The Secret Letters That Changed Everything!

The Parallel Four Book One Part Thirteen Chapter Thirteen

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

The Parallel Four Book One Part Thirteen Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen.

With conditional approvals all round, the only remaining hurdle was actually doing the planning. Trouble was, the autumn term turned into a blur of homework, Sea Cadets, rugby, car washing and the occasional nap disguised as “deep reflection.” But never fear—Vinka and Marlin came to the rescue.

Those two were absolute legends, keeping our expedition plans ticking along through a steady stream of letters. Each one read like a tactical mission update crossed with a love note. There were weather forecasts scribbled in the margins, kit checklists annotated with passive-aggressive reminders about thermal socks, and occasional doodles of us being chased by moose (with captions like “Don’t forget the emergency chocolate!”).

Weekly correspondence had become a tradition—a cross between military briefings and flirtatious banter. Vinka’s notes often included smiley faces, sarcastic remarks about my handwriting, and underlined demands about who was cooking which night. Marlin’s letters to Johan were marginally more subtle, but we all knew the tone: strategic sweet talk disguised as logistics.

In short, they were running the show—and we didn’t mind one bit.

Johan and I were still riding high at school and dominating the rugby pitches like a well-oiled, try-scoring machine. We played for both the school and the club, and while Tim didn’t go to our school, he was very much part of the club scene. A cracking scrum-half and an excellent fly-half, Tim thrived on being at the centre of the action—quick hands, sharper tongue, and the kind of game vision that made him both brilliant and mildly exhausting to play with.

Stick him on the wing, though, and he’d sulk like someone had just cancelled Christmas.

“Too much standing about,” he’d moan darkly, tugging at his sleeves like they’d betrayed him. “I want to be where the mud is!”

As the festive expedition loomed and the weeks evaporated like steam off a hot mince pie, it was time to tackle the looming beast that was next year’s GCSE options. Johan and I spent many a lunch break locked in strategic conversation—not unlike two generals hunched over a map, plotting their next academic ambush.

Since we were already more or less fluent in French and German—thanks to years of flashcards, real-life immersion, and a few awkwardly enthusiastic cultural exchanges—we figured, “Why not make things interesting?” So we threw caution to the wind and added not one, but two new languages: Spanish (sensible) and Arabic (possibly unhinged).

Time would tell whether this was bold brilliance or GCSE-fuelled lunacy.

We struck a deal with our French and German teachers: we’d skip formal lessons in exchange for self-study and still sitting the exams. They agreed—either impressed by our gall or just curious to see if we’d crash and burn spectacularly.

Naturally, we had to make some cuts. So, with only the tiniest pangs of regret, we dropped music (our triangle solos went tragically underappreciated), drama (our acting was too convincing, apparently), woodwork (too many wonky spice racks), metalwork (our creativity was deemed “a health hazard”), and art (turns out finger painting isn’t considered a valid GCSE technique).

We kept the essentials: maths, motor mechanics (because knowing how to fix a Land Rover is a proper life skill), English literature and language, ballroom dancing (for both social occasions and dramatic exits), history, geography, biology, physics, and—because we clearly hated ourselves—Latin. If you’re going to suffer through school, you might as well do it in a dead language.

A-levels were still a far-off speck on the horizon, but we were laying the groundwork just in case we fancied more academic punishment down the line.

We finally took off from Luton to Gothenburg on the 16th of December, armed with our finely tuned expedition plan and enough enthusiasm to power a snowplough. After landing, we rendezvoused with Marlin and Vinka and immediately huddled like a mini summit of Arctic adventurers, ironing out the final details over steaming mugs of cocoa and a frankly heroic number of biscuits.

With our briefing notes polished and our best “responsible explorer” faces firmly in place, we presented our plan to Olaf, Erik, and Stefan—Sweden’s answer to the Joint Chiefs of Expedition Approval. They listened, nodded sagely, exchanged a few meaningful glances, and, to our immense relief, gave us the green light.

Operation Great Winter Epic was officially a go.

That evening was a flurry of action—literally. Instead of backpacks, we’d opted for pulks (those sled things you drag behind you like a stubborn shopping trolley), with two between the four of us. Packing them felt less like preparing for a ski trip and more like getting ready for a polar expedition or an extremely committed picnic. Tents? Check. Sleeping bags? Check. Stoves, headtorches, snow shovels, and emergency chocolate rations? Triple check.

With everything stowed, strapped, and snow-tested, we turned in early—determined to be up before dawn to squeeze every ounce from our six stingy hours of winter daylight. Not that we minded. Skiing in the dark wasn’t just part of the plan—it was half the fun.

We were up before the sun, faces still creased from sleep and thermal long johns firmly in place. Grandma Greta undisputed queen of breakfast—served up a feast so hearty it could’ve launched a full-blown Arctic expedition. Porridge, eggs, and toast thick enough to build with, all served with a side of fierce, grandmotherly affection.

Bellies full, flasks brimming with hot soup, and wrapped in enough layers to pass for ambulatory laundry baskets, we clicked into our skis and set off into the pale, magical light of a Swedish late December morning.

Marlin and Johan took first pulk duty, dragging the sleds up the trail like a pair of determined reindeer in borrowed jackets, while Stephen and I led the charge, carving fresh tracks through powder so pristine it felt like we were trespassing on a postcard.

A couple of hours in, we paused. Time for soup, a pulk swap, and a moment to admire how ridiculously cool we looked—four teens, halfway between Viking and Vogue, living our very own winter epic.

We trudged along in our trusty old-school Telemark touring skis and heavy leather boots—basically medieval armour for your feet. Stylish? Possibly. Graceful? Not unless you count looking like a baby giraffe on stilts as a form of elegance. With climbing skins stuck to the bottoms of our skis, we shuffled across mostly flat terrain, occasionally surprised by a cheeky little hill just steep enough to keep things “interesting.”

Eventually, after a steady climb and some creative language about thigh burn, we reached a long descent. Off came the skins with much ceremony and mitt-flapping, and we prepared for what should’ve been a glorious glide downhill. But this wasn’t just a case of pointing skis downhill and hoping for the best—oh no. One of us had to stay behind each pulk, tethered by a rope like a reluctant sleigh driver, to stop our gear-laden sleds turning into high-speed missiles of doom.

Nothing says “team spirit” quite like risking life and limb to avoid being mown down by your own luggage.

After a few more hours of skiing—and only one minor pulk-related collision (no names, no blame)—we stopped for lunch, refuelled with soup and chocolate, then powered on. We reached our first hut just as the sun dipped below the treetops, painting the snow in gold and pink. These huts are absolute lifesavers—like hut for exhausted ski hobbits. Cosy, wooden, and just rustic enough to feel adventurous without needing actual survival skills.

Inside, we found stacked firewood, a tin of matches, and enough Scandinavian charm to melt even the coldest toes. We got the fire roaring, whipped up dinner (freeze-dried chilli has never tasted so gourmet), and spent the evening in a blissful blur of chat, laughter, and the kind of multilingual chaos only teenagers and travel can produce—a gloriously confusing mash of Swedish, English, German, and French that somehow made perfect sense.

At one point, Vinka challenged us to a bit of ballroom dancing in our thermals. Johan and I gamely tried to keep up, but with ski socks slipping and pulk legs wobbling, we mostly just staggered about like confused penguins. The girls, of course, made it look effortless. As always.

As the fire crackled and the chill of the outside world melted away, we settled into a comfortable sprawl around the little wooden table. Mugs of hot lingonberry juice in hand, we started swapping stories from the autumn term—mostly involving missed buses, rugby bruises, and incomprehensible maths homework.

Marlin kicked off the academic confessions. “So,” she said, stretching her legs out and resting her mug on her knee, “we dropped music. My recorder career wasn’t going anywhere.”

I snorted. “Mine ended when I realised cows outside the classroom started mooing whenever I practised.”

That earned a round of laughter before Johan jumped in, “We had to cut a few things too. Drama went. My Hamlet was more ‘ham’ than ‘let’.”

“I miss woodwork,” I said, “but only because our last project was a spice rack and mine could’ve doubled as a trebuchet.”

“Same!” I exclaimed. “My one had more glue than wood by the end. It was structurally unsound and emotionally disappointing.”

“Anyway,” Marlin continued, “we needed the space. We’re taking Spanish now. And Arabic.”

There was a beat. Johan and I sat up straight, almost in unison.

“Wait… what?” I asked, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion.

Marlin blinked. “What?”

“You’re both doing Spanish and Arabic?” Johan asked.

The we looked at each other, then at us, confused. “Yes,”I said. “Why?”

“We are too!” I said. “We only picked them a few weeks ago—thought we were being original.”

I burst out laughing. “So did we! We thought we were being clever, choosing something that wasn’t French or German.”

“I thought I was being brave,” said Johan. “Have you seen Arabic script? It’s like a language and a puzzle at the same time.”

Marlin raised an eyebrow. “Just wait till the grammar kicks in.”

“So what now?” I grinned. “Are we rivals or study partners?”

“Study partners,” I said without hesitation. “Unless you forget your homework. Then I’m telling everyone you copied.”

“You already do that,” I muttered.

We sat there, four future polyglots with aching thighs and frozen socks, suddenly realising just how tangled our lives had become—across languages, borders, and pulks full of adventure. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

With our final mug of cocoa consumed and the fire crackling down to a soft glow, we climbed into our sleeping bags like content burritos. The hut had gone quiet—just the occasional creak of timber and the rhythmic sigh of the wind brushing against the walls. Johan and Marlin were already zipped up at the far end, murmuring softly in the kind of half-sleep whispers that made you smile even if you couldn’t hear the words.

Vinka and I had claimed the narrow bottom bunk near the fire, and though space was tight, we didn’t mind one bit. We wriggled in, arms accidentally elbowing each other until we settled into the perfect tangle—her head on my chest, my chin resting in her hair, the smell of pine smoke and snowy air clinging to everything.

“It’s mad, isn’t it?” I whispered. “Us. Here. Doing this.”

“Mad in the best possible way,” I murmured back.

I gave a sleepy hum and tucked in closer. “I think we might be really good at this—this adventuring thing.”

“I think we might be really good at us thing too.”

There was a pause, then she looked up with a smirk. “Don’t go getting romantic on me, sailor.”

“Too late I’m already besotted with you.”

A chuckle, a yawn, and then silence.

Warm, wrapped up in each other, and filled with the kind of joy that only comes from hard-earned adventure and the company of someone who gets you completely—we drifted off, hearts full and bodies happily broken.

As we skied that morning, chattering away like caffeinated squirrels, we mapped out the rest of the day. The sun had clawed its way above the treetops, casting long golden fingers across the snow—too pretty to rush through. About halfway to the next hut, we clocked an untouched slope tucked against a ridge, blanketed in the kind of snow that practically begged to be tunneled into. Prime real estate, we agreed, for digging ourselves a snow hole.

“Looks like the kind of spot a bear might use,” Johan said, eyeing it like a property developer with a shovel.

“Perfect,” Marlin replied. “Let’s move in.”

We dropped the pulks and got to work with avalanche shovels and boundless enthusiasm. It was a proper team effort: Johan and Stephen took turns carving the entrance and hollowing out the main chamber, while I and Marlin fine-tuned the inside—adding sleeping platforms, carving little cubbies for our gear, and even fashioning a snow bench for boot-removal comfort.

By the time the sun began to dip again, our snowy abode was looking suspiciously professional. The entrance was narrow to trap warmth, the walls were thick enough to muffle sound, and the inside glowed faintly with the light from our head torches, giving it a cosy, cave-like feel. A few spruce branches for bedding, a windbreak outside for the stove, and voilà—home sweet snow hole.

“It’s a bit like camping inside a fridge,” I said, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling.

“Yes,” I said, stretching out, “but the kind where you don’t mind getting snow up your nose.”

As twilight crept in and dinner was demolished with military efficiency, we loaded up the pulks and glided off into the night, giggling like mischievous elves. Then the sky began to shift.

At first, it was a faint glow on the horizon, like the ghost of dawn arriving far too early. Then—suddenly—it exploded into life. Curtains of green unfurled across the heavens, rippling like silk in a breeze. Ribbons of violet shimmered at the edges, fading into bursts of deep magenta. It was like standing beneath a great cosmic ocean, watching waves roll across the sky.

We stopped in our tracks—no words, no movement, just eyes wide and mouths slightly open, skis forgotten. The Aurora Borealis was performing a private show, and we were front row, no ticket required.

Marlin broke the silence with a hushed, “It’s dancing…”

And it was. The lights swirled and dipped, pulsing with a rhythm that seemed ancient and alive. Every few seconds, a new burst of colour would spill out like someone up there was flinging buckets of neon paint across the stars. We stood still until the cold nudged us onward, reluctant but reverent.

The next few kilometres felt surreal. We skied in silence, the snow whispering under our feet, lit by a sky ablaze with colour. It was like moving through a dream—one part fairy tale, one part expedition logbook. Even the pulks seemed lighter, as though the lights above had taken some of the weight off our shoulders.

When the hut finally came into view—its soft yellow window-glow beckoning through the trees—it felt like arriving at a sanctuary built just for us. We clomped in, trailing snow, cheeks red from the cold and awe, greeted by two fellow adventurers already nestled by the stove.

Cocoa was brewed, and tales of the sky were exchanged in low, lazy voices. Eventually, we curled up together in our double sleeping bags, shoulders touching, heads poking out like turtle necks. The night was quiet but for the steady rhythm of each other’s breathing, and the memory of those lights still burned behind our eyelids—vivid, electric, and utterly unforgettable.

“You realise,” I murmured beside him, “that was probably the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Besides me,” I replied instinctively, then immediately braced for a jab to the ribs.

Instead, I smiled and whispered, “Close second.”

Outside, the stars blinked above our snow-covered roof. Inside, four weary adventurers drifted off to sleep, wrapped in warmth, laughter, and the kind of joy you can’t quite explain—only feel.

Tomorrow, our last day on the trail. But tonight? Tonight, we dreamt in technicolour.

The next morning we were up and at it before sunrise—because who needs lie-ins when you’re basically living like Nordic superheroes? With ten more miles of snowy wonderland ahead, we slipped into our well-worn rhythm: pulk swapping relay, snack breaks that suspiciously resembled biscuit feasts, and the occasional snowball ambush launched with military precision.

By mid-afternoon, the trees thinned and a squat timber hut came into view, crouched at the edge of a frozen lake. Inside, it was plain and sturdy: wooden bunks, a big iron stove, and just enough space for us, our gear, and the smell of our damp gloves steaming dry once the fire was lit.

Johan got the fire going while Stephen engineered a makeshift drying rack from a pair of ski poles and more optimism than structural integrity. Marlin declared herself “morale officer” and dished out the last of the chocolate rations, while I coaxed something vaguely edible from what was left in our food bags.

We ate under the hut’s low lamplight, the stove ticking softly as it threw waves of heat into the room. Later, wrapped in our double sleeping bags, we lay listening to the fire’s occasional sigh and the faint groan of the ice on the lake outside. The air smelled of pine, woodsmoke, and the lingering sweetness of the hot chocolate we’d just finished.

Tomorrow, the lodge would be waiting—warm walls, real beds, and the inevitable chaos of home. But for now, this quiet, frozen world was ours alone.

Despite tired legs and ski socks that now felt permanently attached, we kept our spirits high with songs, laughter, and a competitive game of “who can ski backwards without falling over” (spoiler: not me). The landscape unfolded in a final act of winter beauty—tall pines, frozen streams, and enough fresh snow to make it feel like we were carving our way through a Christmas card.

By mid-afternoon, the familiar outline of the lodge appeared through the trees, and with it, the finish line. We were met by warm smiles, steaming mugs of cocoa, and bear hugs from the grown-ups—who looked both proud and slightly baffled that four teenagers had successfully pulled off something more complex than a group sleepover.

Our reward? Dropping our gear in a heap, high-fiving like victorious Arctic explorers, and diving head-first into the sauna like overheated penguins finally coming home to roost.

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, we basked in heat, triumph, and the smug satisfaction of teenagers who had officially levelled up.

That evening, the celebrations kicked off—after all, we were officially fourteen now. Fully qualified in eye-rolls, fluent in sarcasm, and suddenly experts on everything from international politics to why socks disappear in the wash. Granma Greta, aunt Ingrid, Mama, and Silvi absolutely outdid themselves. There were cakes (plural), candles (also plural), and enough glorious food to fuel another expedition—or at least a spirited snowball fight.

Laughter echoed through the house as stories from the ski trip turned into legends, each retelling more dramatic than the last. Johan’s “graceful” snow-hole tumble became a heroic rescue mission. My attempt at skiing backwards was rebranded as “experimental technique.” No one corrected us. It was our birthday, after all said and done.

The next day we embraced the post-adventure slump with gusto. We loafed around the house in thermals and thick socks, talking nonsense, playing endless rounds of cards, and generally acting like explorers on well-earned leave. Eventually, attention turned to the next grand plan: Easter.

It was decided—Erik, Anna, Vinka, Marlin, and Petra would come to England for the break. Naturally, Johan and I were bestowed the grand responsibility of “entertainment managers,” a title we took on with the kind of enthusiasm usually reserved for actual royalty. The power, as expected, went straight to our heads.

The next few days settled into a blissful rhythm: skiing by day, sauna by late afternoon—followed, of course, by dramatic snow rolls that left us yelping like startled seals—and evenings filled with raucous card games, fierce board game rivalries, and the occasional crackly radio broadcast. At one point, Johan and I took it upon ourselves to introduce a bit of culture by attempting to teach the others some ballroom moves we’d half-remembered from school.

Let’s just say the foxtrot turned into more of a stumble-shuffle, the waltz involved more apologies than elegance, and someone definitely tripped over the rug trying to attempt a spin. But the laughter was loud, the spirits high, and for a few golden nights, we all felt like snow-dusted royalty in our own winter palace.

Julafton was pure magic. The house smelled of cinnamon, cardamom, and roasting goodness; laughter bounced from room to room like an overexcited terrier, and there was enough eating, sauna-ing, dancing, and general merriment to make Santa seriously consider early retirement in Sweden.

Juldagen, by contrast, brought a gentle hush. We bundled into coats and scarves and made our way through the snow to the little village church. Now, I’m hardly a regular pew-warmer, but there’s something about a candlelit Swedish Christmas morning—snowflakes catching in your lashes, voices rising in harmony, the smell of wax and pine—that makes even the most secular among us feel quietly festive… and vaguely angelic.

As always, the holiday vanished far too quickly—one moment we were digging snow holes and chasing the Northern Lights, the next we were stuffing sleeping bags into rucksacks with all the enthusiasm of a wet sponge. But there was comfort in knowing that Easter was already pencilled in, and this time Johan and I had been officially crowned the chief planners. With three whole months to prepare—and a burning desire to outdo ourselves—we vowed to deliver a holiday so epic it would make last Easter look like a soggy weekend in Bognor Regis.

Johan and I spent hours—and I mean the sort of hours usually reserved for planning weddings or space missions—drafting the ultimate Easter itinerary. No stone was left unturned, no margin of fun unaccounted for. We’d already agreed on the guest list back in Sweden: a few days with the full entourage to keep the grown-ups happy, but most of the time would be reserved for the dream team—Marlin, Vinka, Petra, and us. With that in mind, we whipped up an events list so packed with excitement it would’ve made a cruise director weep with envy.

We factored in everything: a countryside hike complete with riverside picnic (featuring Vinka’s now-legendary flapjacks), a vintage steam train ride for Petra’s benefit (she had a thing for locomotives, don’t ask), a wild camping night under the stars, and—of course—a full Easter egg hunt so competitive it required a hand-drawn tactical map and colour-coded zones. There was even a “free day,” carefully labelled on the schedule as “spontaneous adventure slot,” just in case inspiration struck or someone found a rope swing.

The planning was half the fun. The execution? Well, that was going to be something else entirely.

Luckily for us, Harry was still working for British Road Services and had an inside track with their Sports and Social Club, who seemed to specialise in “jolly good outings” for those who liked their leisure time with a side of clipboard organisation. That Easter, they lined up two cracking trips—and using what can only be described as dad-level negotiating skills (the kind that involves long pauses and firm nods), Harry bagged us spots.

First up? Twickenham. That’s right—Twickenham. England vs Scotland in the Five Nations, Calcutta Cup and all. We were gobsmacked.

Harry escorted our merry band of rugby rookies—Marlin, Vinka, Petra, Tim, Johan, and yours truly—with all the pomp and precision of a school trip leader armed with sandwiches, a Thermos, and enough boiled sweets to keep an army quiet for eighty minutes.

We gathered outside the BRS depot in the fresh spring air, all clutching packed lunches and that unmistakable pre-match buzz. The coach—an old, slightly wheezy Bedford with tartan seats and a heater that only worked when it wasn’t needed—stood ready and rumbling. Harry, clipboard in hand and the air of a man on a mission, was already installed at the front of the coach in the prime organiser’s seat—part commander, part chaperone.

As we clambered aboard, Tim made a confident dive for the third row on the left, flopping down next to Petra with the kind of eager energy normally reserved for puppies and rollercoasters. Petra gave him a polite smile, while Marlin and Johan slid into the row directly behind, casting each other a knowing glance that said, This’ll be entertaining.

Tim leaned back, grinning. “Feels like ages since last Easter.”

Petra’s smile softened. “It has been. I almost thought you’d forgotten me.”

“Forgotten you?” Tim raised an eyebrow. “Not likely. I’ve still got that picture in my head—us walking back from the rugby club, you laughing at my terrible Swedish.”

“It was terrible,” she teased. “But… memorable.”

He smirked. “And your English? Much improved, though I think you’ve been practising on someone else.”

She tilted her head. “Maybe. Or maybe I just read your letters… carefully.”

Tim chuckled. “Sporadic though they were. Mind you, I reckon that made ’em worth the wait.”

Petra gave a small shrug. “Life gets busy. But when your envelope arrived… it always felt like Easter all over again.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The bus rumbled along, the winter landscape blurring past.

Tim leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “I was hoping… maybe this trip, we could pick up where we left off.”

Petra met his gaze, a faint blush rising. “We’ll see, bondepojke.”

Behind them, Johan muttered to Marlin, “Told you—entertaining.”

Vinka and I, having perfected the art of strategic dawdling, secured the very back row—the sacred realm of youth, snogging, and contraband snacks. It had the best view of everyone and just enough privacy to pretend we weren’t part of a supervised school trip, even though Harry occasionally turned and scanned the length of the coach like a submarine commander looking through a periscope.

Once everyone was aboard, sandwiches stowed, jackets wrestled into overhead racks, and the emergency sausage rolls accounted for, we rumbled out of Hitchin and headed south. The A1 carried us smoothly as far as Barnet, where we detoured onto the legendary A406—the North Circular. We weaved past lorries, dodged roadworks, and crept through snarls of suburban chaos with all the grace of a rugby scrum in rush hour.

Inside the coach, the atmosphere warmed quickly. Up front, Harry was deep in conversation with his workmate about the relative merits of various fly-halves. A couple of rows back, Tim had launched into an unsolicited breakdown of previous England vs Scotland encounters—his voice steadily rising in pitch as he detailed a disallowed try from 1962. Petra nodded, smiled, and silently accepted her fate.

Behind them, Johan and Marlin were quietly giggling—possibly at Tim, possibly at the fact Johan was drawing moustaches on the match programme. Vinka and I, tucked into our back-row fortress, were already sharing a thermos of hot chocolate and quietly laughing at everyone. We’d even brought a blanket, which made the whole thing feel less like a school trip and more like a romantic getaway on wheels.

The coach hit traffic near Hanger Lane—because of course it did—but we eventually crept through Ealing, crossed Kew Bridge, and rolled toward Twickenham amid a sea of fans. The noise grew. Flags waved, someone was selling rosettes, and somewhere nearby, a brass band belted out Swing Low, Sweet Chariot with gusto and only minimal tuning.

Harry stood up and turned to face us. “Right, you lot—match kicks off at three. Meet back here straight after or you’ll be finding your own way home. Any questions?”

Tim raised a hand. “Will there be time to visit the England Rugby Shop?”

“Only if you can sprint faster than you talk,” Johan muttered, earning a snort from Marlin.

Twickenham was a sea of dark overcoats, flat caps, trilbies, and the occasional tartan Tam o’ Shanter bobbing above the crowd. The air was sharp with the smell of damp wool, cigarette smoke, and fried onions drifting from the food stalls outside. Programmes flapped in gloved hands, the ink smudging in the cold, and someone nearby nursed a battered hip flask with all the discretion of a man who didn’t care who saw.

Tim had steered Petra through the crush to a gap near the railing, close enough to see the steam rising from the players as they lined up for the anthems. Flower of Scotland came first, the Scots—dressed in kilts, some with heavy woollen jumpers and tartan scarves looped twice against the chill, and the odd set of bagpipes in various states of legality—belting it out like they were charging Culloden all over again. Then God Save the Queen rolled over the stands, nearly lifting the roof clean off. Marlin nudged Johan and whispered something about tribal warfare. He grinned, eyes already alight with anticipation.

Petra’s eyes swept over the stands, the flags, the noise, the whole dizzying spectacle. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said, raising her voice above the din.

Tim grinned. “It’s something, isn’t it? First time I came here, I was about ten. Sat so high up I could barely see the ball, but I swore I’d play here one day.”

“And did you?” she asked.

“Not yet,” he admitted, “but I’ve scored at St Albans. Which is practically Twickenham—if you squint.”

She laughed, and the sound somehow cut through the wall of noise. Tim leaned on the railing, just close enough to catch the faint trace of her perfume under the crisp spring air.

“You know,” he said after a moment, “I’m glad you came over for Easter. Wasn’t sure I’d get to see you again after last Easter.”

“I wasn’t sure either,” she said softly. “But… I’m glad, too.”

The whistle blew for kick-off, the game bursting into life. The crowd roared, stamping their feet to keep warm, and somewhere behind them a seller shouted, “Peanuts, tanner a bag!”

Tim tilted his head toward her. “When this is over, I’m buying you a hot chocolate. My treat.”

“Hot chocolate?” she teased. “I thought rugby was all about beer.”

“Beer’s for celebrating,” he said. “Hot chocolate’s for making a good day even better.”

Petra smiled at that. And when they left their spot a few minutes later to find the seats, her hand slipped into his without either of them needing to think about it.

We roared like lunatics, swept up in it all. Petra clapped with polite encouragement, Tim went feral with every English try, and I glanced sideways at Vinka to find her wide-eyed and gripping my hand like we were on a rollercoaster. Johan and Marlin sat forward, dissecting every scrum like a pair of tactical generals.

By halftime, England were up 14–7, and the mood was positively euphoric. The crowd hummed with giddy chatter, beer sloshed in plastic cups, and vendors wove between rows like battlefield medics offering sustenance. I shared a pie with Vinka, who declared it “oddly delicious” and “probably illegal in Sweden.”

Then came the second half—and the fireworks.

England unleashed a backline move so slick it should’ve come with a seatbelt. The fly-half dummied left, popped right, and suddenly the winger was galloping down the touchline with nothing but daylight and disbelief ahead of him. He scored under the posts, and the stadium detonated. 19 7.

The Scots tried to claw back into it with sheer grit and glorious stubbornness, but England had them on the ropes. The final nail came in the form of a rampaging Number Eight who burst through three tacklers like a man late for last orders and dived over for the fourth try. The scoreboard lit up: 27 14. Game, set, and tartan tears.

We sang, we cheered, we clapped till our palms ached. And when the final whistle blew, we stood as one—red-faced, hoarse-throated, and absolutely knackered.

As the crowd spilled out onto Whitton Road like a post-battle exodus, Harry grinned and muttered, “That, lads and lasses… was rugby.”

Tim puffed out his chest. “England’s finest hour.”

Petra laughed. “Until the next one.”

I slipped my arm through Stephen's and said, “I didn’t understand all the rules… but that was brilliant.”

The coach rumbled out of London in the fading light, the windows fogged from the mix of damp coats and post-match chatter. Tim and Petra sat together halfway down, the buzz of the day still hanging between them like a shared secret. She leaned her head against the window, watching the streetlamps blur into streaks of gold, while Tim quietly slipped a packet of barley sugars from his pocket and offered her one without a word. She took it, their fingers brushing for just a moment longer than necessary, and the smile they exchanged said more than either was ready to put into words. Behind them, Marlin and Johan were pretending not to notice—though from the smirks on their faces, they’d noticed everything.

By the time the coach rolled into Hitchin, the streets were quiet under the amber glow of the lamps, shop windows dark and shuttered. The group clambered off, stretching their legs after the long ride. Stephen and I walked ahead, arm in arm, our heads close together, while Johan and Marlin strolled just behind in the same easy rhythm, still chuckling over something from the journey.

Inside Johan’s house, we lingered in the front room, taking our time with goodnights. Stephen and I were tucked into one corner of the sofa, Johan and Marlin in the other, conversation slowing into the comfortable pauses of people reluctant to part. Eventually, with a few final squeezes of hands and murmured promises to see each other in the morning, Stephen and Johan went next door I was in Johan's room, Marlin was in Tim's old room.

At the Heales’, Tim and Petra were in the front room, sitting close together on the sofa, still chatting about the match and the trip back from London. The fire had burned low, filling the room with a gentle warmth that made the space feel smaller, more private. Phoebe and Susan had already gone to bed, and in their room a neatly made put-me-up was ready for Petra.

Stephen and Tim’s room was prepared too, though Johan would be taking the other put-me-up in there for the night. After a few more minutes of quiet talk in the living room, Tim stood and offered Petra a hand up, walking her to the bottom of the stairs. “Sleep well,” he said with a grin that gave away how much he’d enjoyed the evening.

Later, as the house settled into silence, Tim lay in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint creak of the floorboards as Petra moved about in the room next door, and smiled into the dark.

The morning after our Twickenham pilgrimage, Johan and I found ourselves back on more familiar turf—Hitchin Rugby Club, our muddy second home. The air was sharp, with that earthy smell only wet grass and last night’s rain can produce, and the pitch looked gloriously terrible—churned up in places, stubbornly boggy in others. Perfect conditions for a running game, we told ourselves with misplaced confidence.

We’d both slept like kings and woken up with the kind of buzz usually reserved for Christmas morning. Over breakfast at mine, there was the usual friendly chaos—Mum fussing with the toast rack, Petra politely declining a third helping, and Tim clearing plates like he had somewhere to be. Turned out, he did. Our side were a man short, and Tim had been roped in to fill the gap. He tried to act modest about it, but there was a gleam in his eye that said he fancied making an impression—especially with Petra in the crowd.

The gang all came along—Vinka, Marlin, Petra, and Tim before he swapped scarf for boots—leaning on the white fence rails like loyal fans at a village cup final. I swear Vinka’s red hat—the one she’d knitted me two years back—was perched proudly atop her blonde curls. With Tim on the pitch alongside us, there was a new spark to the line-up, and the girls were in for a treat.

From the first whistle, we were on fire.

From the first whistle, it was clear this was going to be one of those games—the kind where everything clicks. We started with Tim at scrum-half, barking orders like he’d been born with the confidence of a Sergeant on parade, feeding quick, sharp ball out to me at fly-half. Johan, sitting deep at fullback, was reading the opposition’s kicks like he’d written their playbook.

It didn’t take long for the first crack to open. From a scrum just inside their half, Tim whipped the ball out to me, I sold a dummy to their inside centre, and slipped Johan into the line. He burst through a gap and carved them apart, touching down under the posts like it was nothing.

Next play, we decided to stir the pot. Tim shifted to fly-half, me to fullback, and Johan stepped up at scrum-half. The other team clearly didn’t know who was coming at them next—Johan fizzed a pass off his left hand, I hit the line from deep, and Tim looped around to take the return ball before dancing through their defence for his first try.

The girls on the fence were loving it—Vinka cheering, Marlin giving a running commentary, and Petra watching Tim with an expression that made me suspect she’d already written the try into her diary.

We switched again after the break—this time me at scrum-half, Tim at fullback, and Johan at fly-half. The confusion was delicious. Johan chipped over the defence, I gathered, and popped it to Tim on the burst. Another try. Minutes later, Johan dummied, stepped, and went himself for his second of the day.

By the time the final whistle blew, we’d run them ragged. Between us, we’d scored more points than was polite, and the scoreboard looked like we’d brought a Twickenham-sized crowd’s worth of firepower to a village pitch.

As we jogged off, plastered in mud from head to toe, the girls cheered like we’d just won the county championship. I caught Vinka’s eye, and she gave me a grin that said I might just get away with calling this “Twickenham magic.”

Inside the clubhouse, the change from pitch to changing room was like stepping into another world—steam rising from the showers, the air thick with the smell of hot water, Deep Heat, and the sort of socks you wouldn’t hang indoors. Boots clattered against the tiled floor as we stripped off our mud-caked kit, laughing and re-living every try as though we’d scored them in front of fifty thousand, not fifty.

Tim was grinning like a man who’d just got away with robbing a bank. “That last switch—me at fullback, Johan at fly—genius,” he said, tossing his scrum cap onto the bench.

“You at fullback?” I snorted. “You were practically on their try line the whole time.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Aggressive defence.”

We were still chuckling when the coach appeared in the doorway, arms folded but with the faintest twitch of a smile. “Right, you three—word.”

We exchanged looks and followed him into the corridor. He gave us the once-over, as though checking we hadn’t secretly pinched the Webb Ellis Cup.

“Just had a chat with their coach,” he said. “Apparently, your constant position swapping drove them spare. Couldn’t work out who was where, who was running what line… He reckons you were making it up as you went along.”

“Were we?” Johan asked innocently.

The coach’s mouth twitched again. “If you were, don’t stop. That was the best I’ve seen this side play all season. Fast, unpredictable, hard to defend. You three made them look like they were running in treacle. Well done.”

We grinned like schoolboys who’d just been told they were getting the rest of the day off, and by the time we headed back to the changing room, the glow from that little speech felt as good as any try.

We were still chuckling about the coach’s parting words when Johan and I hit the showers like conquering heroes—mud streaked, bruised, and grinning like we’d just discovered beer was free for life. The water was lukewarm at best, but after eighty minutes of sliding through what looked suspiciously like a cow pasture, it felt like a spa treatment. We scrubbed off the war paint, chucked on crisp shirts and ties, then shrugged into our club blazers—crease-free and smelling faintly of ambition and mothballs. First proper game the girls had seen us play, and we weren’t about to shuffle into lunch looking like scruffy extras from Zulu.

Inside, the post-match atmosphere had all the noise and bustle of a BBC sports drama. Steam curled up from paper cups of Bovril, boots clattered on the tiles, and somewhere a man was giving a blow-by-blow account of his try from three seasons ago. Roast dinners were being dished out in heroic proportions.

The girls had claimed a big booth under the team honours board with all the swagger of seasoned rugby widows—scarves off, cheeks flushed, and smiles that made the morning’s efforts feel worth every bruise. Vinka and Marlin sat on one side, Petra between them; we three mud-free heroes slid in opposite.

As soon as we sat down, the praise started.

“You three were magnificent out there,” I said, leaning forward with a grin.

“And confusing as anything,” Marlin added. “One minute you’re at scrum-half, Stephen’s at fullback, Johan’s at fly-half, and the next—poof!—all swapped again. I thought I was watching a magic trick.”

Petra smiled across the table at Tim. “You didn’t look like a last-minute stand-in to me.”

Tim smirked. “That’s because I make it up as I go along.”

Before we could get stuck into the roast beef, a couple of the lads wandered over from the bar. “Cracking game, boys,” one said, clapping Johan on the shoulder. His eyes flicked to our side of the table. “And… if you don’t mind me asking, who are these lovely ladies?”

I answered first, deadpan: “We’re the reason they played so well today.”

Marlin grinned. “Motivation in human form.”

Petra added, with mock solemnity, “Official supporters’ club, Hitchin branch.”

That got a laugh, and another teammate leaned in. “Any chance the supporters’ club is taking new members?”

“Not unless you can swap positions mid-match without looking like you’ve lost your mind,” I cut in, and that got an even bigger laugh. The lads offered one more round of congratulations before heading off, throwing a few backward glances that told me our visitors had made quite the impression.

Somewhere in the middle of the compliments, a game of footsie started—quiet at first, just a nudge here and there. But with all the legs under the table, it quickly descended into chaos. I got a kick I was sure was meant for Tim, Tim yelped at what must have been Vinka’s boot, and Johan accused Marlin of tactical interference. Laughter erupted, drawing a curious glance from the table next to us.

Lunch—roast beef, lumpy gravy, and mash that could glue floorboards—was eaten between fits of giggles and the occasional suspicious shuffle of knees under the table. By the end, none of us was entirely sure whose foot had been where, but we were certain of one thing: it had been one of the best games—and best lunches—we’d ever had.

I raised my lemonade. “To Hitchin… and to our lucky charm.”

Johan clinked his glass against mine. “And to the finest supporters in Hertfordshire.”

Across from me, Vinka’s grin met mine over the rim of her glass, her toe finding my ankle again under the table, just to prove the game wasn’t over yet.

By the time we rolled out of the clubhouse, the low sun was turning Hitchin’s brickwork gold and the air had that crisp, early-evening bite. The three of us walked like men who’d just gone twelve rounds with a ploughed field—stiff-legged, shoulders sore, and boots slung over one shoulder.

Out on the pavement, Petra slipped her arm through Tim’s without a word, an easy, natural move that caught him slightly off guard but left a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. A few steps later, her head rested briefly against his shoulder, just long enough for him to notice how right it felt.

Stephen and I took the lead, arms linked, talking in low voices that drifted between English and Swedish like a private code. Every so often, a laugh rang back toward us, bright against the quiet streets.

A little behind them, Johan and Marlin moved at their own pace, her hand hooked into his elbow. She was still ribbing him about that outrageous sidestep in the second half, and he was insisting—without shame—that it had been pure tactical genius.

Tim and Petra brought up the rear, their steps falling into a slow, easy rhythm. Every so often, Petra’s arm tightened slightly around his, or her head found his shoulder again, and each time Tim’s grin got a fraction wider. Their conversation drifted from the match to Twickenham to half-made plans for “next time.”

By the time we reached Johan’s street, the lamps were flickering on and the cold had started to creep back in. But Petra still hadn’t let go, and Tim wasn’t about to be the one to break the spell.

Outside Johan’s front door, the pace slowed to a shuffle. Stephen and I were still deep in conversation, their words slipping into comfortable silences, while Johan and Marlin lingered with smiles and half-finished sentences that neither seemed in a hurry to complete.

Petra still had her arm through Tim’s, standing a little closer than she needed to, and he wasn’t complaining. Eventually, Stephen gave a half-hearted cough. “If we stand here any longer, the neighbours’ll start charging admission.”

That broke the spell just enough for us to finally say our goodnights. I gave Tim a cheeky, “Don’t keep her up too late,” which earned a mock glare from Petra. Marlin and I slipped inside, the door closing softly behind us, and Stephen and Johan crossed the path to the Heales’.

When they stepped into the front room, they found Tim and Petra curled up together on the sofa, fast asleep. Petra’s head rested against Tim’s chest, his arm draped protectively around her shoulders. The glow from the banked fire threw soft shadows across the room, making them look like they’d been carved out of the moment itself.

I paused in the doorway, grinning. “Well, looks like the supporters’ club is off duty.”

Johan smirked. “Should we wake ’em or get ’em a blanket?”

I chuckled. “Blanket. Mum’ll be down here in the morning with the toast rack otherwise.”

Johan fetched one from the hall cupboard, and we draped it gently over the pair before heading upstairs to my room, leaving Tim and Petra undisturbed in the quiet glow of the fire.

Morning crept into our kitchen with the smell of frying bacon and the clatter of Mum setting the table. Johan and I stumbled in first, still walking like men who’d wrestled a muddy pitch into submission. Mum handed us both mugs of tea without a word, just the way we liked it.

“Where’s Tim?” she asked, glancing toward the ceiling.

Johan smirked over his tea. “Downstairs. Or at least he was when we went to bed.”

Right on cue, the door to the hall swung open and in shuffled Tim, hair sticking up at improbable angles, followed by Petra looking far more composed but with a faint blush creeping up her cheeks.

Mum raised an eyebrow. “Sleep well, you two?”

“We… uh… fell asleep in the front room,” Tim said quickly, scratching the back of his neck.

“Cuddled up like a pair of kittens in front of the fire,” Johan added helpfully, earning a glare from Tim and a suppressed laugh from me.

Vinka and Marlin chose that moment to appear at the back door, both wearing the kind of grins that said they’d already been filled in. “Aww,” Marlin cooed, “the sofa—how romantic.”

Petra, to her credit, didn’t flinch. She slid into the chair beside Tim and said sweetly, “It was very warm and comfortable, thank you.” Then, with a sidelong glance at him, “Some of us even managed not to snore.”

That got the whole table laughing—except Tim, who muttered something about “selective memory” into his toast.

Breakfast carried on with the usual chaos—eggs, toast racks, someone passing the jam the wrong way—and beneath the chatter, Tim and Petra kept exchanging quick glances, the sort that said the teasing was worth it for the moment they’d had.

Just when we thought Harry had emptied his hat of surprises, he produced another—this time, tickets to The Mousetrap at The Ambassador Theatre. Clearly, the man was on a one-man mission to cram in as much British culture as possible before we all scattered back to school timetables, military drills, and, in the Swedes’ case, whatever mysterious things they did in their spare time. (We suspected it involved skiing uphill, preferably in the dark, while sipping hot lingonberry juice and pretending to enjoy it.)

We were to attend in style, naturally. The memo had gone out: smart dress. And so it was that, for the second time in as many days, we set off toward the depot looking like a very polite rugby team going to a wedding. We wore our rugby blazers, ties perfectly knotted, shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. The girls had gone for wool coats and handbags, each linked arm in arm with her escort.

Uncle Harry walked proudly with aunt Ingrid, Papa with Mama, Stephen with me, Johan with Marlin, and Tim—of course—with Petra on his arm. The pairs moved in easy step along the lamplit streets, talking quietly, laughing now and then, their breath misting in the crisp evening air. Someone—either uncle Harry or papa, though neither would own up—had brought a flask of something strong to take the edge off the chill, and it made its way down the line with just enough discretion to keep up appearances.

The coach was already waiting for us when we reached the depot, engine humming, windows misted at the edges. Naturally, we boarded in the same pairs we’d arrived in. “Window seat’s yours,” Tim said as they reached their row, stepping aside with mock gallantry. Petra smiled, settling in before he dropped into the seat beside her, looking entirely at home. Her arm found his without a second thought, as if it belonged there.

They were still laughing quietly between themselves when the rest of us settled in. Stephen and I took our usual spot at the back—by now a firmly established tradition—and I wasn’t about to complain. From there, we could watch the whole coach play out: Uncle Harry pouring a discreet nip for Papa aunt Ingrid passing around boiled sweets, and Tim leaning in close to say something that made Petra’s eyes sparkle in the dim light. The coach eased away from the depot with a hiss of brakes, settling into that steady rumble that made conversation feel like a private thing, even with a dozen people around you. Street lamps slid past in golden blurs, and the air inside grew warm enough for coats to be unbuttoned and scarves loosened.

Up front, uncle Harry and papa had claimed the prime seats for flask duty, quietly passing it back and forth under the cover of a folded programme. Aunt Ingrid, catching them in the act, merely rolled her eyes and offered them a mint to cover their tracks.

A few rows back, Tim and Petra were in their own world. “So,” he said, “do I need to brief you on The Mousetrap, or are you the sort who likes to be surprised?”

“Surprised,” she replied, “but I do expect my ice cream at the interval. And if there’s a twist ending, you’re not allowed to guess it out loud.”

“Fine,” Tim grinned, “but if I’m right, I’m taking full credit.”

Behind them, Johan and Marlin were trading guesses about the plot—none of which were remotely plausible—while Stephen and I, in our usual back-row territory, settled in shoulder to shoulder. “Feels like a date,” he murmured, and I couldn’t argue.

As the coach joined the main road to London, conversation ebbed and flowed: Marlin trying to convince Johan that there’d definitely be a sword fight, Petra telling Tim she’d never been to the West End before, uncle Harry sharing a half-remembered anecdote about seeing Olivier on stage in his youth. Outside, the glow of shopfronts gave way to the darker stretches of countryside, the city lights still a promise on the horizon.

By the time the skyline began to loom through the front windows, the whole coach had taken on that low, buzzing anticipation you only get when you know you’re heading somewhere special.

The run into London was smoother than we’d dared hope—down the A1, a polite crawl along the North Circular (which, true to form, was neither especially circular nor remotely swift), and then, at last, the glowing haze of the West End. The city had that post-rain shimmer about it—car lights gliding over slick tarmac, Christmas decorations still clinging to the fronts of old stone buildings, and black cabs darting like determined beetles between theatre-goers and late-night revellers.

From the back row, I nudged Stephen and nodded toward the window. “Feels like a film set,” I murmured. Up ahead, Petra was leaning into Tim to point out the bright sweep of Piccadilly Circus, her gloved hand briefly resting on his arm, while Johan and Marlin sat close enough that their conversation looked like it was being kept under official secrecy.

The Ambassadors Theatre appeared just off Charing Cross Road—a little jewel box of a place, its name picked out in red and gold against the damp, dark brick, glowing like something from a storybook. Couples strolled toward the entrance, umbrellas dripping, ticket stubs in hand.

Inside, the air was warm and carried the mingled scents of polished wood, heavy velvet curtains, and that faint, electric perfume of anticipation. It was the sort of place that seemed to hold its history in the walls—you could almost feel the ghosts of past performances lingering in the stalls, their applause still faintly echoing. Everyone spoke in that hushed theatre tone, as if raising your voice might somehow break the spell.

We took our seats—stalls, row H—with uncle Harry overseeing us like a proud headmaster on a school outing, making sure everyone was settled before taking his own place at the end of the row. The plush red seats seemed to swallow us in comfort, and as the house lights dipped to a soft glow and then to darkness, the chatter around us melted into a collective hush.

Then it began.

The Mousetrap was everything we’d hoped for—clever, tense, gorgeously British, and stuffed to the rafters with red herrings. Marlin kept up a running whisper in Johan’s ear, equal parts commentary and speculation, gasping at all the wrong moments and hiding behind her programme for dramatic effect. Petra leaned forward, eyes wide with concentration, occasionally glancing at Tim as if to check he wasn’t giving anything away. Tim, for his part, tried valiantly not to murmur spoilers from memory, though the occasional twitch of his mouth betrayed he was dying to say, “I told you so.” mama and papa exchanged the amused glances of people revisiting an old favourite, while uncle Harry sat back in his seat looking thoroughly chuffed with himself, the very picture of a man who’d planned the perfect evening.

The curtain fell for the interval to the sound of polite applause, and the stalls came alive with the soft shuffle of people stretching their legs. Uncle Harry stood first, declaring, “Right—ice creams all round!” like a benevolent theatre general.

Tim was up in an instant, turning to Petra with mock solemnity. “Your promised interval ice cream, madam. Flavour preference?”

“Vanilla,” she said, “and if it’s anything less than perfect, I’m sending it back.”

“High stakes,” Tim grinned. “Better make it two, in case the first one fails quality control.”

I leaned across from our row. “Oh, is this the famous ice cream bribe you used to get her here?”

“Worked, didn’t it?” Tim shot back, already heading for the queue.

Marlin, watching him go, stage-whispered to Petra, “Careful—next he’ll be promising you chocolates during Hamlet.”

Petra just smiled, that knowing little smile that said she wasn’t about to give away how much she was enjoying herself.

Tim returned triumphant, handing Petra her cone with an exaggerated bow. “Your finest vanilla, m’lady.”

She took a slow, deliberate bite. “Acceptable,” she pronounced. “But presentation could be improved.”

That set Johan off. “What’s he supposed to do—juggle it on the way back?”

“Would’ve been worth the ticket price alone,” I said.

The teasing carried on all the way until the bell sounded for the second act, Tim narrowly avoiding losing the last of his ice cream when Petra “accidentally” bumped his elbow.

I, meanwhile, sat next to Stephen, who clutched my hand at every suspicious footstep or suspiciously-angled light cue.

“It’s always the quiet ones,” he whispered at one point.

“It’s always the one you least suspect,” I countered.

“Well, I suspect everyone,” he replied, firmly.

When Sgt Trotter delivered the final reveal and made the classic plea not to share the identity of the killer, we all nodded solemnly like model citizens of the theatre-going world… and then immediately broke into wildly incorrect theories the moment we spilled into the foyer.

“I knew it was the one with the funny eyebrows,” Tim announced confidently.

“No you didn’t,” Petra teased. “You thought it was the maid.”

“I said she looked shifty. That’s different.”

“I thought it was the mouse,” Johan deadpanned, and Marlin promptly snorted her tea all over the steps.

The walk back to the coach was full of chatter, laughter, and more theories than an Agatha Christie fan club after too much sherry. We’d all promised not to give the ending away—and promptly invented half a dozen fake ones just for fun. my version involved espionage, Swedish royalty, and a poisoned fig roll.

“I’d watch that,” Stephen said, grinning.

By the time we climbed aboard the coach, the night air had put colour in everyone’s cheeks and a bit of mischief in their eyes. The streetlights of the West End flashed past the windows as we pulled away, leaving the glow of the Ambassadors behind.

The first ten minutes were nothing but competing fake endings. Uncle Harry suggested the killer was the theatre cat, aunt Ingrid claimed it was a twin no one had noticed, and papa went for the bold “they were all in on it” twist. Petra declared herself the winner with a completely fabricated subplot involving the Scotland Yard cricket team and a missing fruitcake.

Tim, however, refused to let go of his “funny eyebrows” theory, despite Petra poking holes in it every other sentence. “I’m telling you,” he insisted, “those eyebrows could kill a man.”

From the back row, Stephen and I leaned into each other, watching the whole scene unfold like we were in the middle of some travelling theatre troupe of our own. Johan and Marlin were doubled over laughing at their own invented ending, which involved a wardrobe, three buckets of paint, and the accidental demise of a tax inspector.

The hum of the coach and the comfort of the warm air soon mellowed the noise into pockets of quieter conversation—Tim and Petra speaking in low voices up ahead, Johan and Marlin still chuckling over their plot twist, and uncle Harry contentedly sipping from the flask one last time. Outside, the city lights gave way to darkened fields, the odd farmhouse lamp glowing like a beacon in the black.

By the time the depot came into view, the fake theories had been exhausted, but the smiles lingered. We might have left the theatre behind, but the sense of shared mischief was still very much in the air.

Johan and I took Marlin and Vinka—and now Tim and Petra—up to London for what we cheerfully dubbed the ultimate tourist experience. We’d decided to do it properly: the boys in their rugby blazers, ties neat, shoes polished to within an inch of their lives; the girls in beautiful dresses under smart overcoats, each one looking like she’d stepped straight out of a fashion plate. In truth, it was something more—a chance to play host, to impress, and, if we were honest, to steal a little time with the girls away from the usual crowd.

We started at Buckingham Palace, arriving just in time for the Changing of the Guard. The soldiers stood so rigid and serious you’d think they’d been scolded that morning for smiling at tourists. Vinka, eyes sparkling, tried to make one crack with a perfectly timed wink. He didn’t budge, of course, but I could’ve sworn his eyebrow twitched. She slid her arm through mine with a little laugh, and in that moment I wasn’t looking at royalty—I was looking at her, utterly enchanted.

A little way off, Tim and Petra were close, his hand lightly resting over hers where their arms met. “Bet he’s dying to sneeze,” Tim murmured, nodding toward the nearest guard. Petra smiled. “Bet you wouldn’t last five minutes up there.”

Tim grinned. “True. I’d wave at everyone and get court-martialled before lunch.” She laughed and, for a moment, rested her head against his shoulder. That got a few knowing looks from me and Johan, which Tim pretended not to see.

Next came the Tower of London, where Johan and Marlin took a keen interest in the Crown Jewels—though for slightly different reasons. While Marlin admired the history and grandeur, Johan leaned over and whispered that he fancied borrowing a sceptre “just for the weekend—might help with getting served at the pub.” She giggled and called him “Your Royal Daftness,” and the two of them wandered ahead, hands brushing as they walked.

Tim and Petra lingered near the coronation crowns. “Think one of these would suit me?” Tim asked, tilting his head as if trying one on in his imagination. Petra raised an eyebrow. “Only if you promise not to wear it with your rugby kit.”

Johan called back, “You’d still drop it in the mud, mate!” which set all six of us laughing until a Beefeater gave us the sort of look that suggested we were not the first to be found amusing ourselves in the Jewel House.

In the afternoon, we did the only sensible thing—treated everyone to a proper English tea at Lyon’s Corner House in Piccadilly. The place was a wonderland of starched linen, polished cutlery, and piano music drifting gently over the clink of teacups. We tucked into finger sandwiches, delicate cream cakes, and pots of tea that seemed to refill themselves.

Vinka carefully lifted her cup with pinky out, eyes twinkling as she whispered, “Am I doing this right?” I leaned in and said, “Perfectly. Except you’ve got jam on your nose.” She reached for a napkin, laughing, and I could’ve bottled that sound—light, honest, and entirely hers.

At the far end of the table, Tim cut a piece of Battenberg in half and offered it to Petra. “You’ve got to try this—it’s like cake and geometry had a baby.” She took a bite, shook her head, and said, “You’re ridiculous.” He leaned closer, dropping his voice just for her. “And yet… you keep holding my hand.” Her cheeks coloured, but she didn’t let go.

By the time the cake plates were cleared, the teasing was in full swing. Marlin suggested Tim would make an excellent Beefeater “if they lowered the height requirement and allowed rugby blazers,” while Vinka claimed Johan would only agree to guard the Crown Jewels if they came with a kettle and a supply of custard creams.

It was the sort of afternoon that imprints itself quietly in your memory—not grand or dramatic, but golden. A shared smile. A brush of hands passing the sugar. The warmth of knowing you were exactly where you wanted to be.

Years later, Lyon’s Corner Houses would vanish from London’s streets, closing for good in 1977. A tragic loss, yes—for the tea industry, for weary tourists… but for us, it would always be there, frozen in time, wrapped in the soft light of that day.

We arrived home late, six weary wanderers, sugar-happy, footsore, and filled with more than just culture.

The train ride home was a slow, swaying lullaby of clattering wheels and muffled chatter. We found a block of seats together, coats piled in the luggage rack, scarves draped over shoulders like trophies from the day.

I tucked myself under his arm, my head resting against his chest, eyes half-closed but still sparkling whenever I murmured something in his ear. Across from us, Johan had his arm draped around Marlin, who was happily recounting her favourite part of the day—though by the third retelling it had somehow turned into a story about Johan fending off jewel thieves single-handed.

Tim and Petra were practically welded together on the opposite side, her head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns on the back of her hand. Every so often he’d whisper something that made her laugh softly, the kind of laugh that’s just for the two of them.

At one point, Johan leaned forward and asked, “So, Tim, you going to guard the Crown Jewels or just keep holding Petra’s hand all day?” Tim grinned without missing a beat. “Why not both?”

We shared sandwiches from a paper bag—slightly squashed but still excellent—and someone produced a bar of chocolate that vanished suspiciously fast. Outside, the darkness slipped by in streaks of orange lamplight and silver rail reflections, London fading behind us.

By the time we pulled into Hitchin, the carriage was quieter. I stirred and smiled up at him; Marlin was pretending not to nap on Johan’s shoulder; and Tim and Petra looked like they could have stayed in that seat all night. We stepped out onto the cool platform together, six slightly rumpled but happy travellers, the day already turning into one of those shared stories we’d tell for years.

While the rest of us were still basking in the glow of yesterday’s London adventure—and, in some cases, sleeping it off—Tim and Petra were up early, arriving together at the local Sea Cadet HQ.

Petra knew a few of the girls from a previous visit, and the moment she stepped through the door she was greeted like a returning celebrity—hugs, chatter, and the kind of rapid-fire Swedish-English mix that made Tim look mildly bewildered but secretly pleased just to be there.

The unit’s “spring clean” was the sort of task most people dodged with sudden urgent appointments, but Petra was in her element. Within minutes she had her coat off, a clipboard in hand, and was directing traffic like a quartermaster who’d been given full operational control of the British Fleet. Tim—dressed in jeans, a borrowed fleece, and his usual blend of misplaced confidence and accidental charm—quickly found himself drafted into the role of pack mule.

They made quite the double act. Petra sorted, labelled, and stacked with military precision; Tim fetched, carried, and occasionally guessed what something was before being politely corrected. She reunited with old friends over boxes of tangled ropes, swapping stories as she coiled lines like a pro, while Tim learned—very slowly—the difference between a groundsheet and a tarpaulin.

At tea break, the pair sat side by side on an upturned ammo box, sipping enamel mugs of tea while a knot of cadets argued over the “right” way to store tent pegs.

“You seem popular,” Tim said, watching Petra laugh with one of her old friends.

She shrugged. “It’s easy when you’ve cleaned half their kit room before.”

He grinned. “And here I thought you just dragged me along for my charm.”

Petra smirked. “I did. But it turns out you’re surprisingly handy at carrying things when pointed in the right direction.”

By the time they’d finished, the HQ looked ready for inspection. Petra’s hands were faintly blistered, Tim’s shirt bore a proud smear of Brasso, and both of them were grinning.

That’s how we found them when the rest of us finally wandered in mid-afternoon—Stephen and I arm in arm, Johan and Marlin looking like they’d just come from a slow meander through the village.

“Well, look at this,” Johan said, surveying the spotless HQ. “All this time, I thought Tim was allergic to manual labour.”

“Turns out he just needed the right motivation,” Marlin teased, glancing at Petra.

Tim tried to look modest. Petra didn’t help him. “He’s actually very good at carrying things,” she said with mock solemnity. “Especially when I point at them.”

“Sounds like your normal life then,” I said.

The rest of the afternoon was spent with mugs of tea, swapping London stories for HQ gossip. By the time we headed out, the Sea Cadets were waving Petra off like a visiting dignitary, and Tim—well, Tim looked like he’d just discovered that logistics could be fun, provided Petra was in charge.

Later that night, the house was winding down. Shoes were kicked off, blankets claimed, and the last cups of tea sipped in that easy, contented silence that follows a good day. A radio in the corner murmured soft late-night music, its gentle notes mingling with the steady tick of the old hallway clock.

Petra stretched, arms above her head, a small sigh escaping. “Bins are overflowing again,” she muttered.

From his sprawl in the armchair, Tim perked up immediately. “I’ll give you a hand.”

She arched a brow. “You sure? It’s freezing out there.”

Tim shrugged into his jacket. “What can I say? I’m drawn to danger. Especially the bin-related kind.”

Outside, the night was sharp and clear, the stars strewn thick across the sky. The house glowed warmly behind them, its windows spilling amber light into the darkness, muffled voices still drifting out.

They walked down the gravel path, bin bags swinging, the faint scent of woodsmoke curling in the air. Somewhere off in the distance, an owl hooted.

“You didn’t have to come,” Petra said, bumping him lightly with her shoulder. “I can face the dustbins alone.”

“I know,” Tim said. “But then I’d miss your world-famous bin sorting system.”

She grinned. “You wouldn’t want to anger the compost gods.”

At the bins, they stopped for a moment. The cold air wrapped around them, their breath curling white between them.

“You were good today,” Petra said suddenly.

Tim smirked. “At bin handling or Brasso buffing?”

“Both,” she teased, then her voice softened. “But really… you didn’t have to help. You chose to. And the cadets liked you. Actually—” she hesitated—“one of them already knew you.”

Tim blinked. “Knew me?”

“She said you rescued her from a bully years ago. At school.”

The air seemed to still between them. “Oh… I remember.”

Petra’s gaze urged him on.

“She was just a little thing back then,” Tim said slowly. “This lad was twice her size, had her cornered. I stepped in, told him to leave her alone. He didn’t like that much. Turned on me instead—followed me around for weeks, pushing, shoving, tripping me up in the playground. I took it until I couldn’t anymore.” He gave a short laugh, but there was no humour in it. “One day I’d had enough. Dropped him with a right hook—straight into the pond. Got six of the best for it. That was… sort of the beginning of me going off school altogether.”

Petra’s hand found his. “She’s never forgotten it, Tim. You were her hero that day. You still are.”

He swallowed, his voice quiet. “Didn’t think anyone even noticed.”

“I notice,” she said, eyes steady on his.

Something shifted in the space between them then—an unspoken agreement, a pull that neither of them resisted. Tim stepped closer, his hands settling gently at her waist. Petra slid her arms up around his neck, the cool night forgotten as the warmth between them closed the gap.

Under the silver light of the moon, he kissed her—slow, certain, and deep. It was no quick peck, no fleeting moment, but a long, lingering embrace, the kind that says this matters. Her fingers tightened against the back of his neck; his hands drew her in until there was no space left.

When they finally parted, foreheads resting together, Petra’s voice was barely a whisper. “Last night.”

Tim’s lips brushed hers again. “Best night ever.”

A flicker of movement in the glow of the kitchen window caught Petra’s eye—Johan’s grinning face, framed in glass, tapping the pane and mouthing something that looked suspiciously like About time.

Petra groaned softly against Tim’s chest. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”

Tim chuckled, still holding her close. “Worth it though.”

Morning crept in gently, the pale light catching on the frost still clinging to the hedges. The house stirred slowly—muffled footsteps upstairs, the hiss of the kettle, and the rustle of bags being zipped for the last time. Nobody said it out loud, but we all knew what today was: goodbye day.

Tim and Petra came down together, still carrying that quiet glow from the night before. Petra had her coat folded over her arm, hair slightly tousled, cheeks warm with colour. Tim stayed close beside her, as though he wasn’t quite ready to let that space open up again.

In the front room, Johan was already wrapped in his scarf, Marlin fastening the buttons on her coat while Vinka tried—without success—to wedge a tin of biscuits into her bag “for emergencies.” Outside, Erik’s green Volvo sat idling in the drive, Anna in the passenger seat with a flask of coffee and a bag of cinnamon buns for the road.

Harry and Ingrid stood on the doorstep, hands in pockets, watching the morning steam curl from the exhaust. They’d both made it their business to see Erik and Anna off properly, leaning in for warm embraces and a few words of thanks for the visit.

The goodbyes began in the hallway. Johan pulled Marlin in close, murmuring something in Swedish that made her smile even as her eyes shimmered. I wrapped Vinka in a hug, telling her not to forget about us while she was gallivanting back in Sweden.

Then came Tim and Petra. He held her close, the embrace lingering just a heartbeat longer than anyone else’s. “I’ll write,” he murmured.

“You’d better,” she replied, soft but firm. “And no one-word letters.”

He grinned faintly. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you more.” And then she kissed him—slow, certain, and full of feeling—before resting her forehead against his for a heartbeat longer.

Erik helped load the last bags into the boot, shutting it with a firm clunk. The girls bundled into the back seat, still waving as the Volvo rolled slowly down the lane. Tim’s eyes stayed on Petra until the bend in the road swallowed them from sight.

The five of us left on the doorstep lingered for a moment, watching the empty lane, our breath curling in the cold air. The warmth of the embraces—and the ache of parting—stayed with us as we headed back inside, the house suddenly feeling a size too big.

From the back seat of the Volvo, the boys on the doorstep grew smaller with each turn of the lane, but Petra kept looking back until they disappeared entirely. She settled into the middle seat between Vinka and Marlin, her gloved hands folded in her lap.

Vinka glanced over with a sly smile. “That was quite the goodbye, Petra.”

Marlin leaned in, her eyes dancing. “If you two get any closer, you’ll have to start sharing a postal address.”

Petra rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “We’ve… been writing for a while. And after these last few days… I don’t know, it feels different now. Like we’ve finally stopped dancing around it.”

Vinka gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Good. Tim’s a good one. Bit daft sometimes, but good.”

Petra laughed softly. “He told me last night he didn’t want the moment to end.”

Marlin grinned. “And you? What did you tell him?”

“That I’d miss him more,” Petra said quietly, the words almost lost under the hum of the tyres. Then she leaned her head back against the seat, a far-off look in her eyes, replaying that kiss on the driveway in her mind.

Up front, Anna caught Petra’s reflection in the rear-view mirror and gave her a knowing smile. Beside her, Erik kept his eyes on the road but muttered in Swedish, “If that boy hurts her, I’ll feed him to the pigs.”

Anna chuckled and replied, equally dry, “Then you’d better make sure the pigs are hungry.”

The girls in the back caught enough of the tone to guess what was said, and Petra shook her head with a laugh. “I think I just got unofficially engaged to Tim’s livestock.”

The car filled with warm laughter, the kind that made goodbyes hurt just a little less, and they settled into an easy silence as the ferry terminal came into view.

Back at school after the Easter break, Johan and I slipped straight back into gear, swapping sightseeing and sea cadets for textbooks and timetables. With exams looming like storm clouds, there was no room for dawdling—not if we wanted to keep our reputations intact.

So we buckled down, heads bowed over revision notes, past papers, and the occasional impromptu quiz while waiting for the kettle to boil. Between us, we’d developed a kind of unspoken rhythm—trading equations, essay plans, and sarcastic comments in equal measure. The others joked that we studied like soldiers preparing for battle: precise, relentless, and occasionally muttering in Latin.

To the delight of our teachers—and the barely disguised irritation of the rest of our year—we hovered near the top in most subjects. Maths, English, German, History—we even held our own in Physics, despite the department’s knack for setting questions that seemed to be written in code.

When report cards arrived, ours practically glowed. Johan’s was described as “methodical, mature, and capable of great leadership.” Mine earned the slightly less formal but no less pleasing “quick-witted, determined, and dangerously curious.”

Only one teacher dared to poke a hole in our academic armour—Madame Lefèvre, who added in her slanted blue ink: “Very good work, but could try smiling more in French.” We both miss Miss Higgins.

I showed it to Johan, who deadpanned, “Maybe she meant we should conjugate joyfully.”

We both resolved to practice our grins along with our irregular verbs.

We were no strangers to smart dress—after all, Grammar School blazers, polished shoes, and regulation ties had been our daily armour for years. But a wedding was a different league entirely, and our parents were determined we’d turn up looking like proper young gentlemen, not just two lads playing dress-up.

So, one Saturday morning, we found ourselves in Burton Men’s Outfitters, the undisputed temple of transformation for teenage boys on the cusp of adulthood. The place smelled faintly of mothballs, new wool, and quiet ambition. Under the approving gaze of the tailor, Johan and I stepped into our first proper suits—navy, sharp-cut, and lined with that smooth satin that made you want to strut just for the feel of it. Crisp white shirts, slim silk ties, polished shoes… and suddenly we weren’t schoolboys anymore.

We caught our reflections in the shop mirror and grinned. “Bond,” Johan said.

“James Bond,” I replied, adjusting my tie with a little too much flourish.

The real bonus? These suits weren’t just for the wedding. With a quick change of setting, they’d pass muster aboard ship when we set sail for the summer’s grand voyage. Double duty—formal enough for photographs, practical enough for the deck.

We left Burton’s with garment bags over our shoulders and an unspoken agreement: whatever the occasion, we were going to look the part… and maybe, just maybe, act it too.

The occasion? Our grand summer holiday to Sweden was drawing near—but first, there was the small matter of Sea Cadet camp to attend.

And what a week it was. Sailing around the Solent, we lived the dream. The sun was warm, the winds kind, and the water only occasionally icy when you fell in. We learned the ropes (literally), polished brasswork until we could see our reflections, and sang terrible sea shanties around the campfire with alarming sincerity.

The highlight? A textbook capsize during dinghy drills, in which Johan heroically attempted a mid-tack snack and ended up in the drink, capsizing the boat and disturbing a local seagull who took great personal offence. The bird spent the next half-hour circling us like a feathery vengeful spirit, squawking what we all assumed were legal threats in gull language.

Once dried, debriefed, and slightly sunburnt, we were declared seaworthy and returned home briefly to pack our trunks. Then, new suits pressed and passports in hand, we set off once again—this time to catch our ship to Sweden.

We must’ve looked quite the picture at the docks: smartly dressed, shoulders back, like proper young gentlemen of leisure, ready to cross the North Sea on a new adventure. Johan even had a folded newspaper under his arm, purely for effect, while I resisted the urge to nod at strangers like some extra out of The Avengers—all I needed was a bowler hat and a steel-tipped umbrella.

The real journey was about to begin.

“Tim tried to hide it, but we could see he was gutted—not making it to Sweden again this summer, thanks to a run-in at secondary school where he’d stepped in to protect a younger lad from a bully, only for the powers-that-be to pin the blame on him. It felt like missing the best party of the year… twice. Petra’s face fell at the news, though she quickly covered it with a smile, promising she’d write to him every week.”

Tim’s Letter to Petra

Älskling Petra,

Looks like I’m not coming to Sweden this summer. Don’t ask why—just one of those things.

I’m gutted, of course. Two years running now. I was really looking forward to seeing you, maybe finally getting that rugby rematch by the lake. Thought I might even win this time—though knowing you, I’d probably end up in the water again.

I’ll write, every week if I can. Save me a place at the table for next year. I’ll make it up to you.

Din bondepojke,

Tim

Petra’s Reply

My dearest Tim,

You tell me not to ask why—but you must know I want to. I can feel in your words there’s more to this than you’re saying, but I’ll respect your silence… for now.

It breaks my heart knowing you won’t be here. I keep thinking about our last night together and how it felt to be in your arms. The lake is already warm, and I can almost hear your laugh echoing over the water. That rugby rematch will have to wait—but when it comes, I promise I’ll tackle you just as hard as I kiss you.

Write to me every week, and I’ll do the same. Until I see you again, I’m keeping you in my heart, always.

Min älskling,

Petra

The morning post slid through the letterbox with the usual clatter, but Petra didn’t even wait for me to finish my coffee before she pounced on it. She tore the envelope open with the impatience of someone who already knew whose handwriting it was.

She read Tim’s letter slowly, lips curling into a smile at Din bondepojke. But as her eyes moved over the lines, that smile faded. She read the first sentence twice, then a third time, as if it might change.

I noticed. “Bad news?” I asked gently, setting my mug down.

Petra shook her head, folding the letter but keeping it close. “He’s not coming. Again.”

My brow furrowed. “Did he say why?”

“No And that’s what worries me.” Petra’s voice was soft but tight, like she was holding something back. “But he says he’ll write every week.”

I reached across the table, resting my hand over Petra’s. “Then he will. And until then, we’ll keep you busy enough to make the days fly by.”

Petra smiled faintly, but her eyes kept drifting to the folded letter beside her plate. She was already wondering what he wasn’t telling her.

Tim’s Follow-Up Letter

Tim’s Second Letter — The Full Truth

Älskling Petra,

I can’t keep it to myself any longer—you deserve to know why I’m not coming.

It started a month ago. There’s this younger lad at school—quiet kid, always had his head down, easy target for the wrong sort. One afternoon, I saw one of the older boys pin him against the bike sheds, calling him every name under the sun. I stepped in. Made him let the lad go.

That should’ve been the end of it. But instead, the bully turned his attention to me. Little things at first—shoulder barges in the corridor, tripping me in the lunch queue, muttering crap under his breath. I ignored it. For two months, I let him take his shots.

Then one day, I’d had enough. He tried it again outside after school, with half the playground watching. I told him to back off. He didn’t. One punch—just one—sent him straight into the pond. The crowd roared, he came up spluttering like a wet cat, and I walked away.

By the next morning, the headmaster had made up his mind. Six of the best for “ungentlemanly conduct” and a letter home saying I’d brought the school into disrepute. Me—the one who stopped the bullying. No one cared about the months before, only about the splash at the end.

So now, my summer’s grounded. “No Sweden,” Mum said, “and that’s final.” I didn’t even try to argue. What’s the point? The system’s blind and deaf when it wants to be.

But don’t think for a second I regret it. I’d do it again. Sometimes you’ve got to stand your ground, even if it costs you.

Missing you doesn’t even cover it.

Din bondepojke, alltid,

Tim

Petra’s Letter Back to Tim

My dearest Tim,

Your letter came this morning, and I read it twice before I let anyone else in the house know it had arrived. I wanted those words to be mine for a little while.

So… you’ve been fighting bullies again. You really don’t change, do you? First the girl at primary school, and now some poor boy at secondary. I can see it now—my Tim, watching the bully dripping wet and furious, dragging himself out of a pond with bad hair. I laughed, but I also wanted to be there to tell you that you did the right thing.

You did do the right thing.

That younger boy will never forget you stood up for him, even if the people in charge are too blind to see it. And as for the governors and their rules, they don’t get to decide who you are. I do.

And you are good. Brave, stubborn, and far too ready to put yourself in harm’s way for someone else. It’s why I fell for you in the first place.

Yes, I wish you were here. Yes, I hate that we’ll spend another summer apart. But if the price of seeing you is waiting, I will wait. Every letter from you will be my summer.

Next year, we’ll walk the harbour together. And I’ll kiss you right there in front of everyone so there’s no doubt who you belong to.

Until then, write to me every week. Tell me everything—what you’re reading, who you’re seeing, how your hair is recovering from the pond incident.

I love you, bondepojke.

Din älskling,

Petra

Petra Reads Tim’s Letter

Petra sat on the edge of her bed, the paper trembling slightly in her hands. Tim’s handwriting was bold and uneven, each letter pressed into the page as if he’d been willing the words to stick. Outside, the harbour was quiet—the kind of still summer evening when even the gulls seemed too drowsy to scream.

She read the letter again, slower this time, tracing the lines with her eyes until she could almost hear his voice between the sentences. By the time she reached “Sometimes you’ve got to stand your ground, even if it costs you,” her throat felt tight.

She could see it so clearly—Tim standing there, jaw set, defending someone smaller, taking the blows himself rather than walking away. She could see the moment when the last ounce of patience snapped and his fist flew, could almost hear the splash and the laughter. And then the punishment. The unfairness of it made her chest ache.

Folding the letter against her heart, she leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The scent of salt water and summer drifted in through the open window. She closed her eyes and let herself imagine him there beside her—his arm warm around her shoulders, his laugh low in her ear.

“I’d have kissed you right there by the pond,” she whispered into the quiet, “so they all knew whose side I was on.”

Her eyes prickled, but she blinked hard, refusing to let the tears fall. Instead, she sat up, smoothed the creases from the page, and laid it carefully in the top drawer of her desk—the same place she kept every letter he’d ever sent her.

Next year, she promised herself, no one was keeping him away. She didn’t care if she had to row across the North Sea herself—Tim was coming to Sweden. And when he did, she’d walk straight down to the harbour with him and kiss him in front of everyone.

Until then, she’d write back tomorrow. She’d tell him he wasn’t just brave—he was hers.

On our first evening aboard, Johan and I made our entrance into the dining room looking, in our humble opinion, like two junior James Bonds—fresh haircuts, crisp shirts, wedding suits pressed to perfection, and just enough aftershave to suggest sophistication without knocking out fellow passengers. Martinis were, sadly, off the menu, so we made do with orange juice and a dramatic air of mystery. We felt unstoppable.

Our jackets were just stiff enough to scream “brand new,” and if you’d peeked inside the lining, you might have found the price tags still discreetly tucked into a pocket—a detail we chose to ignore. We walked with the confidence of boys who’d just discovered lapels, convinced that every whispered conversation in the room was about us.

And then—as if fate had just winked at us over the top of a champagne glass—she appeared.

Our favourite singer from last summer, right there in the flesh. Same smoky, lilting voice, same radiant smile, same magnetic presence that could turn a ferry lounge into the Savoy with nothing but a spotlight and a microphone. She spotted us instantly.

“The English boys who liked the ballad numbers,” she said, her grin suggesting she remembered more than just our taste in music.

After her set—a velvet-smooth blend of torch songs and Swedish favourites—we summoned the courage to ask if she’d join us for cocoa in the bar. To our astonishment, she agreed.

We told her all about our recent London trip, how we’d been to see The Mousetrap at the Ambassadors Theatre—whispering wild guesses about the culprit, swearing not to give the game away, and then immediately ruining it for each other on the coach home. She laughed like she meant it, though I suspected she was far too polite to tell us we were idiots.

“Very cultured,” she said, cradling her mug. “I’m impressed.”

Johan raised an eyebrow so high it nearly escaped his forehead, sloshing cocoa dangerously close to his lap. I tried to play it cool and not beam like a kid who’d just been allowed to stay up past bedtime.

She stayed with us until last orders, trading ferry-circuit stories, favourite songs, and the odd stage mishap—including a near-catastrophe involving a feather boa and a faulty spotlight. Just before heading upstairs, she leaned in and gave Johan a quick kiss on the cheek—instantly reducing him to a man with no name—and tossed over her shoulder, “Keep being charming… but maybe cut the tags out next time.”

Perfume and the soft click of her heels lingered in the air as she vanished up the staircase. Johan let out a slow breath and muttered, “Well… that’s going in the memoir.”

All I could do was nod.

Once again, we were granted the enormous privilege of taking a boat out for the week on our own—just the four of us. No parents. No instructors. No adults peering over sunglasses to ask if we’d checked the chart. Just us, the wind, and the open sea.

It was glorious. Clear skies, steady breezes, and warm sun that left us glowing by day and contentedly exhausted by night. One of the true joys of sailing in Sweden is the lack of tides; unlike the Solent, where mistiming your anchorage by an hour can turn your yacht into a garden gnome for the shoreline, here you could drop the hook, light the stove, and relax—no maths required.

We decided to reverse last summer’s route, partly for novelty, and partly because Johan declared it “a scientifically more satisfying way to do it.” On day two, we tackled the North Atlantic stretch again—nothing too wild, just enough to feel the sea flexing her shoulders. We dodged fishing boats, traded waves with a pair of smug trawler captains, and even caught sight of a pod of dolphins, who accompanied us for a while, popping up like curious tourists.

But what made this trip feel different—truly ours—was the comfort we now found in each other.

Johan and Marlin took the starboard cabin, often disappearing below with a flask of tea and a half-finished book between them. They were wrapped in their own quiet bubble, emerging each morning with tangled hair and matching smiles. Vinka and I claimed the forepeak, a tight squeeze, but perfect for whispering secrets under the low ceiling and waking up to the gentle creak of the hull and the soft brush of her hand in mine.

There was no awkwardness anymore—no shy glances or choreographed excuses to sit closer. We were four friends turned two couples, bound by years of knowing and now, something more. We moved around the boat like a crew in harmony, falling into shared tasks, private jokes, and stolen kisses when the others weren’t looking. Or sometimes when they were—we’d all stopped pretending to mind.

Evenings were the stuff of memory. We’d find a quiet bay, anchor up, cook whatever we had left in the locker, and sit on deck wrapped in fleeces and salt-stained blankets. We watched the sun slip below the tree-lined horizon and listened to the sea settle. The stars came out slowly, quietly, like they had nothing to prove.

And in that stillness, with the scent of pine and sea salt in the air, we found something simple and precious: a rhythm that felt like home.

After our glorious week at sea—sun-soaked, wind-blown, and thoroughly salt-crusted—we swapped sails for backpacks and headed inland for phase two of our summer adventure: a two-week expedition based out of the lodge.

The idea had taken shape sometime mid-sailing trip, probably between dolphin sightings and yet another round of unevenly applied sun cream. We’d all agreed that we didn’t want to just laze around the beach again (though the odd nap in a hammock wouldn’t go amiss), so instead we’d mapped out a route: a proper hut-to-hut hiking expedition, retracing parts of our winter ski trail—but this time on foot, in shorts, and hopefully without losing feeling in our toes.

Arriving at the lodge was like seeing an old friend in a new outfit. Gone was the snow-covered survival post we’d trudged through in December. In summer, it had transformed into something else entirely—warm wood, humming insects, pine needles underfoot, and suspicious squirrels darting between the trees like they were guarding secrets. The frozen lake had melted into a mirror, reflecting the sky so perfectly it almost didn’t seem real.

We spent the first day prepping—repacking rucksacks, testing boots, pretending we’d done proper training. Johan went full expedition leader, plotting routes and checking maps like he was preparing for Everest. Vinka made a trail food plan, Marlin took charge of bandages and blister kits, and I, crucially, located the chocolate stash.

Then we were off.

The first few days were gentle hikes through sun-dappled forests, past mirror-still lakes and open meadows buzzing with life. We followed the same trail markers we’d skied past in winter, now faded but familiar. The huts we reached each evening felt almost surreal—once bunkered against snowstorms, now basking in golden evening light, with open shutters, grassy clearings, and not a snowdrift in sight.

We cooked simple meals on creaky stoves, took chilly dips in lakewater that made you yelp, and lay on the grass watching clouds shape-shift over the treetops. We laughed more, slept deeper, and slowed down in a way that felt wonderfully earned.

The rhythm of it all was perfect—hike, rest, laugh, repeat. At night, Vinka and I would sit just outside the hut, wrapped in a shared blanket, watching the forest breathe under a deep pink sky. Johan and Marlin would trade stories and mock each other’s cooking, always within earshot, always part of the same comforting bubble.

This was the Sweden we’d fallen in love with—not just the postcard version, but something richer. A shared challenge, a wild peace, a memory already being written before we’d even finished the walk.

All too soon, our two golden weeks at the lodge came to an end.

The little wooden church near the lodge was dressed to perfection for the wedding—fresh birch branches tied to the porch, wildflowers spilling from vases along the windowsills, and sunlight slanting in through the high panes, picking out motes of dust that seemed to sway to the organ music. From the steps, you could see the lake glittering in the distance, as if it had dressed up for the occasion too.

We’d pulled our wedding suits back on—still sharp from the ferry trip—and tried to look as though we belonged among the well-dressed Swedish guests. Vinka gave my lapel one last approving pat before we went in, while Johan adjusted his tie with all the solemnity of a man preparing to meet royalty.

Inside, the pews were packed with neighbours, friends, and half the village. The bride swept up the aisle on her father’s arm, veil trailing, her white dress a perfect contrast to the honey-coloured timber walls. The vows were all in Swedish, but we caught enough to follow along—especially the laughter when the groom, nerves getting the better of him, tried to place the ring on the wrong hand.

When the final hymn rang out, the whole congregation spilled into the warm summer air. Rice flew, an accordion struck up, and the path to the reception became a swirl of bright dresses, smart suits, and beaming smiles. The village hall tables groaned under the weight of herring, meatballs, fresh bread, salads, and enough cake to keep the island buzzing for a week.

As the evening wore on, the four of us claimed the dance floor. With the band switching between waltzes, foxtrots, and the occasional military two-step, Johan and I kept Vinka and Marlin spinning, laughing, and—more than once—clutching at us to keep from tripping over the enthusiastic tempo. The polished boards glowed under the light, and every time I caught sight of Vinka’s smile, the thought of leaving Sweden in a few days twisted somewhere deep in my chest.

We danced until close to midnight, when the summer dusk finally began to creep in through the open windows. Even then, none of us were quite ready to let go of the music—or of each other.

Back at the lodge, the night felt too still after the music and laughter of the wedding. The lamps cast little pools of gold on the timber walls, and the smell of coffee from the kitchen lingered faintly, though none of us felt like brewing any.

We gathered in the lounge almost out of habit—Vinka and Marlin still in their dresses, heels kicked off by the door, hair a little loose from hours of dancing. Johan and I had undone our ties and rolled up our sleeves, but the suits still held the warmth of the evening.

For a while, we just sat in the quiet, the only sound the faint creak of the lodge settling for the night. Someone—maybe Marlin—started humming one of the waltzes from the reception, and before I knew it, Johan was pulling her to her feet, spinning her gently in the narrow space between the chairs. I stood and offered my hand to Vinka, and we followed suit, slow-dancing in our socked feet, the rug bunching under our steps.

No music, no audience—just the four of us, swaying in the dim light, trying to ignore the knowledge that tomorrow would be for packing, and the day after for goodbyes.

When we finally sat down again, Vinka leaned her head against my shoulder, and I could feel her breathing slow, matching mine. I caught Johan’s eye over the top of her hair, and he gave the smallest nod. We didn’t need to say it out loud—this had been a perfect night, and it would have to carry us through the months apart.

Outside, the lake lay still and silver in the moonlight, the kind of calm that made you wish time could be persuaded to stop—just for one more night.

The morning of our departure was still and bright, the sky washed in pale blue and the trees whispering gently in the breeze—as if Sweden itself was trying to make it harder to leave. We packed our bags in near silence, each of us moving a little slower, reluctant to break the spell that had settled over the place.

Vinka and Marlin stood by the old porch rail, arms folded, eyes scanning the trail as if trying to commit every tree and bend in the path to memory. Johan and I made a final sweep of the lodge—checking for forgotten socks and rogue chocolate wrappers—though truth be told, we were just stalling.

When it finally came time to say goodbye, there were no dramatic speeches or cinematic hugs, just a long, quiet stillness before the first bag hit the back of the car.

Erik shook our hands with firm pride, Anna gave each of us a hug that smelled faintly of lavender and woodsmoke. Vinka wrapped her arms around me and held on a moment longer than necessary. No words—just warmth, closeness, and that quiet ache that always comes from leaving something you love.

Marlin pressed a small note into Johan’s hand and smiled. “Don’t open it until you’re back in England,” she said, and then kissed him on the cheek.

We lingered at the car door for one last look—at the lake, the lodge, the line of trees that had become so familiar it felt like they belonged to us. Then the engine turned over, gravel crunched beneath the tyres, and slowly, we rolled away from another chapter.

The journey to the port was filled with that peculiar mix of tiredness and reflection. No one said much, but the silence felt companionable. Full.

When the ferry finally pulled away from the dock and the Swedish coastline began to fade, we stood on deck, leaning against the rail, jackets zipped to the chin. No waves or wild goodbyes this time, just a long gaze across the water and the feeling that we were sailing not just away from a place, but from a moment in time we already knew we’d never quite return to.

We didn’t cry. But we didn’t smile either—not yet.

That would come later.