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The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Nine

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.

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Transcript

Chapter Nine.

The morning arrived far too quickly. A pale spring sun peeked through the birch trees surrounding the lodge, casting soft light across the frosted fields. Inside, the house was just beginning to stir—muffled footsteps upstairs, the clang of a coffee pot in the kitchen, and the low murmur of early risers tiptoeing around after the whirlwind of celebrations.

Tim stood by the Volvo, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, dressed in his travel blues. His coat was unbuttoned, scarf knotted with the kind of casual style only someone trying not to cry could manage. Petra stood opposite him in the driveway, arms folded tightly—not from the cold, but from the effort of holding herself together.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. The birds were singing. It felt wrong.

“I hate this bit,” Petra said finally, her voice low and hoarse.

“Me too,” Tim replied, managing a crooked smile. “I’ve had nicer mornings.”

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. He dropped his bag and held her tightly, the silence stretching between them like elastic—painful, inevitable.

“You’ll write?” she asked, voice muffled against his coat.

“Course I will. I’ll write till you’re sick of reading my waffle.”

She pulled back and looked up at him, eyes bright and glistening. “And you’ll be safe?”

Tim ran a thumb across her cheek. “Petra Rask, I may not be the best at geography, but even I know Münster is mostly just bratwurst and marching bands. I’ll be fine.”

“Promise me?”

“I promise. And if it ever gets serious… I’ll tell you. I won’t hide anything.”

Petra nodded slowly. “I’ll wait for you.”

“I know. But don’t just wait,” he said softly. “Live. Keep dancing. Keep drawing those ridiculous flowers in the margins of your notebooks. Keep laughing like you did last night when your uncle set his sleeve on fire during the waltz.”

She gave a watery laugh, and Tim leaned down, pressing his forehead gently to hers.

“This isn’t goodbye,” he whispered. “This is just… ‘see you very soon, and don’t forget to feed the cat.’”

“We don’t have a cat.”

“Then get one. Call it ‘Private Pickle’.”

She smacked his arm, laughing through her tears. “You are such an idiot.”

“Your idiot,”... he grinned.

They kissed—soft and slow, the kind of kiss that made promises words couldn’t keep. Then Tim pulled back, took up his bag, and stepped toward the car where Ron was waiting to give him a lift to the train station. He turned one last time before climbing in.

“I’ll write from Germany. Every week.”

“You’d better,” Petra called out, arms still folded tight, the wind brushing her hair across her cheeks.

The engine coughed, the wheels crunched over the gravel, and the car pulled away.

Petra stayed standing in the driveway long after it had vanished beyond the trees, hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat, heart full, eyes fierce.

She didn’t cry. Not until she got back inside and found the little note he’d left tucked under her pillow.

My dearest Petra,

If you’re reading this, then I’m already on my way to Germany, and I hate that I didn’t get to say goodbye the proper way—with a kiss that lasted too long and one of your mischievous smiles to carry with me.

I wanted to leave you with more than just that half-empty jar of lingonberry jam and my muddy boots by the door. So here’s a letter—my first one to you, and hopefully the worst of the bunch (they can only get better, right?).

Petra Rask… I still can’t quite believe I get to say your name like that, like it belongs in my life. You’re everything I ever imagined a girl could be—funny, fierce, and so beautiful it’s borderline unfair. Blonde hair that catches the light like summer wheat, eyes as blue as the Baltic, and a laugh that still echoes in my ears even now. And somehow, you looked at me like I was something more than just a lad from Hitchin with scuffed boots and too many freckles.

I’ve never told anyone this before, but during training, they figured out I’ve got dyslexia. Suddenly, all the stuff I thought I was just bad at had a name. It made sense, but it also made me feel small for a bit—until I remembered that you never once made me feel less. You never laughed when I wrote “pudding” as “puding” in that café menu game. You just grinned and ordered two.

You’ve seen past all that. You see me. And that means more than I’ll ever be able to spell properly.

Being up at the lodge with you this week, cuddled by the fire, hearing your stories and seeing the world you grew up in—it didn’t feel foreign. It felt like home. A bonkers, pickle-loving, slightly sauna-obsessed home… but home, all the same.

I’ll write as often as I can (and promise to run it through spellcheck first). I’ll think of you every day. And when I come back, I’ll be hoping—more than hoping—that you’ll still be mine.

Take care of yourself, and maybe keep a space by the fire for me. I’ll be back to fill it.

Always yours...

Tim

P.S. If you do get that ginger cat, please don’t actually call it “Tim Two.” That’s just cruel.

My dear Tim,

You made me cry. Proper tears. The happy kind that catch you off guard and make you smile while you wipe your cheeks on your sleeve like a child who’s just had their heart kissed better.

I’ve read your letter three times now. Once properly, once out loud, and once just tracing the shape of your words with my fingers. I could hear your voice in every line—cheeky, honest, brave. So very you.

Do you remember that coach to Twickenham? You sat beside me, all knees and elbows and nervous grins. I pretended not to notice how you kept glancing at me when you thought I wasn’t looking. You said something daft about Petra being your favourite name in the whole world, and I rolled my eyes—but I was already gone. Just like that.

And then the theatre trip… You brought me a packet of wine gums and offered me all the red ones. That’s when I knew. Only someone who really liked a girl would give away all the best sweets.

It wasn’t the grand gestures, Tim. It was the small, silly, lovely things you did without thinking—how you held my bag when we walked back from the coach, how you leaned in when I whispered a joke, how you never made fun of my accent even when I mixed up “sheet” and “cheat.”

I’m so proud of you—not just for getting through training, but for telling me about your dyslexia. You always made me feel seen, and now I hope you feel seen too. Not just as a soldier, but as the kind, stubborn, wonderful man who makes me laugh even from a thousand miles away.

And yes, I’m still yours. Completely. Since before you even realised you were mine.

Write to me whenever you can. I’ll keep a notebook by my bed just for your letters. And when I miss you too much, I’ll go sit on the garden bench and pretend you’re beside me, still smelling faintly of boot polish and wine gums.

Yours forever,

Petra

P.S... Vinka just read this over my shoulder and said, “About time too.” She always knew.

I was lying on my bunk, boots off, one sock hanging off like it had given up halfway. The others were out or still in the Naafi, but I’d legged it straight back to my locker after the post came round. There it was, right on top of the stack—a cream envelope, neat handwriting, my name in that looping, elegant style that somehow managed to smell like her.

Petra.

I must’ve read it ten times already, but I wasn’t stopping anytime soon. Her words danced in my head like music only I could hear. That bit about Twickenham—bloody hell, I’d forgotten how nervous I was that day. And the red wine gums. I did give her all the red ones, didn’t I? Must’ve been serious even back then.

I grinned, proper wide now, like some daft teenager. Felt my cheeks ache from it, and I didn’t care. Not one bit.

“Oi, Romeo.”

I looked up to see Private Kev Richards, leaning against the doorframe with a mug of tea and one eyebrow raised high enough to qualify as reconnaissance.

“What’s got you lookin’ like a cat who just found the cream and the cow?”

I sat up and, without even meaning to, clutched the letter like it was top secret.

“Nothing,” I said, badly. “Just a letter.”

“Oh aye?” He smirked. “That from the Swedish blonde you keep muttering about in your sleep?”

I gave him a mock glare, but couldn’t stop the laugh bubbling up.

“Maybe.”

“Fair play, mate. Must be some letter. You’ve been grinning like you’ve won the pools and found a tenner in your sock.”

He sauntered off before I could come up with a clever reply, humming something that suspiciously sounded like Chapel of Love. I lay back down, the letter folded neatly in my hands like treasure. I closed my eyes and pictured Petra’s face, the way her nose crinkled when she laughed, the way she tilted her head when she was about to say something cheeky.

Germany suddenly didn’t feel quite so grey.

A couple of days later, we rolled onto the ferry at Gothenburg, bound for Harwich. The girls’ little Volvo was packed tighter than a submarine’s broom cupboard—wedding dresses carefully laid over suitcases, bags of gifts, a picnic tin rattling with leftover pastries, and one slightly squashed bottle of schnapps that had survived the whole honeymoon intact. Just about.

It was the first return crossing of the season, and who should be onboard but our old friend—the singer from past crossings, with that velvet voice and the kind of smile that made you feel like you’d just been tucked into a warm bed with a hot water bottle and a story.

She clocked us almost straight away. We hadn’t even made it past the ferry lounge when she appeared like magic from behind a velvet curtain (or maybe it was just the coat rack).

“Oh my darlings!” she cried, arms flung wide like she’d been waiting all winter just for us. “Look at you—married! And no one warned me? Honestly, I feel like I missed a royal announcement!”

Within seconds, she had us in a group hug, Vinka and Marlin wrapped in mink and perfume, Johan trying not to drop the thermos, and me blinking back a daft grin. She led us straight to the bar for “just one toast,” which somehow turned into three—sparkling wine this time, though she said she’d saved a bottle specially “in case you lot came back.”

That evening, we nestled into the same corner table in the lounge where it had all started. She sang again, of course—soft Swedish lullabies and a jazzy take on “Moon River” that made the whole room go still for a few seconds. We sipped coffee and held hands, the four of us, hearts full and eyes a bit misty.

The next morning, still glowing from the night before (and maybe slightly fuzzy round the edges), she found us again in the café lounge. “Tell me everything,” she whispered, clasping Vinka’s hands like a fairy godmother on her day off. We shared wedding stories, the wild joy of the reception, the look on Petra’s face leading the conga line, and even Johan’s tragic attempt at a waltz that ended with him stepping on my foot and his own.

She laughed till she wheezed and dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “You four,” she said, gazing at us with such fondness it made my chest ache a bit. “You’ve got something rare. Don’t ever let the world make you forget how precious that is.”

As the ferry pulled into Harwich and the British drizzle gave us its usual soggy welcome, we stood by the railing, arms around each other, waving goodbye to the woman who’d somehow become part of our story. She blew us kisses and promised, “Next crossing—champagne and cake. Don’t be late!”

And so it was—Marine and Mrs Heald, Marine and Mrs Heale—stepping onto English soil as proper married folk, passports a little more crumpled and hearts even fuller than when we’d left. It felt surreal, like we’d crossed the North Sea and walked straight into a new chapter—with matching rings, tan lines from Swedish snow, and enough leftover cake to start a bakery.

The very next day, we marched (well, ambled romantically) into Hitchin Town Hall Registry Office for wedding number two—because why settle for one ceremony when you can make it an international double act? This one was all about ticking British boxes and filling the photo album with something that didn’t involve snow or schnapps.

It was a small, joyful affair—Johan’s parents, Ingrid and Harry, came along in their Sunday best, beaming like proud royals. My mum turned up with her husband Ron in his too-tight suit and her usual air of “I told you he’d turn out alright.” Phoebe and Susan brought the chaos, the compliments, and a barrage of questions about Swedish traditions (and if the grooms wore antlers at the reception, bless ‘em).

We posed for photos on the town hall steps, looking far too happy for people standing in front of a government building, and then wandered down to The Sun Old Coaching Inn for a celebratory meal. It’s the sort of pub that manages to be both historic and mildly haunted—low ceilings, creaky floorboards, and a waiter who may or may not have been part of the furniture since the reign of George III. But the chips were excellent, the gravy was thick enough to float a canoe, and the staff turned a blind eye when we started singing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” after the second bottle of bubbly. Unfortunately Tim had only just been posted to Munster so couldn’t make it. But he was in Sweden for the wedding.

By the end of the night, we were all a little tipsy, a lot sentimental, and full of roast beef and future plans.

Anyway, the very next day, the newlyweds—Marlin, Johan, Vinka, and yours truly—rolled into Plymouth like some sort of Scandinavian-British peacekeeping mission, all optimism, luggage, and leftover wedding confetti still stuck in our coat pockets.

We were ready to start married life in our new shared flat, which we’d miraculously managed to sort out before wedding round one and two—proof, if ever needed, that miracles do happen outside of church hours. No removals van, no parents huffing over flat-pack instructions—just us, a few suitcases, a suspiciously noisy kettle, and Vinka’s prized Swedish coffee grinder, which got more reverent handling than Johan’s dress blues.

The flat was a grand old Georgian beauty perched up on Plymouth Hoe—part stately, part slightly drafty, but very us. Ceilings so high you could fly a kite indoors, sash windows perfect for leaning dramatically with a mug of tea, and just enough creaky floorboards to make night-time trips to the loo feel like a spy mission.

Inside, we had all the essentials: two proper bedrooms with big, comfy double beds (no bunks, hallelujah and praise the Ministry of Defence), a bathroom with an actual bath and a shower that didn’t hiss like it was plotting to electrocute you, and a sitting room that could’ve doubled as a snug if we’d had a fireplace—or a pub licence.

The kitchen? A revelation. It was light, spacious, and even had a pantry. Compared to the galley back at barracks—which looked like it had survived the Blitz and lost—we felt like we’d won some domestic lottery. The girls took to it like ducks to cordon bleu. I, meanwhile, mostly hovered near the kettle and offered helpful comments like, “Do we have any more biscuits?”

Now, the dining room—that was no-man’s-land. The girls had annexed it within ten minutes of arrival and declared it their “home office-slash-command-centre.” Between the filing cabinets, typewriters, coded index cards, and one very official-looking Rolodex, it looked more like Bletchley Park than a flat in Plymouth. We were allowed in at mealtimes, on sufferance, provided we didn’t touch anything labelled “classified,” “pending,” or “Marlin’s, do not touch, Stephen.”

The neighbours were characters, to put it kindly. One was a Royal Artillery sergeant from the Citadel who spoke like he was still shouting orders on a gun line—every sentence delivered like a telegram and punctuated with a suspicious glare. The other, a Petty Officer from HMS Raleigh, smelled permanently of Brasso and had a fondness for singing sea shanties in the stairwell at odd hours—usually after half a bottle of Navy rum and a bad day at the dockyard.

We settled in quicker than expected. There was something deeply comforting about knowing your best mates were just through the wall, your wife was brewing coffee two rooms away, and your bath didn’t require a tetanus jab to use. We had a routine. We had a rhythm. We had each other.

Married life had begun—and so far, it was bloody brilliant.

With a few days of leave still in hand, Johan and I took it upon ourselves to give the girls the full Plymouth experience—the grand tour, Royal Marines edition. Think less sightseeing, more “strategic reconnaissance of bakeries, pubs, and department stores.” We marched them up and down the Hoe, pointed out the statue of Sir Francis Drake (“local lad, bit of a show-off”), and gave a highly unofficial commentary on every pub from the Barbican to Union Street, complete with ratings for ale quality, jukebox selection, and likelihood of brawling Matlows.

We even braved the bureaucracy of opening joint bank accounts, which felt like some kind of emotional obstacle course. “Do you two live at the same address?” “Yes.” “Are you married?” “Yes.” “To each other?” “No.” Cue puzzled looks and a small moment of existential crisis for the bank clerk.

After that, we got the girls registered with the local GP, sorted out camp passes so they could visit without tripping any alarms, and made sure they knew how to get to the Naafi for emergency biscuits. All the little details of life we normally took for granted suddenly felt massive—like laying foundations for some grand future that included grocery lists and washing powder.

But here’s the best part: being in the flat together meant they had each other—for company, comfort, and, of course, collusion. Within 48 hours, the dining room whiteboard had become a mission control centre, covered in lists with ominous titles like “Things That Need Fixing”, “Things We’ll Need to Explain to the Landlord”, and “Don’t Let the Boys Near This.”

Johan and I tried to maintain the illusion of command, but we both knew—this operation was under new management. And honestly? We wouldn’t have it any other way.

Married life: off to a flying—and slightly chaotic—start.

After the whirlwind of weddings, honeymooning via ferry, and settling into newlywed domestic bliss, real life came crashing back with all the grace of a boot up the backside. No sooner had Johan and I reported back for duty than we were “volunteered”—that’s Marine-speak for no you don’t have a choice—for a string of driving courses.

First up: the legendary two-week motorbike course. We strutted in thinking we’d be channelling Steve McQueen and Barry Sheene by lunchtime. What we got was two solid weeks of clutch control, wobbling through cones, and trying not to park ourselves in a hedge.

Johan, bless him, had a moment of glory—if your definition of glory includes tipping over a 250cc bike at walking speed because a sandwich wrapper blew across his visor. The instructor just sighed, checked his clipboard, and christened him “Sidecar Sid.” Naturally, the name stuck like cam cream in your eyebrows.

Somehow, we both passed. First time too, though I’m fairly sure my examiner only signed me off because he couldn’t bear to watch me do another hill start.

Next was the three-week Land Rover and trailer course, which we naively assumed would be easier. Wrong. It turns out reversing with a trailer is black magic, best left to shepherds and old men in flat caps. We spent days jack-knifing, sweating, and muttering things under our breath that would’ve got us extra duties if anyone overheard.

Still, by the end of it, we were trailer-qualified, scarred only by a dented fence post somewhere near Bickleigh and a deep-seated mistrust of anything with a tow hitch. Another course ticked off, another skill acquired, and one step closer to being the Royal Marines’ answer to the AA.

With our new qualifications proudly stamped and laminated like golden tickets, and the girls quick to add us to the car insurance (a bit too quick, come to think of it—almost like they’d been waiting…), Johan and I were back in the thick of it, just in time for the next big adventure: deployment.

Royal Marine life was, dare I say, peaking. We were fully trained, fully married, and fully in possession of at least two forms of transport. Then came the word: we were being attached to four one Commando for a summer tour in sunny Cyprus.

Now, when I say “sunny,” I mean it quite literally. Scorching sun, blue skies, and more dust than a forgotten drill shed. But of course, this wasn’t some luxury posting—it was peacekeeping. Or, as our corporal put it, “standin’ about lookin’ hard while tryin’ not to get in the middle of someone else’s punch-up.”

We were part of a UN mission, trying to keep Greek and Turkish forces from turning the island into a permanent bonfire. The official job was border monitoring, patrols, and showing presence. The unofficial job? Be friendly, be firm, and for the love of Churchill, don’t offend either side’s mum.

It was hot, dusty, and occasionally tense, but honestly? It was fascinating. There was something surreal about marking out a ceasefire line with blue helmets and politeness, while being watched by blokes in sandbagged positions holding AK's and looking like they hadn’t smiled since 1960.

For our efforts, we earned the UN Cyprus Medal, which looked very smart on parade, and an even smarter tan, which promptly peeled off the moment we stepped foot back in Plymouth. Still, we’d done our bit. Another chapter added. Another story to scribble into a letter.

The girls had turned our dining room into what could only be described as Scandi Mission Control. There were dictionaries in seven languages, files marked confidential (or possibly just complicated), and a strict “no tea near the paperwork” rule that Johan broke exactly once. Never again.

Vinka had this amazing ability to translate dense legal German while simultaneously humming Abba songs and keeping an eye on the pasta. Marlin, on the other hand, could juggle four dialects and still remember we were out of milk. Honestly, if MI6 had any sense, they’d’ve offered them a contract and a kettle years ago.

Meanwhile, Johan and I trained like we were about to invade Narnia. The kit list for Norway read like a survival manual for madmen: snowshoes, skis, Arctic sleeping bags, thermals thick enough to stop a bullet… and a curious item labelled snow saw. I asked what it was for and the corporal just grinned and said, “You’ll find out, Heale.”

Brilliant.

So, with Christmas trees twinkling, the kettle on, and a faint whiff of cinnamon in the air, we prepared ourselves—mentally and physically—for the shift from cosy flat with multilingual angels to frozen hellscape with rifles.

And yet, as I watched Vinka cross-legged on the floor surrounded by half the EU’s paperwork, biting the end of her pencil and muttering in Spanish, I thought—yeah. This is the life. Mad, multilingual, and marvellous.

We decided to spend Christmas and New Year up in Sweden—because clearly, the best way to train for freezing your bits off in Norway is to warm up by freezing ‘em off in Sweden first. Logical, right?

We arrived at the lodge—snow crunching underfoot, fairy lights glowing, chimney puffing away like it was doing jazz solos—and who should open the door but Petra, all rosy cheeks and wide smile. But before I could even say “God Jul,” out popped Tim, grinning like the cat who got the cream, the custard, and the key to the dairy.

Tim. My little brother. At the lodge. With Petra.

I just stood there blinking like a broken indicator. Johan choked on his laugh. Vinka and Marlin, of course, already knew. Traitors.

“Surprise!” Petra chirped, linking her arm with Tim’s like they’d been a thing for decades.

Apparently, they’d been an item since the wedding. A few letters, a surprise visit or two, and next thing you know, my kid brother’s living the dream—curled up in front of a Swedish fireplace with a blonde goddess and a mug of glögg.

He looked about as pleased with himself as a spaniel in a sausage shop.

“Alright, mate,” Tim said, trying to play it cool while Petra kissed his cheek. “Hope you don’t mind me crashin’ the party.”

“Crash away, mate,” I said, slapping him on the back. “Just don’t eat all the herring. And if you hurt her, I’ll bury you in the snow and let the elk sort it out.”

He grinned... “Fair.”

So there we were—all back together, snow falling outside, the lodge warm with laughter and the smell of cinnamon buns, and even Tim and Petra now part of the madness. I couldn’t’ve written it better.

This Christmas? It was shaping up to be a proper belter.

Arm in arm, leaving behind the coffee, the announcements, and the boy she’d given her heart to—flying off in a tin can with a thousand miles between them and spring.

And yet, for those few days, none of that mattered. We filled the rooms with music, stories, and more food than was sensible. Papa Erik told his old hunting tales by the fire, Lars carved the ham with military precision, and the rest of us raised glasses until our cheeks glowed. Outside, the snow piled high against the windows, but inside the world felt safe, warm, and entirely ours. For a moment—just a moment—we believed it could stay that way forever.