The Secret Moment That Changed Everything!

The Parallel Four Book One Part Seventeen Chapter Seventeen

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 Seventeen Chapter Seventeen

And so, beneath a northern sky littered with stars, we drifted into sleep — three shared sleeping bags lined up in a row, each holding its own little world. Stephen and I in one, Johan and Marlin in another, and Tim and Petra, naturally, in the third. By now there was nothing shy or uncertain about it. Petra had been sneaking into Tim’s bed since Easter, after all, and the pair of them slid together under the canvas with the ease of a ritual they’d already claimed as theirs. We still caught the odd giggle or whispered joke drifting across the fire, but more often than not it was just the quiet sound of two people perfectly content in each other’s company.

By the next morning, the forest was mercifully still standing, though the birds were suspiciously chirpy — as if they too had picked up on the hormonal spike from our lakeside love-fest. We broke camp under a sky the colour of faded denim, the mist curling around our boots like nature’s own wedding veil. Stephen caught my eye as I hoisted my pack, and for a second the whole world narrowed to his smile and the silent echo of yes.

Of course, being sixteen-year-old “secretly engaged” couples with absolutely no chill, we immediately began leaving clues for each other — little tokens, inside jokes, whispered codes. I tied a bit of red thread from my rucksack around Vinka’s wrist. She drew a tiny heart inside my map case. Johan carved an initial into a birch tree and swore it was for navigation. Marlin rolled her eyes, kissed him anyway, and declared it the worst compass she’d ever seen.

Not to be outdone, Petra pressed a wildflower into Tim’s notebook. He played it cool, but when it slipped loose on the trail, he nearly tore half the mossy hillside apart to find it again. Petra only laughed, kissed his cheek, and called him älskling softly enough that it was meant just for him.

We hiked on, up ridges thick with pine and through valleys soft with moss, the land opening up like a storybook with every step. Some days we walked ten miles without seeing another soul. Other times we stumbled across a red-painted hut or an old Sami fire pit, pausing to soak in the kind of silence that felt like it was holding its breath just for us.

At night, we’d set up camp, boil water for something barely edible, and curl back into our three cocoons under the mosquito nets — our own constellations of love, legs, and elbows. For us older four, it was talk of futures: service, homes, children, lives we barely dared to picture. For Tim and Petra, it was simpler but no less certain — not tentative anymore, but claimed, solid. Shared warmth, whispered dreams, the quiet pride of two who already knew where they belonged: in each other’s arms.

It was romance forged not in grand gestures, but in the smallest ones: rubbing blistered feet, sharing the last biscuit, threading fingers together beneath canvas. No rings, no fanfare. Just promises — quiet, unspoken, and truer than anything we’d ever dared to say out loud in a classroom.

On the fifth night, tucked beneath the whispering canopy of pines and a sky spattered with stars, the six of us sat around the fire nursing mugs of weak cocoa and aching limbs. Smoke curled lazily into the night, the flames snapping at the edges of silence. There was a rare stillness about us, the kind that only comes after miles walked, secrets shared, and futures glimpsed through the fog of teenage certainty.

Johan glanced at me over the rim of his mug. A small, conspiratorial smile passed between us. We hadn’t yet spoken out loud about what had happened—no grand declarations in front of the group—but we all knew. It was there in every glance, every brush of fingers, every whispered in-joke that suddenly carried more weight.

Then Vinka, always the bold one, cleared her throat. “We’re not telling anyone yet,” simply, directing the words to the flames, but clearly speaking to all of us. “Not until we’re ready.”

Marlin nodded, her hand still entwined with Johan’s. “It’s ours. We’ll keep it just for us. At least until we turn eighteen.”

Johan chuckled softly. “Assuming we make it that long. If I have to eat another tin of fish and lentils, I might not see seventeen.”

We all laughed, but the promise lingered in the quiet that followed. There, in the soft flicker of firelight, we made a silent pact—not just to wait, but to hold what we’d found, to protect it from the noise and pressure of the outside world. No one else needed to know. Not yet. This was our secret, forged in pine forests, sealed in skinny dips and shared maps and the soft, sleepy I-love-yous murmured in borrowed sleeping bags.

Tim shifted slightly, Petra leaning against his shoulder. At fifteen, they weren’t thinking about eighteen or rings or churches. Not yet. But I caught the way Petra’s eyes followed Vinka’s words, the way Tim’s fingers tightened around hers as if to say one day, maybe. For now, it was enough just to be included — to sit in that circle of firelight, to share the cocoa, the laughter, the warmth of belonging.

“Eighteen,” squeezing my hand. “Then we’ll tell everyone.”

“Agreed,” I replied, my voice firmer than expected. “And we’ll do it properly. The works—church, suits, maybe even cake.”

Marlin laughed. “You just want cake.”

“Obviously,” I grinned.

But beneath the joke, the decision had been made. We weren’t just playing at grown-ups anymore. We were laying the foundations—quietly, carefully—for a future we could already feel pulling us forward.

And beside us, Tim and Petra listened with wide eyes, sipping cocoa, silently promising each other something softer, smaller, but just as real: we’re in this too.

We eased back into Ellös like returning heroes—only muddier, slightly thinner, and far more smug than was strictly necessary. Our skin was tanned, our boots battered, and our hearts still full from mountaintop pledges and lakeside whispers. But now came the sweet reward: no blisters, no backpacks, just sun-drenched days by the water and late nights tangled up in stolen kisses and the occasional mosquito net.

Marlin and Vinka marched us straight down to the lake on our first day back, refusing to let us collapse indoors. The second the dock came into view, Johan groaned with exaggerated drama and let his rucksack slide off his back like he’d just crossed the Sahara.

“Hero’s welcome?” he asked hopefully.

“Hero’s bath,” Marlin corrected, and with that she tackled him headlong into the water. The splash was so violent it probably registered in Gothenburg.

Tim, never one to miss a challenge, peeled off his shirt and cannonballed in after them, surfacing with a whoop before Petra shrieked as he tried to drag her in too. She escaped with the agility of a cat, retreating to the dock, arms crossed and laughing so hard she nearly toppled in anyway.

Meanwhile, I lay back on the warm wood with Vinka’s head in my lap, watching the clouds drift lazily across a sky so blue it felt almost smug itself. She reached up, laced her fingers through mine, and whispered, “Home.” And just like that, my world narrowed to her smile and the scent of pine still clinging to her damp hair.

The dock became a carnival of chaos—Johan spluttering after losing a splash war to Marlin, Tim trying to act nonchalant while Petra dangled her toes into the water just close enough to tempt him, and Vinka humming softly, her head heavy and safe against me.

Somewhere between the sun, the laughter, and the echo of the mountains still in our bones, I realised how completely, beautifully mad life had become. And how much I never wanted it to change.

Ingrid, meanwhile, had somehow become best friends with Sylvi and Anna overnight. The three of them were constantly in the kitchen, conspiring over new recipes and swapping stories about the girls’ childhood escapades—most of which we were now hearing for the first time, to our horror and amusement. Apparently Marlin once tried to stage a one-girl circus act involving the washing line, a saucepan, and the neighbour’s dog; Vinka had hidden an entire stash of lingonberry sweets in a violin case and nearly derailed a school recital when they rattled loose. Petra blushed furiously as her own mischiefs surfaced, while Tim listened like he was collecting intelligence for a later raid.

Harry, for his part, had struck up a surprisingly animated friendship with Lars and Olaf, mostly involving beer, boat talk, and fierce debates about the superior make of spanners. More than once they emerged from the shed triumphant, brandishing some rusted relic of a tool as if they’d just unearthed Viking treasure.

Ronnie joined us whenever he could, arriving with hands blackened by grease and a grin that suggested he actually liked spending his days elbows-deep in boat guts. He’d launch into a story about a rare propeller shaft or a stubborn engine mount, waving his hands like a preacher at Sunday service, while we did our best to nod along sagely. Our blank stares probably gave us away, but Ronnie didn’t mind—he was in his element, varnish and diesel clinging to him like new cologne, and we couldn’t help but be proud.

Those last two weeks blurred into a sunlit tapestry of lakeside laughter, sneaky rendezvous, and enough cinnamon buns to make a dentist weep. Days were spent swimming, sprawled on the docks, or taking long rambles through the woods. Evenings meant stolen kisses behind the boathouse, teasing each other over mosquito bites, and plotting futures we half-believed were already written.

At night, we’d sprawl out on blankets under skies that refused to darken properly, whispering plans and dreams and mocking each other’s snores (Johan’s were legendary, rattling the dock posts). Tim and Petra, side by side, were still caught in that delicious early stage—every touch an event, every kiss a triumph. For us older four, it was something deeper, steadier, but no less thrilling.

We didn’t talk much about going home—not yet. The clock was ticking, but we were determined to squeeze every last drop out of our Swedish summer before the real world came calling.

Even though we were technically on holiday, our self-imposed Royal Marine regime never wavered—not entirely, anyway. At dawn, Johan and I would crawl out from beneath the duvet (or from under an affectionate tangle of limbs, depending on how the night had gone), tug on our shorts, and drop to the floor like reluctant paratroopers. A hundred press-ups, a hundred sit-ups, a cheeky sprint to the jetty and back—then we’d dive straight into the lake, howling like feral dogs and waking half of Ellös in the process.

Vinka and Marlin soon joined the madness—not because they were compelled, but because they enjoyed it, which somehow made it worse. Vinka even started counting reps aloud in Swedish, like a personal trainer with cheekbones and an agenda. Marlin, meanwhile, was a silent assassin—she’d finish a set without breaking a sweat, then jog up the hill to “stretch out.” I once tried to keep pace with her and nearly threw up behind the compost bin.

Tim gave it a go on the second morning, strutting onto the grass like he was about to lead the session. “Farm strength,” he declared, dropping for press-ups. By the twentieth, his arms were shaking like a milk churn in an earthquake, and by the sprint to the jetty he was puffing like an old tractor climbing a hill. He collapsed into the lake with a groan that startled a passing duck, then came up spluttering but grinning. “Still counts!” he wheezed.

But the real surprise was Petra. She slid down onto the grass beside him, matching our rhythm with a calm, unhurried grace that spoke of years on the Aikido mats. We all knew she could have outpaced the lot of us—her technique was clean, her stamina unshakable—but she stayed by Tim’s side the entire time. Every rep, every sprint, she was there: whispering encouragement, brushing his shoulder with her hand, giving him just enough fire to keep going.

When he lagged on the sit-ups, she leaned over him, laughing, “Come on, darling—one more for me.” When he staggered on the run, she slowed to his pace, looping her arm through his and pulling him forward step by step. And when he collapsed onto the dock at the finish, she kissed his sweat-slick forehead and murmured, “See? You did it. I knew you could.”

We all saw what she’d done, of course. Petra wasn’t just strong; she made Tim stronger, too. And the pride on his face—red, panting, utterly spent but glowing—was something no amount of farm work or bravado could have given him.

From that day on, Petra was one of the morning crew. Not because she needed the practice, but because she wanted to run beside Tim. And in that, she showed she wasn’t just his girl—she was his partner.

It didn’t take long before someone — namely Johan, with that mischievous grin of his — decided Petra’s calm discipline needed testing. One golden afternoon after training, as we sprawled on the grass with damp hair and sore limbs, he smirked across at her.

“So, Petra,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow, “this Aikido of yours. It’s just fancy stretching, isn’t it?”

Vinka nearly choked on her water. Marlin raised an eyebrow, clearly bracing for impact. Tim groaned, “Mate, don’t,” but Johan was already on his feet, arms wide, grinning like a wolf.

Petra set her bottle down with the serenity of a saint. “Fancy stretching?” she repeated softly, then stood, brushing grass from her shorts. “All right, come here, then.”

Johan, never one to back down, swaggered forward, clearly planning to let her shove him a little before laughing it off. What actually happened was much faster. A twist, a step, the lightest shift of weight—and suddenly Johan was flat on his back, blinking at the sky as if it had personally betrayed him.

There was a stunned beat of silence, then Vinka and Marlin exploded into laughter, clutching each other like they’d just won the lottery. I nearly dropped my mug of juice. Tim was half horrified, half bursting with pride.

“See?” Petra said brightly, dusting her hands as if she’d just straightened a tablecloth. “Fancy stretching.”

Johan sat up, dazed but grinning, rubbing his shoulder. “All right, all right, I deserved that.”

But Petra wasn’t finished. “Stephen?” she called sweetly, turning those wide, innocent eyes on me. “You look curious.”

The others whooped with glee, egging me on before I could protest. And so, a moment later, I too found myself face-first in the grass, staring at a very smug lady who looked as if she’d barely moved.

By the time she helped me up, the whole dockside was roaring. Even Ingrid and Anna, watching from the porch, were doubled over in laughter.

From that day on, no one questioned Petra’s training again. Not because she demanded respect, but because she’d earned it—with skill, grace, and just enough good humour to leave us all a little in love with her.

Tim, of course, wrapped an arm proudly around her shoulders and muttered, “Told you she was dangerous.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

Afternoons were more our style. We’d gather at the lake, towels spread like territorial claims, radios crackling out everything from ABBA to Bowie. Someone always had a magazine to half-read, sunglasses were mandatory, and our hair—sun-bleached and chaotic—looked like we were auditioning for a shampoo ad aimed at hormonal poets.

Rugby, though—rugby was king. We played with reckless abandon, sometimes three-a-side, sometimes just chucking the ball about while running barefoot like woodland warriors. No scoreboard, no rules, just joyful collisions and the occasional flirtatious tackle that ended in suspiciously slow disentanglements.

Tim threw himself into it with farm-boy enthusiasm, barrelling after Johan like a one-man demolition squad. Petra, meanwhile, was fast and ruthless—her Aikido instincts translating beautifully into sidesteps and sudden bursts of speed. At one point she snatched the ball straight out of my hands and tore down the beach with Vinka in hot pursuit, both of them laughing so hard they nearly collapsed before the try line.

The rest of us weren’t much better behaved. Marlin tackled Johan with such commitment they both rolled straight into the shallows, emerging dripping and triumphant. Vinka flattened me once with a grin so smug I almost stayed down just to spite her. Tim attempted a dramatic dive only to miss entirely, belly-flopping into the sand to Petra’s delighted cackle.

At one point, a passing old lady with a dog stopped to watch. The look she gave us—somewhere between scandal and pity—was so cutting we nearly offered her an apology and a biscuit. Instead, Johan bowed theatrically, the dog barked, and we carried on like lunatics.

By the end of each game, we were sandy, soaked, and laughing so hard our sides hurt. The ball was battered, our dignity questionable, but our joy? Untouchable.

By evening, we’d cook dinner together—usually something rustic, occasionally something inedible—and pile around the fire pit with glowing cheeks and stories to tell. Tim would insist on turning sausages like he was manning a regimental field kitchen, Petra gently correcting him before rescuing the pan. Vinka and Marlin had a knack for making even burnt potatoes feel like a feast, while Johan and I mostly provided back-up in the form of chopping wood and opening jars with unnecessary bravado.

There were no big declarations, no dramatic speeches. Just glances, lingering touches, the soft promise of everything to come. Petra leaning against Tim as he told some hopeless farm story, Marlin tucked into Johan’s side with that quiet smile of hers, Vinka brushing her foot against mine beneath the firelight. It was all so natural, so absurdly perfect, that none of us wanted to jinx it by saying too much out loud.

The ducks, though, definitely knew. They’d paddle over each night, bobbing in the reflected glow of the flames, quacking disapproval whenever someone kissed too long or dropped a crust into the water. Unimpressed chaperones in feathers, keeping watch over our ridiculous, wonderful summer.

Inevitably, the end came—less like a soft fade-out and more like someone yanking the needle off the record. Vinka and Marlin had jobs to start in Sweden, real grown-up ones involving timecards, respectable shoes, and the quiet authority of being needed. Johan, Tim, and I, on the other hand, were staring down the barrel of our final few months of civilian life before Lympstone loomed in January. It felt like standing at the edge of a diving board, not quite ready to jump but knowing there was no climbing back down.

Our goodbyes were the stuff of soap opera finales: long hugs, watery eyes, awkward nose-sniffling, and the kind of emotional restraint usually reserved for melting wax figures. Olaf loaded the Volvo boot with that stoic determination of a man who’d seen this scene play out before, while the rest of us tried—and failed—not to unravel.

Marlin clung to Johan as though sheer force of will might keep him there. She buried her face in his chest, muttered something fierce in Swedish, then kissed him with a passion that was both promise and parting. Johan, for once, had no jokes left in him—just that stubborn set of his jaw and a look in his eyes that told her she was all he’d be thinking of until he came back.

Vinka pressed her forehead to mine in that silent way we had—no words, just shared breath and the kind of eye contact that makes time wobble. When she finally pulled back, she gave me a smile so brave it nearly broke me in two.

And Tim—oh, Tim tried for nonchalance, leaning on the car with his hands in his pockets. But Petra had him undone. She wrapped both arms around him, whispering furiously in Swedish and English alike, as if piling words together might somehow hold him there. He stroked her hair, blinking hard, mumbling back, “I’ll write, darling. Every week. I swear it.” She swatted his chest with both fists, then kissed him anyway, the kind of kiss that made even Olaf clear his throat and turn away.

And then it was time. The last hugs drawn out, the final waves lingering until the girls were small figures in the rear window. The road out of Ellös felt longer, emptier than when we’d first driven in. Behind us were lakes, laughter, cinnamon buns, and whispered promises beneath mosquito nets. Ahead of us—work, duty, the slow march into whatever counted as adulthood.

But if that Swedish summer had taught us anything, it was this: love, once found, doesn’t vanish with distance. It lingers, stubborn as pine sap, waiting for the next chapter.

Inevitably, the end came—less like a soft fade-out and more like someone yanking the needle off the record. Marlin and I were staying in Sweden, stepping into our first real jobs, while the boys—Stephen, Johan, and Tim—were heading back across the water. January and Lympstone were already looming over them like storm clouds on the horizon. They looked so tall and strong standing there by the car, but I knew they felt like boys on the edge of a diving board—trying not to look down, knowing there was no climbing back.

The goodbyes were the kind that leave bruises on your heart. Marlin clung to Johan as though sheer willpower might anchor him here. He held her fiercely, jaw set, but his eyes gave him away. Petra was even worse—her arms locked around Tim’s neck, whispering half in Swedish, half in English, piling up words as though enough of them might keep him from leaving. Tim stroked her hair, blinking furiously, swearing he’d write every week. He looked brave, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.

And Stephen… my Stephen pressed his forehead to mine in the way only we understood. No words, just breath and the weight of everything unspoken between us. When he pulled back, I smiled for him—braver than I felt—but inside, I was already counting the days.

We’d all promised to write, of course—as if we hadn’t already stuffed their bags with more letters than socks. Secret pages taped into map cases, folded notes hidden in shirt pockets, even a few tied up with ribbons just to be dramatic. Soppy? Maybe. But that was the currency we dealt in now. Love notes as passports. Promises as visas.

And then Grandpa Olaf slammed the boot shut, the tyres crunched far too cheerfully over the gravel, and suddenly they were pulling away. We waved like lunatics, Petra sobbing into my shoulder, Marlin trying to stand tall but shaking anyway. The car turned the corner and was gone, just like that. The dust hung in the air, and for a foolish moment I half expected it to wheel back round for one last goodbye.

It didn’t. Of course it didn’t.

If Christmas didn’t come soon, I think we would have found a way to bend time itself. Anything to bring them back.

On the ship home, the universe offered us one last grace note: her voice. Our singer. By now she was no stranger, but a long-standing friend who’d watched us grow from awkward schoolboys hiding at the back of the lounge to something closer to young men. She spotted us the moment we stepped into the bar, her eyes lighting with recognition.

“You missed the last crossing,” she said, mock-accusingly. “I thought you’d abandoned me for good.”

“Not a chance,” Johan grinned. “We just took the scenic route this time.”

Her gaze flicked to the third figure standing just behind us. Tim, chin tilted up, trying to look casual but clearly a little thrown at being under her spotlight.

“And who,” she said, eyebrows arched in mock drama, “is this fine young man you’ve been hiding all these years?”

Tim gave his cheekiest grin — the one that could charm a schoolmistress out of detention duty — and said, “I’m Tim. Stephen’s brother.”

“Brother?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing in amusement as she looked between us. “Well, I can see the resemblance… though you’re an inch shorter, aren’t you? Just as handsome, mind, but I think you’ve got the cheekier smile.”

Tim flushed scarlet while Johan nearly spat his drink, and I groaned into my cocoa. The singer laughed, clapped Tim on the shoulder, and just like that he was part of the fold — welcomed as if he’d been there all along.

We weren’t just going home. We were moving forward—into training, into manhood, into futures we’d only just begun to shape. But no matter what came next, we’d carry the lake, the promises, and the summer with us. Always.

By mid-June, our final exam had fizzled out with all the ceremony of a damp sock. No confetti, no rousing farewell speeches—just the anticlimactic clatter of pens being dropped like fallen soldiers and the subdued shuffling of teenage feet exiting stage left. Thus ended our formal education: not with a bang, but with the scratchy silence of cheap biro ink and a distant bell.

With school now firmly in the rear-view mirror, Johan and I marched ourselves—practically in step—back to the recruiting office to finalise the paperwork for joining the Royal Marines. At sixteen, we were still officially “youths,” despite boasting the sort of facial hair that suggested either late-stage puberty or early-onset woolly chin syndrome. We also held very strong, very unscientific opinions about the correct form for incline push-ups.

Because we weren’t yet of age, the final signatures had to come from Mum and Harry. They obliged, bless them—though whether the mist in their eyes was from emotion or from the pen refusing to cooperate is still up for debate. In any case, the deed was done. Her Majesty’s finest would soon have two very enthusiastic, slightly undercooked recruits.

Tim’s path was running close to ours but not quite the same. He’d promised Petra—and himself—that he’d go back to school, catch up properly, and finish the year before heading for the Army in September. It was a big step for him, this newfound determination, and Petra wrote him every bit as firmly as she kissed him: finish school, do it right, then come to me.

We sorted all this just before setting off on our Grand Tour of Europe—partly because it needed doing, but mostly because it sounded a lot more dashing to tell people (especially girls) that we were “soon-to-be Royal Marines” rather than “unemployed teens with opinions on rucksack ergonomics.” Technically, we could’ve enlisted straight away in July and headed for Deal in Kent as Junior Marines. But after some persuasive reasoning (reed: a passionate plea involving charts, sandwiches, and the phrase “once-in-a-lifetime”), we got permission to delay our entry until January 1973.

It was a very mature decision. Honest. Nothing at all to do with wanting one last summer of freedom. Or avoiding a July spent being yelled at by a man with a clipboard, thunderous calves, and a moustache you could use to clean rifle barrels.

Instead, we made the executive decision—ratified by mutual grins and the full backing of teenage hormones—to spend our final summer of freedom with the girls before they started work in August. It wasn’t a hard choice. Romantic walks along sun-drenched Swedish beaches, stolen kisses under a sky that stayed light until midnight, and considerably fewer bruises than we’d have earned at Deal. For Tim, it meant a summer with Petra that was his own: letters tucked into pockets, midnight promises whispered over the crackle of the phone line, and a determination to make September the start of something real.

After all, once you’ve done press-ups in the Alps, slept under the stars in half a dozen countries, and proposed by a lake with pine needles in your socks, the only logical next step is to squeeze every drop from a summer of love before boot camp comes along to ruin your haircut and shout your name until it no longer sounds like yours.

We weren’t running from responsibility—we were just walking hand-in-hand toward it very, very slowly, with ice cream in one hand and Vinka or Marlin in the other. Tim, meanwhile, was never far from Petra, grinning like the cat who’d not only got the cream but managed to sneak the jug home as well. For him, every kiss was proof that he’d made the right promise: finish school, join the Army, and then return to her for good.

The days blurred into a rhythm of swims, bike rides, and lazy afternoons on the dock, the kind of summer that felt endless until suddenly it wasn’t. We knew the clock was ticking, but for those long weeks we pretended it wasn’t there at all—choosing instead to live like time itself had been put on hold just for us.

We stood side by side at the gates of the small but modern translator’s office just outside Ellös, each clutching a satchel filled with dictionaries, notebooks, and enough pens to mount a small campaign of correction.

Inside, the place smelled of coffee, paper, and ambition. Our desks were tucked near a window that framed the lake, still and shimmering in the morning sun. It wasn’t glamorous—not yet—but it was the first rung of something solid. Something ours.

I tugged at the collar of my blouse, smoothed my skirt, then shot Marlin a grin. “Ready to translate the world?”

She chuckled, already flipping through a dog-eared English novel she’d brought along. “Let’s start with chapter one, shall we?”

By lunchtime, we’d corrected more grammar than most people managed in a lifetime. Kerstin, our senior editor, breezed past with sharp glasses and even sharper opinions. She paused just long enough to say, “Your English is terrifyingly good. Don’t get too clever—you’ll make the rest of us look bad.” Then she was gone again, trailing perfume and authority.

That evening, we walked home the long way, words tumbling out in Swedish, English, and German, often in the same sentence. At the edge of the forest path we stopped, staring out across the still water.

“Do you miss them?” Marlin asked.

I didn’t answer straight away. The lake caught the evening light and for a moment I could almost see Stephen—boots pounding the dock, laughter rolling like the waves. Finally, I smiled, small and far away. “Like air. Like summer. Like everything good.”

Marlin touched the delicate ring she wore hidden on a chain. “They’ll write again soon.”

“They’d better,” I said, narrowing my eyes for effect. “Or we’ll have to translate our rage into every language we know.”

We laughed, our voices carrying out across the trees, fragile but defiant.

Luckily, our forward-thinking employer had no issue with us pausing for National Service, so long as we didn’t misplace any umlauts or come back speaking only in military slang. In Sweden, we take that sort of thing seriously—no pomp, no fuss, just the stark practicality of: One man – one rifle – one vote. It isn’t just a slogan; it’s who we are. Any would-be invader should remember: behind every bookshelf lurks a citizen ready to defend the realm—with perfect grammar and a glare sharp enough to halt a tank.

Answering the call to National Service, Marlin and I reported in November 1972—just weeks before our seventeenth birthdays. While most girls our age were fussing over haircuts, homework, or who was taking whom to the Christmas dance, we were being handed a rifle and a pair of boots big enough to make us question whether the army stocked anything smaller than “clown.”

The national training depot greeted us with all the warmth of a brick to the face: barking instructors, boots pounding on concrete, and that ever-present perfume of cabbage stew, floor polish, and terror.

Processed in minutes, we were given service numbers that felt both impersonal and oddly thrilling, then marched off to our new quarters—flanked by eighteen other recruits, every one of them wide-eyed and trying not to look it. By luck, instinct, or simply the speed of two girls who’d spent their lives darting through train stations with rucksacks, Marlin and I secured neighbouring bunks. That, at least, felt like a victory.

Our fellow trainees ranged from sixteen to twenty, a glorious muddle of nerves, oversized uniforms, and whispered prayers that no one snored. Within the first hour, one poor soul tripped over her kit bag, another managed to wear her beret backwards with alarming confidence, and someone had already been shouted at for saluting with the wrong hand. The tone was set: this wasn’t just training—it was going to be an adventure.

Day one was largely spent in the glamorous world of kit issuing—where fashion met function in the least flattering way imaginable. The instructors, equal parts drill sergeant and fashion critic, barked out how to wear the uniform properly (or, more importantly, how not to wear it backwards). Trying to work out which epaulette went on which shoulder became an early bonding exercise.

By the time Marlin and I emerged from stores, we were weighed down like overburdened pack mules: itchy socks, scratchy shirts, and a mess tin that looked like it had already seen action at Narvik. The boots, I decided, had been designed by a man with a personal grudge against ankles. Marlin, ever the pragmatist, stuffed her spare socks down the back for cushioning and muttered something about “field improvisation.”

That afternoon, we were marched—not very straight—to the quartermaster’s for rifles. The moment we took hold of the weapons, the tone shifted. They were heavy, cold, and very real. For a heartbeat, the room was quiet, reverent. Then one girl, struggling to sling hers over her shoulder, somehow managed to cock it. The sharp click echoed through the hall like a gunshot, and the instructor’s face turned the exact shade of beetroot you see on pickled herring jars.

The seriousness lasted all of three seconds before half of us had to bite our lips to keep from laughing. It was our first lesson: in uniform, you might feel ridiculous, but the moment you held a rifle—you weren’t playing anymore.

By evening, the barracks were alive with laughter, muttered curses, and the rustle of unfamiliar bed linen. Marlin and I collapsed onto our bunks, every muscle protesting after a day spent standing to attention—or trying not to collapse into giggles at some of the more tragic salutes on display. One thing was certain: National Service was going to be uncomfortable, unpredictable… and unforgettable.

By the end of day two, we’d already mastered the fine art of turning left without mowing down the poor soul beside us. Progress, apparently. It was enough to get us “flagged for further evaluation,” which in military-speak meant: we’re watching you—though whether that’s to promote you or terrify you, time will tell.

I shot Marlin a look across the barracks. She raised an eyebrow, smirked, and mouthed, “Told you.” Whatever “further evaluation” meant, I knew we’d face it the same way we’d faced everything else: side by side, with grit in our boots and laughter never far behind.

Their section commander, a lean woman with the facial expression of a thundercloud and the nickname “The Sergeant Who Never Blinks,” seemed quietly impressed. When she discovered that Marlin and I could switch between Arabic, German, and Latin mid-conversation, she raised one eyebrow—a reaction which, by all accounts, was the military equivalent of a standing ovation.

Meanwhile, the rest of the recruits were still figuring out which end of the rifle might be considered the business end. Marlin gently intercepted one poor girl who was about to polish her teeth with a cleaning rod, while I had to explain, as diplomatically as possible, that “stabbing the instructor with your bayonet” probably wouldn’t count towards extra credit.

By the end of the week, we’d acquired a strange reputation: half terrifying brainiacs, half the section’s unofficial babysitters. Our fellow recruits looked at us with a mix of awe and relief—because at least if the world ended tomorrow, someone in the barracks could both translate the surrender documents and show them how not to shoot themselves in the foot.

Evenings in the barracks soon settled into a rhythm: light-hearted chatter drifting over the bunks, muffled giggles after lights-out, and the occasional whispered grammar correction from Marlin or me as we helped our bunkmates prepare for the next day’s lessons. One girl wanted to know how to field-strip her rifle without looking like she was disassembling a sewing machine. Another begged us to explain how to pronounce “reconnaissance” without sounding like she’d sneezed mid-word. We obliged, half amused, half proud to be the unofficial tutors of the barracks.

But whispers travel faster than boots on concrete. Rumours of our language skills and… let’s call it “above-average situational awareness” reached the right ears before the ink was even dry on our induction papers. By the end of the first week, we were handed an envelope—handwritten, no less—inviting us to a special briefing on Monday morning. The letter was clipped, cryptic, and sealed with more red tape than a government memo.

Marlin and I exchanged a look across our bunks. Excitement. Nerves. Maybe a little mischief.

“Do you think they’ll make us swear an oath?” I whispered into the dark.

“Only if it’s in triplicate and includes Latin,” she whispered back.

We didn’t sleep much that night. Not from fear, but from the electric sense that something extraordinary had just begun.

He slid two manila folders across the desk, each stamped “Klassificerad – Konfidentiellt” in fat red letters that made my stomach tighten.

“Your new assignment falls under Försvarsmaktens Informations- och Underrättelsetjänst,” he said. “You’ll be part of a linguistic cell specialising in intercept and translation, with an emphasis on listening, reporting, and staying very, very quiet about what you do.”

I glanced at Marlin. She raised her eyebrows but said nothing, so I kept my face as blank as his suit.

“You’ll receive basic training in SIGINT procedures, encryption handling, enemy radio traffic, and listening post protocol,” he went on. “If you show promise, you’ll be considered for long-term intelligence work—possibly even overseas.”

He folded his hands, neat as origami. The folders were still sitting there between us, daring us to touch them.

“Our aptitude puts us in a different category,” I thought, though he phrased it colder: “We require translators, analysts, and occasionally… listeners. You’ll still drill and polish boots with your section, but when the others are scrubbing floors, you’ll be scrubbing secrets.”

Marlin whispered, “Polishing intelligence?” under her breath, and for a second I thought he might actually smile. He didn’t. Not properly.

Then came the choice—take it and step through a door we could never really step back from, or refuse and return to the regular ranks. He said there’d be no penalty if we declined, but his eyes told another story: he already knew our answer.

I slipped my hand under the table and squeezed Marlin’s fingers once. We didn’t even need to look at each other.

“We accept,” I said aloud. My voice didn’t shake, though my heart was rattling like a kettle about to boil.

He nodded once, almost satisfied, and pushed the folders closer. “Then welcome to the Intelligence track. Report here twice weekly in addition to your regular duties. And remember—this conversation never happened.”

And just like that, it was over. The corporal appeared, clipboard in hand, and marched us back into the freezing fog.

Only when the door clicked shut behind us did Marlin finally exhale. “Well. That was… something.”

I tugged my cap lower, my breath steaming like a signal flare in the dark. “We’re in, Marlin. Properly in. And it’s not just for our Latin.”

The cold didn’t sting quite so much anymore. We cut across the gravel back toward the main block, boots crunching in rhythm. Marlin tucked her hands into her sleeves, her shoulders hunched against the frost. “So… spies?” she muttered.

“Translators,” I corrected, though my grin gave me away. “Very well-informed translators.”

“Reckon we’ll get to carry a gun?”

That made me laugh. “Only if we promise not to translate safety catch as launch mode.”

We walked on, side by side, our footsteps echoing off the concrete walls. Nothing around us had changed—the same barracks, the same cabbage smell drifting from the cookhouse—but everything inside us had shifted.

This wasn’t just National Service anymore.

It was the first step into something serious.

Something secret.

In her letters, Vinka proudly shared that nearly all the girls in her unit carried the same strong sense of patriotism that had driven her and Marlin to volunteer—though she cheekily admitted a few seemed more excited about free meals and the chance to wear a beret without irony. Still, she was genuinely enjoying the training.

“It’s not half as gruelling as chasing you and Johan up hills all summer,” she wrote, with a scribbled wink in the margin. Apparently, Swedish basic training didn’t include pre-breakfast rugby scrums, surprise plank challenges by the lake, or sprints with backpacks full of potatoes “for authenticity.”

Her real enthusiasm came alive when she wrote about weapons handling. Her joy practically bounced off the page as she described her first time on the range—“like a school field trip,” she said, “only with more recoil and fewer packed lunches.” Then, in true Vinka fashion: “It’s weirdly empowering. Also loud.”

Every letter finished with a flourish of affection—sweet, sincere, and just the tiniest bit poetic. She told me she missed me every day and loved me more than she thought possible. And I, being me, replied with a mix of heartfelt yearning and typically British understatement: told her I missed her like the desert misses the rain… or, more urgently, like a squaddie misses a decent cup of tea.

As the weeks went by, her letters painted a picture of full-throttle military life—marching, running, leaping, crawling, climbing… basically a fitness boot camp turned up to eleven, only with more shouting and fewer smoothies. Fortunately, she and Marlin were already fitter than most gym instructors thanks to our summer of alpine workouts and lakeside press-ups, so the physical side barely raised their heart rates.

By the time they were introduced to the AK4 and AK5 rifles, they’d already earned a reputation. “Surprisingly elegant,” Vinka wrote of the weapons, “for something designed to make loud bangs and Swiss cheese out of targets.” It wasn’t long before they were hitting bullseyes like seasoned pros, striding off the ranges with smug grins and a healthy respect for recoil.

Then came fieldcraft—digging in, blending in, and surviving in the wild without looking like you were just out for a picnic. Their first attempt at camouflage, Vinka confessed, looked more like a woodland tea party gone wrong. “We were meant to be hidden,” she wrote, “but honestly, I think we looked more like shrubbery on strike.”

I could picture it perfectly—Vinka with twigs sticking out at all angles, Marlin looking like she was ready to scold the undergrowth into submission, and the rest of the platoon lurking about like disgruntled garden ornaments.

Still, she said they were learning fast, staying sharp, and secretly enjoying the whole “playing soldier” routine far more than they’d expected. Beneath the jokes and her cheeky sketches in the margins, I could hear it: pride. Not loud or boastful, but a quiet sense that they were proving something—not just to the instructors, but to themselves.

After returning from our glorious summer with the girls—still slightly sunburned, thoroughly smitten, and only marginally fitter than Olympic sprinters—Johan and I were hit with the grim reality: we needed cash, and soon, preferably before Christmas.

So, like any pair of young, highly motivated chancers, we trudged off to the Labour Exchange. The place smelled faintly of wet coats, floor polish, and despair, with a queue that shuffled forward at the speed of tectonic plates. The bloke behind the counter looked like he’d been carved out of granite sometime during the Attlee government and hadn’t cracked a smile since rationing ended.

“What skills do you lads have?” he asked flatly, peering at us over his glasses.

Johan and I exchanged a look. “Er… running up hills? Carrying heavy things? Not dying in the rain?”

The man raised an eyebrow—possibly the most excitement he’d shown all week—scribbled something on a form, and said, “Seed mill. Report Monday. Don’t sneeze too much.”

And that was that. Honest graft, physically demanding, and—surprisingly—decently paid. Though, in hindsight, we suspected the generous wages had less to do with community spirit and more to do with the likelihood of sneezing out sunflower seeds for a solid week.

We started at seven sharp on Monday morning. First order of business: a pair of overalls that smelled like they’d survived the Blitz and been marinated in damp sheds ever since. We were then escorted to our machine—a hulking, wheezing beast of bolts and belts that looked like it had been designed by someone with a deep emotional attachment to sacks and a mild disdain for human ergonomics.

Johan took the first shift. He clamped a hessian sack onto a metal chute, pressed a foot pedal, and stood back as twenty-five kilos of chemically treated seed roared into the bag like a grainy avalanche. The sack then juddered its way along a conveyor to the stitching machine, which stitched it shut with all the delicacy of an angry spinster wielding a power tool. I then took it off and stacked onto a pallet.

The foreman, a wiry chap with nicotine fingers and a voice like gravel in a tin, gave us a nod that might have been approval—or maybe just trapped wind. “Not bad for new lads,” he said, before casually lighting his third fag of the morning directly under the “No Smoking” sign.

By then, our hair, skin, and dignity were coated in a fine dusting of seed powder. Every sneeze was a small agricultural event. Johan let out such a violent one that half the room thought the machine had exploded, and I nearly fell into a stack of freshly stitched sacks laughing.

The work was relentless—bag after bag after bag—but there was a rhythm to it, a grim sort of music. The hiss of seed pouring, the clack-clack-clack of the stitcher, the grunt of two teenage idiots trying not to rupture themselves. We found ourselves competing silently: who could stack faster, who could last longer before moaning, who looked less like a broken scarecrow by the end of each shift.

Lunchtime brought another small mercy. We perched on a couple of pallets out the back, unwrapping more jam sandwiches while trying to keep the wasps at bay. “This,” Johan declared between mouthfuls, “is definitely worse than press-ups in the Alps.”

I nodded, brushing seed dust off my flask. “Aye. But it’s better paid.”

By the end of day one, our arms were jelly, our backs were wrecked, and our overalls could have been entered into an archaeological dig. But we walked out of there with the kind of swagger you only get from earning a wage through sheer, stubborn endurance.

We weren’t just stacking sacks. We were training. Lympstone didn’t know it yet, but the seed mill was forging us into Royal Marines—one sneeze at a time.

We strutted out of that mill like conquering heroes, pockets jangling with our bonus money and clothes carrying enough seed dust to start a small farm of our own. Johan even suggested bottling it up and flogging it as “Authentic Mill Worker Musk.” I told him no one in their right mind would buy it—though, judging by the looks we got on the bus home, maybe he was onto something.

Still, the feeling was undeniable: we’d grafted, we’d sweated, and we’d come out the other side with proof that we could do more than just sprint up hills and charm Swedish girls. We could actually work. Real, backbreaking, grown-up work. And it felt… weirdly good.

Back at home, Mum nearly fainted when we handed over our share of the housekeeping. Harry just nodded with that quiet pride dads specialise in, before reminding us not to blow the rest on “silly nonsense.” Naturally, we immediately started plotting what kind of silly nonsense we could get away with.

We knew what was coming. Christmas was around the corner, January not far behind. Lympstone loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon—full of mud, pain, and moustachioed men shouting about “character.” But for now, we had a brief window of warmth, food, family, and a smug sense of having survived honest labour.

And if that wasn’t worth a toast, nothing was.

Back at school, Tim finally got what he’d needed for years: answers. After another disastrous spelling test and a teacher who, for once, actually looked past the red pen marks, he was sent for an assessment. The result came back with a word he’d never heard before—dyslexia.

Instead of feeling broken, he felt lighter. It wasn’t that he was stupid, or lazy, or any of the things whispered in corridors. His brain just worked differently. For the first time, the teachers stopped sighing and started helping. He was given extra time, coloured overlays for reading, and a patient tutor who didn’t mind when he stumbled over words. Slowly, things began to click.

He wrote to Petra that evening, pouring it all out in his scratchy hand. “Turns out I ain’t thick after all, Darling. Just wired different. They’re giving me proper help now, and it feels like I can finally breathe.”

Her reply came back almost quicker than the postman could carry it: three pages of joy, pride, and underlined I always knew you were clever. Tim read it until the paper grew soft at the creases. For the first time in a long time, he believed her.

When the day came to collect the suits, Burton’s assistant gave us a look usually reserved for groomsmen who’d clearly mistaken the wedding for a job interview at the Bank of England. We didn’t care. Slipping into those pinstripes was like stepping into a new skin—grown-up, confident, ready for whatever the world (or a Swedish parade ground) could throw at us.

Johan did a slow turn in front of the mirror, smoothing his lapels like he’d just been nominated for “Best Dressed Recruit’s Boyfriend 1972.” I adjusted my cufflinks with the seriousness of a man who’d never owned cufflinks before.

“Mate,” I said, admiring the both of us in the glass. “We look like Bond.”

“Yeah,” Johan replied, straight-faced. “Sean Connery on a budget.”

We grinned. That was enough.

By the time we boxed the suits back up for the flight, we were buzzing. Not from vanity (though, honestly, we were practically radioactive with self-satisfaction), but from the thought of seeing the girls again. Suits were one thing. Watching their faces when we stepped onto that parade square? That was going to be something else entirely.

We flew into Sweden the day before the parade, still buzzing with the smug glow of Burton’s tailoring. At arrivals, Erik was waiting—broad grin, arms wide, the kind of man who could make an airport feel like home. He clapped us both on the shoulders as if we’d just won something, though in truth, it was his pride that won the day: proud of his girls, proud of us, though he hadn’t quite clocked the “future sons-in-law” detail yet.

On the drive out, we picked up Anna, Silvi, and Lars en route—not literally, mind, they were packed neatly into the car behind. Johan immediately bailed into the family convoy, leaving me with Erik and his running commentary on everything from traffic etiquette to which stretch of road he’d personally snow-shovelled the winter before. I nodded in all the right places, secretly marvelling at how much easier it was to understand Swedish when delivered at Erik’s booming, cheerful pace.

By the time we reached the hotel near the training depot, we’d been folded seamlessly into the family rhythm. Dinner that evening was a feast of warmth: hearty food, easy laughter, and the kind of glances between parents and daughters that said more than words could.

The meal was lovely, the wine flowed just enough to take the edge off our nerves, and the polite laughter did an admirable job of papering over what tomorrow would bring. Erik was in fine spirits, Anna fussed as only a mother can, and Lars and Silvi provided just enough banter to keep things light. Beneath it all, though, Johan and I carried that jittery anticipation you can’t quite laugh away.

After a nightcap (or possibly two), we excused ourselves with practiced smiles and slipped off to the hotel. There, in the quiet hum of the radiator and the faint rattle of pipes, we laid our suits out like armour for the morning. A final nod to each other, the sort that said here we go, and then it was lights out.

Suited, booted, and quietly braced for the next day—when our girls would step out not as daughters or sweethearts, but as fully-fledged soldiers. And with any luck, not faint on the parade ground.

After breakfast the next morning, we suited up—literally. Dressed in our freshly tailored navy pinstripes, we checked out of the hotel looking like we were auditioning for a Cold War spy thriller. With nerves tucked neatly behind our ties, we made our way to the barracks.

Upon arrival, we were shown into the mess hall for coffee, where an officer delivered a briefing on the morning’s proceedings with all the verve of a man who’d given the same speech every week for the past twenty years. Polite, precise, and only marginally awake.

Soon after, we were ushered into the parade hall—though “hall” might have been a touch generous. It was, in truth, a large, draughty shed. But it had bunting, seating, and a military band who launched into their overture with such gusto, they could’ve roused the most battle-hardened hangover from its foxhole.

The air smelled faintly of polish, starch, and nerves. Families shuffled into the rows of chairs, mothers whispering into handkerchiefs, fathers pretending they weren’t about to burst with pride. Johan and I found our places, straightened our cuffs, and tried—utterly failed—not to look like two lads about to watch the centre of their worlds march past in uniform.

The hall fell quiet as the band struck up its opening march, drums rattling like distant thunder. All eyes turned toward the great double doors at the far end.

Then came the recruits.

Boots hammered the concrete in steady rhythm as they filed in, two ranks wide, shoulders squared and chins high. The echo of each step filled the draughty shed, reverberating up into the rafters like a promise.

They looked magnificent—nervous, yes, a few faces pink with effort or adrenaline—but magnificent all the same. Every polished button caught the light, every beret sat at a carefully practised angle, every stride carried the weight of weeks of sweat, blisters, and barked commands.

At the head of the column, the sergeant’s voice cut through the music like a whipcrack, calling the pace, keeping them in perfect step. The recruits didn’t just walk onto that parade square; they claimed it.

With military precision—and just a hint of nervous fidgeting—they marched in and halted smartly in front of the stands. The Sergeant barked them to halt, then advance into review order. They advanced like a well-oiled machine... albeit one or two gears short in places.

“Open order, right dress!” came the next command, and with arms flung out to measure gaps—plus the occasional subtle nudge—they straightened their ranks with admirable, if slightly chaotic, determination.

Vinka stood proud as the right marker, with Marlin beside her—both resplendent in their full dress uniforms, like action-figure versions of grace and grit. Their boots gleamed, their posture was textbook, and their expressions hovered somewhere between focus and sheer don’t-you-dare-trip concentration.

As the inspecting officer began his slow march down the line, he paused to speak to each recruit in turn. Meanwhile, the band struck up again—delivering the musical equivalent of, “You’re doing great, sweetie!” with all the brassy optimism of a royal garden party.

After completing the inspection and returning to the saluting dais, the troop officer reclaimed command. The recruits were ordered to march past—first in slow time, all pomp and ceremony, like a royal procession with extra starch. Boots rose and fell in unison, measured and deliberate, each step echoing with the weight of ceremony.

Then came the shift into quick time, which had noticeably more bounce—someone at the rear clearly interpreted the tempo as “let’s get this over with,” and the rest followed suit, arms swinging crisply in rhythm. Still, they carried it off with a mix of determination and nervous pride that made the watching families lean forward in their seats.

They re-formed smartly in front of the dais, standing tall as the inspecting officer launched into a rousing speech about honour, duty, and—if we caught it right—possibly socks. We’ll admit, Johan and I zoned out for a moment somewhere between “tradition” and “sacrifice,” but the applause jolted us back in time for the final salute.

And just like that, the recruits marched off—not as wide-eyed trainees fumbling with berets and boots, but as fully qualified defenders of the realm. The only thing louder than the band was our swelling pride.

While the girls handed in their weapons—presumably with a touch of reluctance, having grown rather fond of them—we were marched (well, escorted, but “marched” sounds cooler) back to the mess hall for another round of military-grade coffee. Just as the caffeine began to settle in and our pulses dropped below parade tempo, our newly minted warriors swept in—free at last, radiant with relief, and fully aware that they were now officially entitled to boss us around.

The reunion was everything you’d expect: laughter, relief, hugs that crushed ribs and messed up freshly pressed lapels. Someone produced a camera, and before long we were posing for the obligatory photos—some serious, some silly, and one where Johan blinked at the exact wrong moment, forever immortalised mid-squint like a man who’d just realised he’d left the oven on.

Vinka stood tall beside me, her uniform crisp, her grin brighter than the brass buttons on her tunic. I don’t think I’ve ever been prouder—or more certain—that she was ten times tougher than me, and she knew it. Marlin had that same glow, her arm looped happily through Johan’s, her laugh cutting through the chatter like sunshine in the draughty mess hall.

Then came the inevitable logistics: we split into two cars. Johan, still muttering about his ruined photo, headed off with Silvi, Lars, and Marlin. I joined Erik, Anna, and Vinka—wedged in the back seat with the girl who had just marched herself into soldierhood, and into my heart all over again.

Our festive convoy rumbled back toward the Lodge, the cars moving in loose formation like a military parade… only with more tinsel, less marching, and a steady stream of Slade, Wizzard, and Bing Crosby on the radio. Tim was with us this year—his first Christmas in Sweden—and the poor lad was wide-eyed, half from the snow-globe scenery, half from being dropped into the deep end of the Rask family festivities. Petra, of course, had taken him firmly under her wing, which left him grinning like he’d just won a raffle he hadn’t even entered.

The girls’ orders were clear: report back on the 8th of January to begin their trade training as Intelligence Corps linguists. Coincidentally—or perhaps fatefully—that was the same day Johan and I were due to report to the Commando Training Centre Royal Marines at Lympstone.

With that in mind, we treated Christmas and New Year like a final hurrah—a festive ceasefire before the seriousness kicked in. It was all carols, snow, family dinners, and roaring fires… with Tim stumbling through Swedish phrases to the family’s great amusement, Petra translating his efforts into kisses, and the rest of us occasionally pausing—mid-song, mid-toast, mid-snowball fight—to realise that come mid-January, we’d either be crawling through mud or decoding intercepted enemy chatter.

Ah, the spirit of the season.

The little wooden church in the centre of the village glowed like something out of a snow globe, its windows flickering with candlelight as the bells rang out across the snowy square. Fresh drifts blanketed the rooftops, unbroken except for the neat trail of footprints leading from every cottage to the church door.

Inside, it was standing room only—packed with villagers in thick coats and fur-lined boots, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. Johan’s extended family filled half the right-hand side, while the six of us squeezed near the front—me and Vinka, Johan and Marlin, Tim and Petra. The scent of pine and melted wax hung in the air as the congregation lifted Jul, jul, strålande jul in rich harmony, voices rising into the beams overhead.

Tim stood a little stiff at first, wide-eyed and taking it all in. Petra slipped her arm through his and leaned close, whispering translations of the verses, her voice soft and certain. He relaxed at once, his grin flashing even in the candlelight, and by the second verse he was humming along, utterly smitten with both the girl on his arm and the magic of the moment.

As the final notes faded, Vinka leaned close, her lips brushing my ear. “Next Christmas,” she whispered, her voice trembling with certainty, “when we’re eighteen… let’s marry here.”

My heart thudded like sleigh bells. I turned to her, meeting those fierce blue eyes with a soft, lopsided smile. “Aye,” I breathed. “Right here—with everyone we love.”

Our hands found each other across our knees, hidden from the world but burning warmer than any fire.

Beside us, I caught Petra resting her head on Tim’s shoulder, his hand carefully wrapped around hers like he was holding something too precious to ever let slip. First Christmas in Sweden for him—and from the look on his face, he’d already decided it wouldn’t be his last.

The little wooden church in the centre of our village glowed like something out of a snow globe, its windows flickering with candlelight as the bells rang out for Christmas morning. Snow lay crisp and unbroken across the square, except for the neat trail of footprints leading to the door. Inside, the air was thick with pine and melted wax, and every pew creaked under the weight of neighbours wrapped in heavy coats, cheeks pink from the cold.

We sat near the front—Stephen beside me, Johan and Marlin close by, and, for the very first time, Petra with Tim. The choir struck up Jul, jul, strålande jul, voices rising strong and certain, filling the beams above us like sunlight in winter.

Tim’s eyes widened, and he shot Petra that cheeky grin of his—Stephen’s grin, only with more mischief in it—as if to say, what on earth have you roped me into, darling? She leaned close, whispering the words into his ear, and he gave it a go.

The sounds that came out were… well, brave. Swedish vowels tangled with his Cockney tongue until it sounded like someone was trying to auction off fish down at Billingsgate Market. The old lady in front turned her head, clearly entertained, and Tim only grinned wider, humming away like he’d stumbled into the world’s most disciplined pub sing-along.

Petra was shaking with laughter, pretending to cough into her scarf, though she kept her arm locked through his as if she’d never been prouder. By the second verse, he was hopelessly three beats behind, but with such gusto that Stephen leaned over to murmur in my ear, “That’s my brother for you—never knowingly in tune, but always at full volume.”

I smiled. It didn’t matter. He was trying—really trying—and it warmed me to see Petra glowing beside him.

When the hymn ended, I leaned close to Stephen, heart thudding with the kind of courage only candlelight and Christmas can summon. “Next Christmas,” I whispered, “when we’re eighteen… let’s marry here.”

His eyes flicked to mine, soft and certain. “Aye,” he whispered back. “Right here—with everyone we love.”

Our hands brushed together, hidden in the folds of our coats, warm against the cold. And just behind us, Tim muttered—loud enough for Petra, me, and probably half the village to hear—“Cor, that was something, wasn’t it? Reckon even Bing Crosby’d give up if he heard you lot.” Petra only shook her head, smiling, and squeezed his hand tighter.

Just to keep things interesting, Vinka and Marlin decided to slot in a casual little Aikido grading before the year was out. Having trained since childhood, both already held blue belts, and on the 29th of December they tested for their brown belts and basic instructor qualifications.

Naturally, they passed—with flying colours… and a few flying kicks for good measure.

Petra, meanwhile, was there to take her own grading for blue belt. She’d worked hard for it, quietly determined not to be forever just “Vinka’s little sister.” That summer at the lodge had changed her—it wasn’t just the long walks, or the laughter, or even the stolen nights with Tim that left her glowing—it was the sense that she was stepping into her own story now. And when she stepped onto the mats, that confidence showed. Her throws were sharp, her balance steady, her spirit impossible to miss.

The examiner nodded once, firmly, and Petra tied her new belt with a grin so wide it made Tim blush like a guilty schoolboy.

Johan and I clapped, properly impressed—though we made the mistake of asking, “So… show us how it’s done?”

Which, of course, led to a spirited demonstration involving all three girls taking turns throwing us around like sacks of grain. My technique was questionable, my landings worse, but the laughter more than made up for the bruises. Tim, sprawled beside me after Petra had flattened him for the third time, groaned and muttered, “See? Been practising on me since the summer.”

We laughed until our ribs ached—though not half as much as our backs did the next morning.

By the time we all bundled back to the lodge, cheeks still flushed from the grading and bodies a little stiff from the mat, the house was already humming with New Year cheer. The tree glittered in the corner, the fire roared, and Erik and Lars were halfway through decanting another bottle of wine with the sort of ceremony usually reserved for state occasions.

Anna and Silvi, practically glowing, couldn’t stop fussing over their daughters—straightening collars, hugging them tight, and retelling the story of each throw and counter as if they’d been the ones on the mats.

“Three warriors in the family,” Silvi declared with her usual flourish. “No man is safe now!”

“Especially not me,” Tim muttered from the sofa, still rubbing his ribs. Petra, perched smugly beside him with her brand-new blue belt tied around her waist, gave him a playful nudge.

“Don’t complain,” Vinka teased, settling into the armchair with her brown belt looped casually over one shoulder. “You’re her favourite practice dummy—high honour, that.”

Johan raised his glass with a grin. “To Tim—may he survive 1973 without permanent injury.”

The room erupted in laughter as Tim blushed, shaking his head but grinning all the same. Petra squeezed his hand under the blanket, her eyes dancing with both pride and affection.

The girls stood arm in arm—three belts, three grins, and two proud fathers trying not to look misty-eyed—and for a moment, it felt as if the whole world had paused to admire them.

Our skiing expedition, meanwhile, was cut short by the kind of snowstorm that makes even yetis stay home and play cards. We managed a couple of days on the slopes before the weather wrapped the mountains in a thick, icy duvet and declared: “That’s enough fun for you lot.”

Which, truth be told, suited us just fine. The enforced hibernation turned out to be a blessing. For Johan and Marlin, it meant lazy afternoons by the fire, her laughter echoing as Johan fumbled his way through endless rounds of cards. For Tim and Petra, it meant long walks through the pines, the world muffled in snow, their footprints the only evidence of stolen kisses. And for me? It meant Vinka’s grin every time we caught each other’s eye across the dinner table—a grin that promised trouble the moment the lights went out.

The real sport, of course, began after everyone had said goodnight. The great unspoken competition: who could sneak across creaking floors, past dozing parents, and into the right bed without getting caught. Johan swore by timing his footsteps with the old clock’s chime. Marlin relied on soft giggles and sheer audacity. Tim—bless him—was hopeless, but Petra always found a way to cover his clumsiness.

As for Vinka and me? Let’s just say practice makes perfect. A muffled laugh here, a misplaced slipper there… but by morning, we were all miraculously back in our own rooms, yawning through breakfast like angels who’d never dream of breaking curfew.

And if our parents suspected? They never said a word. Perhaps pride kept their lips sealed. Or perhaps, just maybe, they remembered being young once too.

Later, as midnight drew close, we spilled outside the Lodge into the kind of cold that bites your nose clean off if you let it. The snow crunched under our boots, candles flickered in the windows, and the lake lay stretched out like black glass dusted with stars. Fireworks cracked faintly over the village, but here it was quieter—just us, family, laughter, and the clink of glasses raised.

Papa lifted his mug of glögg. “To the year past—and to the year ahead. May it bring courage, joy, and fewer bruises.”

“Not if Petra’s around,” Stephen muttered. Petra gave him a sharp elbow for that, and Tim nearly choked on his drink laughing.

When the clock struck twelve, we were all kissing, hugging, and cheering—warm enough to melt half the snow on the lake. A proper fresh start.

The next night was the big village celebration in the hall. Packed to the rafters with fiddles, food, dancing, and schnapps enough to make a moose forget its name. We feasted, we danced, and we laughed till our cheeks hurt.

Then Johan caught my eye and grinned. The signal. Operation Stealth. One by one, we slipped for the door—Stephen and I first, then Marlin tugging Johan along. Petra tried to glide out unnoticed, dragging Tim by the hand… though subtlety isn’t exactly Tim’s strongest suit. He tripped on the step, landed in the snow, and bounced back up with a bow like some Cockney prince. “Part of the plan, darlin’—standard Swedish New Year’s manoeuvre, innit?” he whispered loud enough for half the village to hear.

Petra rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.

We crunched off through the snow, trying not to giggle, the muffled fiddle music fading behind us. Tim muttered under his breath, “Snow’s slipperier than cobbles back in Poplar. If I end up on me backside again, tell everyone it’s Swedish tradition.” Petra gave him a kiss on the cheek for effort, which shut him up quick enough.

By the time we reached the Lodge, the first rockets lit the sky in bursts of gold and green. Behind us, the whole valley thundered with cheers and fireworks. Ahead of us… well, let’s just say there were fireworks waiting too.

Because when midnight struck, there was plenty of banging heard that night—though not all of it came from the sky.

Saying goodbye was brutal—like having your chest torn open and no way to hold the pieces together. We hugged as though we could fold a whole year of love and laughter into one last embrace. None of us said much—words would’ve shattered us—but the silence was thick with everything we couldn’t say.

When the final boarding call echoed through the terminal, it was like a gunshot.

Tears streamed down our faces—Stephen’s, Johan’s, Tim’s, mine, Marlin’s, Petra’s. We were a tangle of sniffles and watery smiles, each of us trying to be brave and failing miserably. I clung to Stephen like I’d never let him go, breathing in the warmth of him, memorising every detail—the slope of his shoulder, the steadiness of his arms. Beside us, Marlin buried her face in Johan’s chest. And Petra… Petra clung to Tim in an embrace so tight it looked painful, the kind of hold where neither could breathe properly but neither dared loosen their grip, as though air itself might carry them apart.

And then—because there was no stopping it—we had to let go.

The boys turned, backs stiff, shoulders hunched against the weight of leaving, and walked toward the gate. We stayed rooted to the spot, Petra between us, three girls holding on to one another as if we could hold the world still. But we couldn’t. The last glimpse I had was of Stephen’s shoulders vanishing into the crowd. The last thing I felt was the hollow space he left behind.

But even as the emptiness closed in, I knew this wasn’t the end. Not for us. Not for any of us.

Det var bara slutet på början.

It was only the end of the beginning.

Och början – den var vår.

And the beginning—that was ours.