless.

She tried to swim up to the surface, but before she could get there, the intense yellow light made her dizzy. And so she sank right back down to the seabed.

Gosh, that’s no good. I’ll never get up there! she thought, feeling somewhat defeated.

Finally, feeling extremely lost, Rose decided to walk back along the seabed to the place she first dizzily landed on. But something deep within her lost spirit told her that she was really wasting her time. However, she had no better plan to follow.

This is the way, perhaps? she thought as she jumped onto a smooth stone path lined with liberal clumps of green shrubs. And as she followed the path, she wondered if any people lived down here in this strange watery world, because she realised somebody, or something, must have built the paths.

Rose found herself taking path after path after path. She was definitely lost. She would not be finding the place she started at, that much was certain.

Up ahead on a grey stone path, Rose could see a stone bench at the side of the path. She approached it inquisitively. Other than the paths, it was the first sign of civilisation she had encountered. Surely it meant there were people in this yellow watered world. She decided to sit on the bench.

“Hello,” she said, imagining a person was approaching the bench. She decided to have an imaginary conversation.

“Do you know where the nearest sweetshop is? I could do with a bag of Fish Gums, a fistful of Crab Bars and a can of Shark Fizz.”

“Yes,” said the imaginary man she had conjured up. He was a very smart businessman in a dark blue pinstriped suit. “They’ve got Jellyfishbabies too.” The man then gave Rose a quite complicated description of how to get to the sweetshop.

“Oh, is that where it is? At the bottom of Seashell Street, just off Angelfish Avenue, first on the left down Dolphin Drive?”

“That’s right,” said the imaginary man. “It’s not as far as it sounds.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll just have a nice little sit down and I’ll make my way there soon.”

“Very good then,” said the man. “Goodbye, young lady. Have a nice day.”

“Yes, I will. You too, and goodbye, sir.”

The imaginary businessman walked off and faded from Rose’s mind.

Rose enjoyed her little conversation. It made her feel less lonely. At least for a few minutes. Then she noticed something just over her shoulder. She could see a few letters etched into the back of the stone bench.

Rose immediately stood up and took a closer look at the bench. She realised it was covered in a light pasting of white stone paste. She wondered if maybe there was some seagull fish in this strange land.

She picked up a stone off the path and used it to start to brush off the stone paste. It came off surprisingly easily and revealed the following words:

 

Please enjoy this bench.

Dedicated to the memory of Paul Anderson.

The fastest fish in the Land of the Yellow Sea.

 

Rose didn’t think that Paul Anderson could really be a fish. She thought his description must have had another meaning. Maybe he was an excellent swimmer. Something like that. However, she did think that the world she was in may well be called the Land of the Yellow Sea. The water all about her was tinged yellow. Yes, this other world must be the Land of the Yellow Sea. Or at least the Land of the Yellow Sea was part of it.

She sat back on the bench, wondering what to do next …

Then she spied an unusual sight.

Coming along the path towards her were a pair of large blue fish about her size. But they weren’t swimming horizontally, they were swimming vertically as if they were seahorses. Rose stared, fascinated. Stranger still, it looked as if they were having a conversation. But the moment they noticed her look at them, they stopped. They dipped their bodies forwards and began to swim horizontally like normal fish.

Rose thought they would continue like this. But when they reached her, the two of them leaned themselves backwards into a vertical position. They turned and faced her. They really did look intelligent. Maybe they really were having a conversation.

“Hello,” she said. “My name’s Rose.”

The fish turned and faced one another, then turned back to look at her.

One of them opened its mouth, and Rose thought it was about to speak.

But all that happened was that a stream of bubbles escaped from its mouth and streamed upwards.

The other fish then did the self-same thing.

“Can you speak?” asked Rose.

The fish turned and faced one another once again.

But soon turned and faced forwards down the path. Then, once again, dipped themselves down into a horizontal position and swam off, keeping just a few feet above the path.

They must be clever. Otherwise why would they stay on the path?

Rose got off the bench and headed off in the same direction as the fish, attempting to follow them. But they were fast swimmers, and Rose was soon left completely alone.

Rose became very sad and lonely. She wanted to go home. But she couldn’t. If only someone would turn up and help her. She began to cry and kicked a stone angrily. Then she continued to stomp her way down a smooth stone path lined with liberal clumps of green shrubs. A path she was sure she had already been on. What a birthday!

But it seemed someone needed her help more than she needed theirs …

“Help! Let me out of here!” sounded a voice, startling Rose, who stopped sharply in her tracks.