The SNOWY Garden Holds a Secret

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Two

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 Eleven.

It was well past midnight. The fire in the lounge had burnt down to a soft, pulsing glow, and the house had gone quiet—just the occasional creak of old wood settling under snow. I slipped out for a moment of peace, but as I opened the back door onto the porch, I spotted someone already there.

Tim. Sitting on the old bench, coat pulled tight, collar up, staring out at the snowy garden like it owed him answers.

I sat down beside him without a word. The quiet between us stretched, until it couldn’t anymore.

“I thought I’d screwed it all up,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the dark horizon.

I glanced at him. “What do you mean?”

He took a shaky breath. “After that thing with the bullies… you know, back in school—when I stopped going for a bit. Everyone thought I was just being difficult. Truth is, I was scared. Proper scared. They broke something in me that day, and I didn’t know how to put it back.”

I nodded slowly. I remembered. The silence around it had been deafening.

“And the dyslexia…” “Didn’t get picked up until Army training properly. All those years, I thought I was just thick. Teachers gave up. I gave up. Thought I was destined to be the idiot younger brother who’d cock it all up.”

“Tim,” I said quietly, “you never were.”

He shook his head, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You had your path. Grammar school. Ingrid. Sweden. Friends. Vinka. I was stuck in Hitchin trying to act like I wasn’t drowning.”

There was such rawness in his voice, it twisted something in my chest.

“You weren’t stuck,” I told him. “You were just finding your way through a storm no one else could see.”

Tim gave a bitter little chuckle. “Petra said the same thing. Only nicer. And in that accent that makes everything sound like poetry.”

I grinned. “She’s good for you.”

“She’s the first person who saw me. Really saw me. Not as ‘Stephen’s brother’ or ‘the dropout.’ Just… me.”

“You’re more than you think,” I said. “You always have been. Brave enough to sign up. Strong enough to fight through the past. And lucky enough to fall for a girl who’ll take your side no matter what.”

He looked down at his hands. “I still feel like I’m catching up.”

I leaned back, letting out a breath. “We all are, mate.”

Footsteps crunched softly in the snow. Petra appeared, wrapped in a cardigan over her nightdress, her blonde hair a sleepy halo in the moonlight.

“You’re not hiding again, are you, Poacher?” she said gently, the nickname slipping out like a secret just for him.

Tim stood up slowly, his hand brushing hers. “Just… catching up with big brother.”

She smiled, then turned to me. “He's okay?”

“He’s better now,” I said.

Together, they headed inside, her hand on his back, his shoulders no longer hunched. And for the first time in years, I saw my little brother not just surviving—but healing.

The sun had barely crept above the treetops, casting long blue shadows over the snowdrifts outside the lodge. I was standing by the kitchen window, waiting for the coffee to brew, when Petra padded in—still wrapped in her thick cardigan, cheeks flushed pink from sleep or maybe something deeper.

She didn’t speak right away. Just came over and leant her head against my shoulder, like she used to when we were little and needed reassurance without words.

“He told me everything,”

I glanced down at her, but stayed quiet. Petra never rushed things when it came to sharing her heart.

“Last night… after the fire. We sat up for hours.” "Tim opened up in a way I don’t think he ever has before. Not to anyone.”

She pulled back to look at me properly, her blue eyes glossy. “About his parents?” I asked gently.

“The divorce. The chaos that came after. Feeling like he was the one forgotten in all of it. And the bullying at school—how that pushed him over the edge. He said he stopped trusting people after that. Started believing he was broken.”

I felt my heart squeeze. I’d always seen Tim as the cheeky one, the charmer with the rakish smile. But I knew now, thanks to Petra’s tenderness, that beneath all that was a boy who had carried far too much pain in silence.

“He thought he was stupid, Vinka. Because of the dyslexia, because he never got the help he needed. He said… he said he thought his life was over before it really began.”

Petra’s voice cracked, and I reached out, pulling her into a hug.

“But you’ve changed that,” I whispered.

She shook her head. “No, I just listened. He’s the one who chose to speak. And now… now he’s healing.”

There was a long pause.

“I love him,” she said quietly, but with absolute certainty. “Not just the smile and the jokes and the way he calls me ‘Trouble.’ I love all of him. The scared parts. The angry parts. The bits he thought no one would ever want.”

I kissed the top of her head. “You’ve always had a knack for loving the right people.”

She chuckled through her tears. “Must run in the family.”

We stood there for a moment longer, just breathing in the stillness, the quiet warmth of the kitchen, the scent of coffee in the air.

“He calls me Poacher,” she added with a small laugh... “Can you believe it?”

“Oh, I can,” I smiled. “You’ve definitely stolen his heart.”

The sky was that pale winter blue that only comes after a night of fresh snow. The air was sharp and delicious—cold enough to sting your nose, but still full of magic. Petra and I bundled ourselves into thick coats, scarves wrapped like fortresses around our necks, and crunched our way out into the woods.

We didn’t say much at first. Just walked in companionable silence, boots leaving twin trails behind us, the snow creaking gently with each step. The trees sparkled under their frosted coats, and somewhere in the distance, we could hear the faint call of a jay.

Petra nudged me with her elbow. “You always had this, didn’t you? All of it. The snow, the trees, the peace…”

I smiled, brushing a pine branch out of her way. “Not always. But enough to miss it when it’s gone.”

She nodded. “I get that now.”

We came to a small clearing where the sun poured through the trees like golden syrup. Petra turned to face me, her breath curling in little clouds between us.

“He really thought he’d made a mess of everything,” “Tim, I mean. He told me he spent years feeling like an extra in someone else’s story. Like the screw-up little brother who never quite figured it out.”

I felt that ache again, low in my chest. “He never said.”

“Of course not. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to be a burden. He wanted to be funny. Strong. Untouchable.” She scoffed lightly. “And yet, the first time he told me he couldn’t spell half the things he wanted to write to me, I nearly cried.”

I reached out and squeezed her gloved hand. “You love him.”

She nodded, her eyes glistening. “Fiercely.”

We stood like that for a moment, in the hush of the woods, surrounded by towering trees and soft snow and so much unsaid.

“I used to envy you, you know,” she added, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Me?”

“You had Stephen. You had this whole second family. I always thought I was just tagging along. But now… Tim makes me feel like I belong. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

I leaned in and rested my head briefly on her shoulder. “You are, Petra. You always were. It just took you a little longer to find your piece of the puzzle.”

She chuckled. “He calls me Poacher, you know.”

I laughed. “And does he blush when he says it?”

“Only when I pinch his bum after.”

We both burst into giggles, loud enough to startle a squirrel from a nearby branch. And for a while, we just walked—two sisters-in-love, two girls from the same start, now bound by snow, secrets, and soulmates.

By the time we made it back to the lodge, our noses were red, our cheeks pink, and our moods brighter than ever. Petra stomped her boots against the porch and grinned at me like a mischievous child on Christmas morning.

“Last one to the fire has to make the tea!” she shouted, already halfway through the door.

“Oh, you cheating little Poacher!” I called after her, but I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to give chase.

Inside, the smell of cinnamon and cardamom filled the air, and the warmth from the hearth hit us like a welcome punch. Stephen and Tim were sprawled in armchairs, mid-mug, mid-story. Judging by their expressions, I’d say Tim had just finished retelling his legendary sandwich-wrapper motorbike incident—with added sound effects.

“Oi oi,” Stephen called as we shook off the snow. “Look who’s back—Snow White and the other Snow White.”

Petra marched straight over to Tim and plonked herself on the arm of his chair. “We’ve been discussing your most flattering qualities.”

“Oh?” Tim blinked up at her, pretending to be alarmed. “Is this the part where I need a lawyer?”

She kissed the top of his head. “Too late. You’re already guilty.”

Stephen came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. “You alright, love?”

I leaned back into him, sighing contentedly. “Mmm. We talked. She’s smitten, poor thing.”

He nuzzled into my scarf. “He’s smitten too. Can’t stop grinning like he’s just won a meat raffle.”

Petra turned to Tim. “Tell her what you said to me this morning.”

He squirmed slightly. “Er… the part about the eggs? Or the bit where I said you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me?”

She beamed. “That one.”

Stephen let out a soft whistle. “Cor. He’s gone full poet. Next thing we know, he’ll be writing sonnets in shaving foam on the bathroom mirror.”

“Already done that,” Tim said, deadpan. “She asked me to stop. Said it was blocking the light.”

We all laughed, and for a moment, the room swelled with that delicious feeling—comfort, love, mischief, and the certainty that we were right where we belonged. Four chairs pulled closer to the fire, four mugs filled with warm drink, and a fire that crackled like it knew it was warming more than just fingers and toes.

“Right then,” Stephen declared, raising his cup. “Here’s to love, snow, and sisters who don’t make us go on emotional walks every morning.”

Petra raised her brow. “You’re next, sunshine.”

“Oh no. I’m allergic to introspection.”

And that’s how we spent the rest of the afternoon: teasing, toasting, and occasionally tossing logs on the fire like overexcited Vikings. A perfect ending to a perfectly imperfect Christmas.

The house had finally gone quiet, save for the occasional creak of old timber settling and the muffled snore drifting up from somewhere downstairs—probably Uncle Lars, judging by the rhythm.

Stephen closed the bedroom door with a soft click and padded across the floor in his socks, hair still damp from the late sauna. I was already curled under the thick duvet, propped up against a sea of pillows, his old Royal Marines T-shirt hanging off one shoulder and my legs tangled in the warm cotton sheets.

“You coming to bed,” I murmured, “or planning to pace a trench all night?”

He grinned, pulling his T-shirt over his head and tossing it onto the nearest chair. “Just makin’ sure the perimeter’s secure,” he said in a low whisper, slipping in beside me and wriggling like a kid trying to get comfy. “Don’t want any surprise raids from Sven or that bloody cat.”

I curled into him immediately, sighing as his arm slid around my waist. The world outside could have frozen solid, but in that bed, in that moment, we were toasty as a pair of smug cinnamon buns.

“Do you ever think we’d end up here?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper.

He kissed my forehead, then let his lips rest there. “Not in a million years. Thought I’d end up on my own, livin’ above a chip shop with a pet ferret. And now look at me—married to a Swedish goddess with better snowball aim than most commandos.”

I laughed, quietly. “You’ve come a long way since that boy with the jellybean-stained jumper and that awful haircut.”

“Oi,” he said, mock wounded. “That haircut was ahead of its time.”

“It was upside-down.”

“You know somethin’, Vinka? All that stuff… everything before you… it just feels like noise now. Like static. You’re the one thing that makes sense.”

I turned to face him properly, laying a hand on his chest, feeling the steady thud beneath. “Stephen,” I said softly, “I feel like I’ve spent my whole life finding you. Even before we met. Like I already knew your laugh, your voice, your warmth.”

He brushed my hair back gently, his eyes flickering in the low glow of the bedside lamp. “And I knew I was in trouble the minute you laughed at me that day on the slopes.”

I smiled. “You fell so hard.”

“So did you.”

We kissed then—slow and deep and certain—and when we finally settled, tangled in sheets and limbs and shared warmth, I rested my head against him and whispered, “Don’t ever stop coming home to me.”

“Never,” he murmured into my hair. “You’re my home, love.”

And with that, the lodge faded into stillness, the snow blanketed the world outside, and we drifted off—wrapped in each other and the kind of peace that only comes when everything is, finally, right.

The airport was one of those nondescript places where time seems to sag, like the very walls are built out of waiting. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, the café served coffee that tasted like boiled carpet, and every tannoy announcement echoed like a countdown you didn’t want to hear.

We were all flying out together—Stephen, Johan, Marlin and I bound for London, and Tim headed to Germany via Düsseldorf. But despite us all being there, the world had narrowed to just two: Tim and Petra.

They stood a little apart from the rest of us near the large glass windows, where planes blinked lazily on the tarmac beyond. Petra clutched his hand tightly, her other hand gripping the edge of his coat like she was trying to memorise the feel of him. Her eyes were already red. Not the loud, sobbing kind of tears—these were quiet, controlled, and somehow even more heartbreaking.

“I hate this part,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

Tim looked down at her, swallowing hard. “Me too. But you know I’ll write. Every day if I can.”

“You better. And don’t forget, I’m coming to Münster next month. I’ve already told Papa.”

“I’ll put fresh sheets on the spare bed.”

“Fresh sheets?” “Private Tim Heale, are you trying to impress me?”

“Always,”.

There was a final boarding call. Stephen glanced at me, then back at them, his expression soft. We gave them space.

Petra wrapped her arms around Tim’s neck like she was anchoring herself. “Don’t get hurt,” she whispered into his collar.

He held her close, kissed her properly this time, and murmured, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Petra Rask. Don’t you forget that.”

She nodded against his chest, then slowly, painfully, let go.

Tim turned to us, gave his brother a solid handshake and half a hug, then walked toward his gate with that particular stiffness that only comes when you’re holding your heart together by sheer will.

Petra stood frozen as the glass doors swallowed him up. I slipped my arm around her.

“He loves you, you know.”

“I know,” she said quietly. “And I love him. That’s what makes it so bloody hard.”

We walked to our own gate in silence.

Back in Plymouth.

We’d barely had time to digest the last of the sausages before we were herded like obedient penguins onto a convoy of green buses and trundled down to Devonport. Destination? HMS Fearless—a great hulking slab of steel that looked like a cross between a floating car park and a concrete loaf. She was an amphibious landing platform, whatever that meant in real terms, but we quickly found out she could swallow four landing craft, a couple of tanks, and about five hundred Royal Marines without so much as a burp. Thankfully, only three hundred of us were boarding this time, so we had just enough elbow room to pretend we weren’t sardines.

The mood was a mix of bravado and quiet dread. We all knew what was coming—Arctic warfare training. Snow, ice, skis, frozen rations, and an aggressive reintroduction to the concept of hypothermia. Happy days.

Once our kit was stowed and hammocks claimed, Johan and I made a break for the upper deck as Fearless began to churn her way out of Devonport. The January wind hit us square in the face—sharp, salty, and full of promise.

We leaned on the cold rail, seasoned sea dogs both of us. Years of ferry crossings, summer sails, and the odd Baltic squall meant our sea legs were rock steady. Not a hint of nausea—just that quiet thrill of movement, of leaving solid ground behind.

“Reckon they’ve made it up there?” Johan asked, peering towards the shoreline.

“They’d better have,” I smirked. “She promised.”

And right on cue, as we curved past Drake’s Island and the rooftops came into view, there they were—two little figures on the top floor of the flats, just as the morning sun cut through the clouds.

Vinka was unmistakable, even from this distance—her golden hair tucked beneath the red hat she’d knitted for me five winters ago. She’d borrowed it, cheekily, this morning when she kissed me goodbye. Marlin was beside her, arm linked with Vinka’s, both of them waving like mad.

My heart thumped in my chest, stupidly proud and hopelessly in love. I raised my arm and waved back, big and exaggerated, hoping they could see us even through the salt haze and sea spray. Johan did the same, his smile stretching ear to ear.

“They waited,” he said softly.

Of course they had.

Behind us, some of the lads started up with their usual nonsense—wolf whistles and jibes about “sweethearts at sea”—but we didn’t care. That moment, right there, froze in time. Just the four of us, separated by water but stitched together by something a damn sight stronger than distance.

As HMS Fearless powered out into the open channel, I kept my eyes fixed on that little red hat until the flats blurred into the morning mist.

The instructors weren’t buying our “Nordic naturals” routine for a second. No shortcuts, no favours—just cold, wet, character-building misery for all. Equal opportunity suffering, they called it. So we gritted our teeth and got on with it, earning a sort of cold-weather credibility the hard way.

Every morning started the same: out of the sleeping bag, into frozen boots that crackled like cardboard, then a quick breakfast of rehydrated porridge that could also double as tile adhesive. Then it was skis on, bergens hoisted, pulks strapped in, and off we trudged into another day of glorious masochism.

We learned to dig snow holes, set up tents that didn’t immediately collapse in a gust, and how to cook your tea without melting your glove to the stove. Navigation drills in whiteout conditions became a daily guessing game—”Is that the hill we just passed, or the one we’re meant to be heading for?” Johan, being a bit of a human compass, saved us more than once.

But honestly, we were loving it. We’d trained for this. All those mad weekends in Sweden, clambering up snow-laden ridges, leaping over frozen streams, chasing reindeer (long story)—they’d all led to this.

Didn’t stop us enjoying the schadenfreude, mind. One lad from Manchester—big, beefy, and loudly confident—managed to snap both his ski poles and his pride in under five minutes on day one. Another bloke went arse over antlers into a snowdrift and popped up looking like the abominable snowman’s slightly soggier cousin.

“Cold enough for ya?” I asked, as he tried to defrost his eyebrows with a cuppa and a hundred-yard stare.

“I’ve made mistakes,” he muttered.

Evenings were spent thawing out in the big canvas tent, steam rising off bodies like damp logs on a fire. Socks hung like limp flags from every available surface. There were a lot of daft jokes, frozen fingers, and the odd sing-song to keep morale up. One night, someone started a limerick contest. Another, Johan told a terrifying Swedish ghost story that had one of the lads sleeping with a shovel.

Still, there was something pure about it all. No phones, no noise—just snow, silence, and the occasional grunt as someone hit a patch of black ice and met the ground like an old friend.

After a few days of proving we could ski uphill in formation while dragging what felt like a small hardware store behind us, the training shifted up a gear. The fun was over—now it was tactical.

First came the night patrols.

Skiing by moonlight through dense pine forest with a compass in one hand and a 7.62mm SLR slung across your back wasn’t exactly a Sunday glide through the Alps. But I kept my rhythm—shoulders forward, knees bent, weight balanced—moving with the kind of control that made all those years in Sweden worth it.

Johan, of course, looked like he’d been born wearing skis. He barely made a sound, while I cut clean lines through the snow just behind him, the pulk trailing obediently. We’d nailed the technique, no flailing, no falls—unlike a few of the lads, who ended up tangled in pine saplings, swearing under their breath and blaming the moon.

“Keep it tight!” whispered the corporal. “Use the trees as cover!”

Someone to my right tripped over their pulk harness and face-planted. Johan didn’t even turn. Just whispered, “Rookie.”

Then came live-fire manoeuvres.

We skied in staggered formation through a frozen valley, stopping every few metres to lay down fire with our SLR's. The sound of that heavy 7.62mm crack echoed off the ice-packed cliffs, proper thunderous, like angry gods arguing in the distance.

The recoil, even through thick gloves, was still punchy—none of that peashooter nonsense. You had to plant your stance right, especially on skis. We’d ski up, drop to a knee, fire off a controlled few rounds, then move again. Controlled chaos in perfect synchrony—when it worked.

At one point, a lad ahead misjudged a turn, skidded sideways, and landed flat on his back, his rifle buried in snow.

“Call that cover?” someone snorted. “You’re camouflaged, mate—just not in the good way.”

Then came the grand finale of the frostbitten funfair:

The Ice Hole Exercise.

They cut a hole in a frozen lake. Strip down. Jump in. Climb out. Try not to die.

Simple as that.

We arrived at the site, already half-numb, where a neat, perfectly rectangular hole yawned like the mouth of madness. Steam curled up from it like ghost’s breath. A couple of the lads looked pale just standing near it.

“Right,” bellowed Sergeant Kearns, his moustache now frozen at the tips. “No drama. In and out. We’ve got dry kit and warm tea waiting—if you don’t muck it up.”

One after another, lads dipped into the icy void, gasping, flailing, clambering out like half-drowned badgers.

When it came to us, Johan and I stepped forward calm as you like. We’d done this sort of thing back in Sweden for fun—post-sauna plunges, winter lake dips, naked snow angels, that one time. This? This was almost nostalgic.

“Ready?” I asked.

Johan just smirked and nodded. “Three, two, one—go.”

We jumped together, gasped together, and emerged together, grinning like madmen, steam billowing off our shoulders.

“Show-offs,” someone muttered from the sidelines.

But I’ll tell you what—climbing into that warm tent afterwards, body tingling, hands thawing over a battered enamel mug of lukewarm tea… we felt invincible.

Frozen to the bone, yes—but utterly, gloriously alive.