Our Ferry Adventure Went Wrong!

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Three

A Chronicle of Friendship, Love, War, Adventure, and Destiny

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

Chapter Three.

Vinka and Marlin had both passed their driving tests during basic training—because clearly, dodging imaginary enemy fire wasn’t stressful enough. They decided to chuck in a bit of high-stakes parallel parking just for fun.

Fresh off that triumph, they’d gone halves on a modest but plucky little car—something with more heart than horsepower—and were now determined to embark on the Great British Road Trip, navigating the scenic lanes of Devon with Johan and me riding shotgun.

The plan was simple. Romantic reunions. Windswept cliffs. Cream teas. Maybe a picnic or two, if the weather played nice.

It was going to be perfect.

What could possibly go wrong?

Well—quite a bit, as it turned out.

We arrived at the ferry terminal all smiles and confidence—passports ready, coats buttoned up just so. I mean, come on… Marlin and I were trusted by our governments to drive vehicles, shadow targets, gather intelligence, and maybe even intercept the odd dodgy radio signal. So you’d think boarding a ferry would be… I don’t know, routine?

Apparently not.

Nope. According to the ticket office, we were not quite old enough to ride the boat on our own. We could join a military intelligence programme, sure. We could dismantle a listening device with a hairpin and a decent guess. But without an adult—preferably one in a cardigan and sensible shoes—we were a maritime menace. A liability on legs.

Marlin was already halfway through reciting international maritime law under her breath—she does that when she’s furious and trying not to swear in three languages. And me? I leaned in close to the poor lad behind the glass and said, very calmly, “Would you like me to conduct an interview under caution? I’ve had training.”

He blinked. A lot.

Let’s just say… it was not our most graceful boarding.

Meanwhile, completely unaware of the bureaucratic tempest unfolding at the ferry port, Johan and I were stuck back at camp, waiting like a pair of hopeful retrievers by the main gate—ears twitching every time a car backfired.

At first, we thought they were just late. Maybe the ferry had been delayed. No problem.

Then we reckoned traffic. Bit of roadworks. Happens all the time.

Then came the creeping dread… what if they’d ditched the whole plan? Buggered off to Paris for croissants and vengeance, leaving us behind like two spare socks on a radiator?

Six hours past their estimated arrival, we’d worn a track in the gravel so deep it probably showed up on satellite imagery. We were on first-name terms with the duty corporal and had each recited our full romantic histories to the vending machine outside the guardroom.

Johan was ready to file a missing persons report.

I was seriously considering writing a strongly worded postcard.

Because if there’s one thing worse than being stood up… it’s being stood up in uniform, surrounded by lads who definitely won’t let you forget it.

We didn’t want to alarm the girls’ parents unnecessarily—but after six hours of ferry-based radio silence, mild concern gave way to full-blown panic.

So we did what any responsible young men would do in 1970s Britain: we found a phone box and attempted international diplomacy via a crackly landline that smelled faintly of vinegar and old cigarettes.

Johan dialled Vinka’s number, fists full of 10p coins, nerves jangling. The call was answered by Petra—Vinka’s younger sister—whose excited shriek nearly shattered the glass.

Johan recoiled like the receiver had just bitten him.

Petra, bless her, was very excited. From the sound of it, someone had just told her ABBA were coming over for tea, possibly with a unicorn.

By the time she paused long enough to breathe—roughly four minutes in—we were down a small fortune in coins and halfway to a nervous breakdown.

Wild-eyed and shell-shocked, Johan handed me the phone like he was passing over a live grenade.

Big mistake.

Petra had transitioned seamlessly from shrieking to sighing—a breathy, theatrical performance peppered with giggles and the occasional dreamy “Ooooh…” as if I were some lost member of Abba rather than a slightly panicked teenager from Poplar with fluff on his jumper and sweat in his boots.

I tried coaxing out actual words—any update, even a postcode—but all I got was a flurry of heavy breathing, ecstatic muttering, and something about my voice being “like velvet.” I was losing the will to live—and most of my coins.

Desperation mounting, I blurted “DON’T HANG UP!” like I was in a Cold War thriller—and then, inevitably, slammed the phone down myself.

Petra, lovely though she might be, was clearly not built for crisis communication.

Naturally, we hadn’t budgeted for the cost of transcontinental phone flirtation, so off we went into the village, scrounging for coins like desperate Victorian chimney sweeps.

The corner shop changed 50p. The pub coughed up another 70p in a glorious cascade of clinks and clatters. By the end of it, our pockets were jingling like slot machines and we smelled faintly of desperation and pickled onions.

We found a second phone box—less sticky, marginally less vandalised—and this time rang Marlin’s house.

Thankfully, Silvi answered.

Calm. Measured. Slightly amused, like she’d been expecting this exact call since dawn.

But before we could explain much, she summoned Lars so he could “hear your voices and judge for himself.” Because apparently, in Sweden, parental approval sometimes involves being screened by a Viking lie detector.

Between the incessant beeping of the call timer and our frantic coin-feeding, the entire conversation sounded like Morse code performed by two sweating bootnecks under interrogation.

We eventually pieced it together: Erik had driven Anna to the ferry terminal—which is why Petra was left home alone and, judging by her performance, was currently airborne on a sugar high from whatever she’d found in the kitchen.

After much pleading from Vinka—complete with dramatic sighs, puppy-dog eyes, and the kind of heartfelt negotiation that could probably end wars—Anna finally caved.

The compromise? She’d accompany the girls across the channel and stay with her sister Ingrid for a few days, purely for peace of mind.

There was, however, a royal decree: they had to stop over at Johan’s house for one night and continue their journey in daylight. Sensible, really—but at the time, it felt like we’d just been handed a tea-dispensing, eyebrow-raising chaperone who might crush all hope of romance and reckless adventure.

I had visions of her sat between us in the back seat, knitting, reading Psalms, and tutting every time someone mentioned cream tea with a wink.

Thankfully, Anna had no such intentions.

She was there to help, not hover. Which meant—by some miracle—the road trip was back on. And as far as I was concerned, the gods of teenage freedom deserved a medal. I mentally high-fived them all.

When the message came through from the guardroom that “you’ve got visitors,” Johan and I practically teleported.

Backpacks slung, boots barely brushing the gravel, we double-timed it across camp like we were storming a beach—and from the racket up ahead, we weren’t the only ones who’d noticed.

Let’s just say… the girls didn’t blend in.

Vinka and Marlin weren’t just attractive—they were showstoppers. Legs for days, skirts that would’ve given the Queen’s Regulations heart palpitations, and those melodic Scandinavian accents that could turn even the gruffest drill sergeant into a part-time poet.

Even the duty guard looked like he’d forgotten how to blink. Jaw slack. Clipboard drooping. Possibly reconsidering his entire life plan.

Vinka sprinted over and kissed me like I’d just returned from a moon mission.

The poor lads manning the gate looked like cartoon characters—eyes wide, jaws slack, one of ’em even adjusted his beret like it might help him process the scene.

Johan got the same treatment from Marlin—complete with a hug that would’ve sent most blokes into early retirement and a kiss that left steam on his specs.

As for me—cor blimey. After sixteen weeks living in a locker room full of damp socks and Lynx Africa’s prehistoric ancestor, I’d completely forgotten what perfume—or shampoo—smelled like.

Vinka’s scent hit me like a fairy tale. Part wildflowers, part sorcery… all woman. I reckon even my boots sighed.

And for the first time in forever, I was truly, madly, and deeply grateful that I’d slapped on deodorant and changed my shirt. Romance, after all, is a battlefield—and I’d come armed.

To the sound of wolf whistles echoing from the barracks, we climbed into the car like minor celebrities fleeing the paparazzi.

I played the gentleman—held the door open for Vinka. Partly out of manners, partly to enjoy the view… which nearly triggered a full-scale blood pressure incident. That skirt should’ve come with a health warning. For cardiac health. And national security.

My ego, meanwhile, was ballooning like a lifeboat in a storm.

I took my place in the back, feet awkwardly wedged either side of a large Calor gas cylinder nestled in the footwell. The boot, naturally, was crammed tighter than a Navy mess hall on curry night.

Vinka perched atop my holdall like a Nordic queen in exile, while Johan’s kit bag lay sprawled across my lap like a squishy, slightly sweaty footstool. I’d tried sitting on it, but the result looked like a giraffe trapped in a biscuit tin.

Johan, ever the lucky sod, was riding shotgun next to Marlin, all smiles and casual charm. Me? I was stuffed in the back like a henchman in a dodgy heist film… but I wouldn’t have traded places for the world.

The car—an elegant shade of “faded smurf blue”—was a much-loved Volvo P144. The sort of vehicle that had clearly outlived at least three owners, two carburettors, and possibly a Viking raid.

Marlin drove with the sort of confidence you only get from parallel-parking on black ice during a snowstorm while chewing gum and listening to Abba.

She made it about half a mile before veering gracefully into a lay-by and putting the handbrake on with theatrical flair.

What followed was less “road trip” and more “acrobatic showcase,” as Johan and Marlin demonstrated a level of flexibility rarely seen outside of Olympic gymnastics or a particularly racy circus act.

Meanwhile, Vinka and I made full use of the cramped back seat—which, within minutes, took on the temperature and humidity of a Swedish sauna being run by hormonal teenagers with no regard for elbow room or restraint.

It was, frankly, the best start to a holiday in recorded history. I half expected someone to light fireworks. Or hand me a medal.

As for the unfortunate passengers aboard the 11:15 to Exeter… well, let’s just say their quick trip to the shops came with an unexpected sideshow.

If any of them glanced toward our fogged-up Volvo, they’d have caught a fleeting glimpse of something halfway between a Scandinavian love story and a public service warning about the dangers of condensation.

Luckily, the laws of physics—and steamed glass—were on our side.

From the outside, we were just silhouettes. Anonymous. Innocent. Respectable.

From the inside? We were two lads and two girls, steaming up a Swedish saloon like it was a mobile hot tub, high on freedom, romance, and the faint whiff of dashboard vinyl.

Once the windscreen had cleared—thanks to a team effort involving Johan’s sock and blasting the heater like it owed us money—we rumbled off in the general direction of Plymouth.

Our destination wasn’t the city itself, but the picture-postcard fishing village of Brixton, Devon. Think smugglers’ coves, cream teas, and sleepy charm… or so the brochure reckoned.

Having learned from our last leave (where our sleeping arrangements nearly involved haunted hoovers and ghostly landladies in parachute lingerie), we’d wisely booked a campsite in advance.

It boasted “stunning views over the River Yealm”—which, we soon discovered, meant “you’ll be blown into the Yealm backwards if the wind so much as sneezes.”

Camping had sounded like a charming idea at the time—back when we were warm, indoors, and suffering from a dangerous lack of seasonal awareness.

We’d imagined daffodils, sunshine, birds chirping… maybe a light breeze rustling through a picture-perfect Devon meadow.

What we got was late-winter frost thick enough to skate on, and a wind so sharp it could slice a pasty clean in half.

By midday, the ground had thawed just enough to turn the campsite into a boot-sucking swamp—equal parts soggy grass and existential despair.

Every step came with the unmistakable sound of squelch and regret. Even the tent pegs looked like they wanted to climb back into the box and wait for summer.

Still, despite conditions resembling a low-budget Arctic expedition, we made the best of it.

Our romantic getaway may have involved trench foot and rationed biscuits, but it gave us something priceless: time.

Long, muddy walks through the countryside gave us space to pair off, turn our handwritten epics into face-to-face confessions, and breathe in something other than boot polish.

And what became clear—through foggy breath, gloved fingers laced together, and the occasional slip into a muddy ditch—was that this wasn’t just teenage infatuation or a nostalgia trip with mates.

We weren’t four childhood friends on a weekend wander.

We were two hopelessly-in-love couples, camping in the sludge, whispering promises, pinching each other’s thermals—and desperately trying not to let our sleeping bags touch the side of the tent.

Because nothing kills romance faster than waking up soaked and smelling like a damp sponge.

Having thoroughly exhausted the limited out-of-season thrills of Brixton—the week’s highlight being a slightly judgmental cat on a windowsill—we decided it was time to venture into Plymouth.

It wasn’t just for the change of scenery (though, after three straight days of mist and mud, it was practically medicinal). No, the real draw was Forty Commando—stationed right there outside town.

I was keen to get a sneak peek at what might one day be home turf for Johan and me. After all, if we were going to be cold, wet, and shouted at for a living, we might as well preview the stage first.

Call it professional curiosity… or masochism with a day pass.

Driving through Dartmoor on the way, we couldn’t help but size up the terrain. Vast, windswept, ominous—it had “mandatory yomp” written all over it in big, muddy letters.

We briefly toyed with the idea of pulling over to practise leopard-crawling through the heather or camouflaging ourselves behind a gorse bush… but decided against it. Just.

This was meant to be a break. And a proper break meant steering clear of anything remotely khaki green.

So we pressed on toward Plymouth—before one of us gave in to temptation and started quoting the Commando training manual over the car radio.

We parked in a multi-storey next to a shopping centre, where the blast of artificial heat hit us like a tropical breeze—albeit one flavoured with overpriced perfume samples, meatball subs, and a hint of bubblegum floor polish.

We wandered aimlessly in and out of shops, enjoying the novelty of being warm and upright without a bergen strapped to our backs. Then the girls exchanged that look—the one that usually meant mischief—and announced they were throwing us a very belated birthday bash back at the campsite.

Our mission? A budget scavenger hunt.

One list each, five pounds maximum, no explanations.

I had a bad feeling mine would involve glitter, balloons, or underpants emblazoned with novelty slogans. Possibly all three.

Back at the campsite, our one big tent stood proudly—like a nylon battleship moored in a sea of mud, puddles, and pure optimism.

The girls had clearly been plotting.

While Johan and I tried not to peek (honest), they got to work transforming the interior into something vaguely resembling a party venue—if your idea of a party involves fairy lights powered by a suspicious car battery, a forest of tea lights waiting to ignite something flammable, and a banner that read “Happy Belated Birthday, You Lucky Idiots”—crafted entirely from loo roll and lipstick.

It was glorious. Deranged. Perfect.

Then came the gift exchange.

Johan, grinning like a lad who knew exactly what he was doing, handed Marlin a polka-dotted gift bag that looked suspiciously like it had recently housed socks. She pulled out… a pair of fluffy handcuffs and a Mars bar.

“It’s symbolic,” Johan said with a wink. “You’re sweet… and dangerously irresistible.”

Marlin nearly choked laughing. “You romantic deviant,” she wheezed.

Vinka, meanwhile, peeled open her package from me: bright pink woolly socks, a plastic toy compass, and a battered tin of travel mints.

“To keep you warm,” I said, doing my best Bond impression, “headed in the right direction… and minty fresh.”

She gave me a look that was equal parts amused and suspicious—just the way I liked it.

Now it was our turn.

I unwrapped my parcel from Vinka—wrapped, rather creatively, in shopping receipts and sheer optimism.

Inside? A plastic tiara, a packet of balloon animals… and—most alarmingly—a sequinned thong.

“It’s for morale,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face.

“Morale?” I croaked. “Or blackmail?”

Johan didn’t fare much better. Marlin had found him a miniature bubble gun, a glow-in-the-dark yo-yo, and a plastic crown. “King of my heart,” she announced sweetly, before jamming the crown onto his head and declaring him ruler of Tent land.

He took it well, blowing bubbles with the solemnity of a man accepting royal duties.

We dined like royalty—if royalty were cold, muddy, and surviving on sausage rolls. The fizzy pop was passed around like champagne, and we sang Happy Birthday with the wild, slightly deranged energy of four people trying to stay warm and awake in a tent held together by hope and questionable stitching.

By the end of the night, we were in stitches—either from the laughter or the long-term damage of sitting cross-legged on a half-deflated airbed that wheezed every time someone moved.

It was the sort of evening you couldn’t plan if you tried—and one we’d never forget. Four best mates, two hopelessly-in-love couples, one oversized, slightly-soggy tent… and a birthday bash so gloriously daft, even the sheep in the next field looked impressed.

Morning arrived with all the subtlety of a drill sergeant wielding a bugle and a hangover. The tent looked like a unicorn had exploded—streamers clinging to every surface, limp balloon animals strewn about like casualties from a party-themed battlefield, and Johan snoring away in his plastic crown, half-mummified in a sleeping bag that had clearly surrendered sometime around 3 a.m.

Outside, a fine Devon drizzle had set in—softening the already sodden ground and turning the campsite into a clay-based obstacle course fit for Olympic mud wrestlers. The girls, ever resourceful, huddled in blankets like tactical burritos and fired up the camping stove, discussing breakfast options with the gravity of a NATO summit. You’d think they were planning a moon landing, not choosing between beans or porridge.

Vinka triumphantly produced a tin of beans, a loaf of bread that looked suspiciously like a damp sponge, and a block of cheese dense enough to stop a tank round. “Luxury rations,” she declared, with all the ceremony of a Michelin chef unveiling her pièce de résistance. I nobly offered to open the beans—promptly snapping the tin opener clean in half. Undeterred, Johan whipped out his boot knife and hacked it open with the precision of a Viking surgeon. We agreed it counted as a success so long as no one needed stitches before 9 a.m..

After a breakfast that mostly stayed on the fork—and only partly ended up in our laps—we packed up the tent with the kind of urgency usually reserved for people pretending they weren’t desperately avoiding the loo block. In the chaos, Vinka somehow managed to fold Johan into the tent canvas and only noticed when a muffled voice from inside shouted, “Oi! This ain’t the bloody sleeping bag!”

With the car reloaded—gas cylinder wedged dutifully in the footwell again, naturally—we set off in the general direction of Lympstone, having jointly decided that pottering through quaint towns and pretending to be culture vultures was far preferable to slipping on cowpats or slowly freezing in muddy boots.

As we drove, the rain eased off, the sun broke through, and a rainbow stretched lazily across the hills like it had been photoshopped in just for us. Marlin smiled and said, “You realise this is the best holiday we’ve ever had?” Johan nodded sagely. “I think the yo-yo really elevated it.” Even Vinka agreed—though she made me solemnly promise never to wear the sequinned thong in public again. “Only private parades,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

With our muddy campsite now a distant squelch in memory, we rolled into Exmouth just before dark, the Volvo wheezing slightly from the hills and stuffed to the gunnels with soggy kit and half-deflated birthday decorations. Where better to spend our last night of freedom than back at the hallowed ground of Mabel’s Guest House?

Mabel welcomed us like we were long-lost nephews returning from a minor war. “Well now, don’t you all look... weathered,” she said, eyes twinkling as she ushered us in. “I’ve already got the heating on and a pie in the oven. You boys are thin as rakes!”

“Thin’s a stretch,” Johan muttered under his breath, patting his belly.

Marlin gave him a look. “You mean rounded at a stretch.”

Upstairs, the rooms were just as we remembered—floral wallpaper, slightly bouncy beds, and the comforting scent of talcum powder and lemon polish. No haunted negligees in sight, thank heavens. Mabel had even left us a tin of homemade shortbread and two miniature bottles of sherry. “For the gentlemen,” she’d said. I wasn’t sure which of us she thought that applied to.

Dinner that night was pure comfort—Mabel’s famous meat pie, fluffy mash, peas so buttery they nearly escaped the plate, and enough gravy to float a canoe. We all sat round the table like a little gang on borrowed time, laughing more than eating, teasing each other like nothing was changing—though every now and then, a silence would fall. Not awkward, just… heavy with the knowing that soon, we’d all be going our separate ways again.

Later, tucked into soft beds with full bellies and hearts a little achy, there wasn’t much talk. Just a quiet “You awake?” followed by a soft “Yeah…” and then silence. The kind that settles gently between people who’ve shared everything, and know it might never be quite the same again.

Morning showed up far too early, dragged in by the smell of frying and the clatter of pans downstairs. We stumbled into the kitchen, hair everywhere, eyes barely open—and there she was, Mabel, standing proud like a general over a battlefield of breakfast. Sausages, bacon, beans, eggs, fried bread, grilled tomatoes, black pudding… and a teapot so massive I’m sure it had its own postcode. She even packed us bacon butties for the road and handed out socks from the guest basket with a wink. “Just in case you’re off yomping through another swamp,” she said, to the boys.

Honestly? She’s probably the closest thing we’ve ever had to an MI6 quartermaster.

“You’re an angel, Mabel,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.

She waved us off with a dishcloth. “Just keep your thongs packed, young man.”

Vinka nearly choked on her tea.

The drive back to camp was quiet, save for the gentle hum of the Volvo and the occasional sniffle disguised as a cough. When we reached the gates, the mood turned thick and sticky with goodbye.

Marlin pulled Johan into a long, slow hug, whispering something in Swedish that made his eyes shine. Vinka didn’t say a word—she just held my face in her hands and kissed me like she meant it, like it was a promise.

“Write to me?”.

“Every chance I get,” I croaked.

As we turned and walked toward the barracks, boots heavy, hearts heavier, I glanced back one last time. The girls stood beside the Volvo, arms around each other, watching us go. Vinka raised her hand in a wave—small, slow, and aching. Johan and I didn’t speak until we were out of sight.

“Best leave ever,” he muttered.

I nodded. “And worst ending.”

Only a few months ago, we might’ve shuffled back to the barracks like reluctant schoolboys at the end of summer hols—heads down, hearts dragging. But not this time.

This time, we squared our shoulders, synced our stride, and marched through the gates like we were storming the beaches. Our boots hit the gravel with purpose, and though our lips wobbled just a little, we didn’t let it show. Not for long, anyway.

By the time we passed the guardroom, heartbreak had been replaced with cheek, and grief with grin. The Sergeant on duty raised an eyebrow at our sudden enthusiasm—probably wondering what we’d been fed and whether it was legal.

Back inside the block, the banter kicked in like muscle memory.

“Oi, Johan,” I said, “think Mabel’ll adopt us if we ask nicely?”

“Only if we bring her a new teapot,” he muttered, “I think I cracked the lid.”

We were back—not just physically, but mentally. The troop’s unofficial morale officers had returned to duty.

And we weren’t done yet.