Grammar School Triumph & Château Claude Memories | Family, Grit & Growing Up | The Parallel Four

Chapter Twenty-Nine blends family pride with rich backstory: a spotless dinner table, roast chicken, and two ten-year-olds waiting on their 11-plus results. When the envelopes land, Nils and Vera smash it — moments later, Otto and Olivia burst in with the same news, turning the house into a victory parade. That night the families celebrate at the Red Fox Brasserie, toasting the kids with a rare 1975 Pauillac Château Claude — a wine tied to Stephen & Johan’s 1973 Grand European Tour and the kindness of Claude and Edith. Between laughter and careful manners, the chapter threads themes of perseverance (“fail once, work twice as hard”), service values at home, and how small rituals forge strong futures. Back at the house, quiet scenes in the children’s tidy rooms (two desks, two paths) hint at what’s coming next. In the garage, the polished line of Manx Nortons, MV Agustas, a Norton Commando, a BSA Gold Flash, and GS850spromise fresh adventures.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Twenty 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.

Perfect for: listeners who love real British Army family life, coming-of-age wins, veteran values, classic bikes, and nostalgic ties across the 1970s–90s.

Transcript

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Our dining table is oak. Not too large—eight-seater, just in case—but perfectly maintained. No scratches. No clutter. The cutlery is lined up properly, the water jug placed dead centre, and the napkins folded with corners sharp enough to pass inspection. It’s not strict, it’s just… right. Everything in its place. Like us.

Tonight’s meal is roast chicken, rosemary potatoes, and a proper Swedish cucumber salad—just the way Stephen likes it, even if he pretends not to notice. The twins, Nils and Vera, are sitting opposite each other, hands washed, posture decent, school jumpers folded neatly on the back of their chairs.

They’ve just finished their 11-plus, and it shows. The sort of buzz in the air that only comes after a challenge has been met.

“So,” I ask, passing the dish of carrots, “how did it go?”

Nils shrugs with that slight grin he gets when he’s hiding confidence. “It was fine. The maths was easy.”

Stephen arches an eyebrow. “Easy, was it? Blimey.”

Vera rolls her eyes in perfect synchrony. “You thought it was easy because you memorised half the practice papers, again. I didn’t finish the last puzzle… but the reading bit was nice. It had a story about a girl who wanted to fly helicopters.”

Stephen chimes in, mouth half-full of potato, “You mean like your mum?”

Vera smirks. “She wanted to fly properly. Not jump out of them.”

I raise a finger, playfully. “Excuse me. I did both. And I landed.”

They take after me, these two. Not just in their cheekbones, but in their minds. Always ticking over. Quiet observation, then pounce. Nils has Stephen’s charm, but behind the grin is a mind like clockwork. Fast, detailed. He absorbs everything. Vera’s the deep one. Thoughtful, exact. She doesn’t speak unless she’s sure—and when she does, people listen.

Nils reaches for the pepper. “Do we have to go to different schools if we both pass?”

Stephen and I exchange a glance.

“That depends,” I say carefully. “They might offer you different places. Or the same one. We’ll look together. No decisions yet.”

Vera nods slowly. “I liked the look of the girls’ grammar. The science room had a telescope.”

“And the boys’ school had a climbing wall,” Nils adds, grinning. “And an armoury.”

Stephen coughs theatrically. “It had a what?”

Nils shrugs. “I think it was a cupboard with fencing gear.”

I watch them and feel that ache in my chest. Ten years old. Just yesterday they were both on my lap, giggling at Swedish lullabies. Now they’re discussing school catchment areas and telescope optics.

Stephen sips his tea. “Well, whatever happens, we’re proud of you both.”

“Even if we don’t pass?” Vera asks quietly.

I lean forward, meeting her eyes. “Especially then. Passing or not doesn’t decide who you are. How you work, how you treat others, how you keep trying—that’s what matters.”

Nils frowned, pushing a bit of carrot around his plate. “Didn’t Uncle Tim fail his first Army test?”

Stephen raised his mug. “He did, yeah. Thought that was the end of it.”

Vera looked up, eyebrows drawn together. “But he’s a soldier now.”

I nodded. “Because he didn’t give up. He worked hard, asked for help, and tried again. That’s what counts.”

I watched Stephen lean back in his chair, that familiar grin playing at his lips. “And not just a soldier now, mind you. Your Uncle Tim’s Recce Platoon Colour Sergeant in the Battalion—one of the top jobs for a soldier. The lads look up to him, the officers listen when he talks, and he keeps the whole company running steady. That’s what comes of sticking at it. First time round he stumbled, but he didn’t stay down. He got back up, worked twice as hard, and now he’s the bloke everyone else wants on their side.”

Nils looked up, eyes wide, and I could almost see the thought clicking into place. “So… failing once doesn’t mean you’re no good. It just means you’ve got more work to do?”

Stephen tapped the table, nodding firmly. “Exactly.”

Vera’s frown softened, her little shoulders easing as she breathed out. “Then maybe if I don’t get in this time, it’s not the end of everything.”

I felt a swell of pride at her words, at both of them beginning to understand. Stephen reached across and squeezed her hand. “Too right it isn’t. It just means you’re on your own path—and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

And I thought then how blessed they were, to have uncles who could show them that strength doesn’t come from never falling, but from always getting back up.

They’re thinking it through—both of them. We’ve never pushed them to be perfect. Only to try. To care. To learn who they are. The rest, they’ll work out in their own way. With each other. With us. That’s enough.

They need to hear that. That not everything is about winning on the first try. That life isn’t a straight road. Stephen and I both know the twists and turns. We’ve walked them. Now, we get to guide these two—our clever, brave, maddening, brilliant children—down their own.

Dinner ends neatly. Plates cleared. Nils brings in the pudding without being asked—chocolate mousse in small glass bowls, chilled just right. Vera wipes the table carefully, no crumbs left behind.

Stephen watches them work. “So... if I fail the washing up inspection tonight, what happens?”

“You repeat the task,” Vera says flatly.

I nod. “Exactly.”

There are few sounds in life quite like the thundering stampede of twin ten-year-olds charging down the stairs. It starts as a faint rumble—like distant artillery—and then suddenly erupts into the hallway with all the subtlety of a flash bang.

“THE POST’S HERE!”

Nils skidded into the kitchen first, socked feet sliding on the tiles, a white envelope clutched in his hand like a winning lottery ticket. Vera was half a step behind, arms flapping, breathless and beaming.

“It’s got the seal, Mamma! It’s from the council!”

I was halfway through buttering toast, but even I had to pause. Stephen, still in his dressing gown, raised an eyebrow and folded his paper like it was part of a stage performance.

“Well then,” he said. “Moment of truth, eh?”

It felt like the kitchen had suddenly been pressurised—everything holding its breath. These two had worked hard. Quietly, determinedly. No drama. No complaints. Just... steady. And now it was all in that envelope.

I handed it to Vera. “You open it. He ran faster.”

Nils rolled his eyes but nodded, bouncing on the spot.

Vera tore the flap cleanly—of course she did—and unfolded the letter. Her eyes scanned the page. Then went wide.

“Joint top,” she whispered.

Stephen blinked. “Say that again?”

She grinned now, full beam. “Joint top. We got exactly the same score. We both got in!”

Nils let out a whoop loud enough to make the teacups rattle. He grabbed his sister’s hands, spun her in a circle, and promptly knocked over the sugar bowl.

“Worth it!” he shouted.

Stephen was already on his feet, wrapping them both in a bear hug. “That’s my pair! You clever little beggars!”

I smiled, heart full to the brim, and reached out to brush a crumb off Vera’s shoulder. “We’re so proud of you.”

It wasn’t just pride. It was something deeper. Seeing them stand there—still in their pyjamas, hair a mess, beaming like they’d just conquered Everest—I saw something shining in them. Not just intelligence. Not just effort. But grace. Humility. Joy.

They worked hard, not because we made them—but because they believed in themselves. That’s what we’d raised. That’s what mattered most.

“Can we tell Uncle Johan and Auntie Marlin?” Vera asked.

“Already dialling,” Stephen said, holding up the cordless phone like it was a weapon.

“And Auntie Petra and Uncle Tim!” Nils added.

“Alright,” I laughed, “but after breakfast. No one wants a phone call before tea and toast.”

Nils and Vera plopped into their seats, still glowing, already halfway into planning which clubs they’d join and what colour blazers they’d wear. I poured another round of tea. Stephen leaned over and kissed my cheek.

“They did it,” he whispered.

I nodded. “We did it.”

The kitchen was a symphony of joy—Nils still spinning tales of grammar school glory, Vera already folding her letter into quarters and tucking it neatly into her diary, and Stephen practically glowing with pride behind his mug.

Then came a BANG BANG BANG on the front door.

Not a knock. A detonation.

Before I could even set down the marmalade, the door flew open and in stormed Otto and Olivia, cheeks flushed, hair wild, both shouting at once—

“WE PASSED! WE PASSED TOO!”

Nils and Vera leapt up, chairs scraping loudly across the tiles.

They crashed together in the hallway like a small-scale rugby scrum, hugging, shrieking, jumping. Four ten-year-olds now vibrating with joy, pride, and the sheer sugarless rush of validation.

Marlin and Johan appeared moments later, stepping into the kitchen like they were arriving for a medals parade. Johan raised an eyebrow and gave Stephen a knowing look.

“Good morning,” he said dryly. “I see the roof’s still intact.”

Stephen stood and clapped him on the shoulder. “Just about. You lot missed the tea round.”

Marlin beamed. “Otto was up at five, pacing the landing.”

Of course he was. That boy’s got a heart like a drum and a mind like a rocket. Olivia, on the other hand, probably knew her results before the envelope was even printed.

I smiled as they all spilled into the kitchen—our kitchen—laughing, teasing, arms flailing around cutlery and toast crumbs. It was beautiful chaos. The kind of moment you want to bottle and keep forever.

Then I raised my voice above the din. “Alright, listen up everyone—new orders!”

The room fell into a hush.

I pointed my butter knife like a field marshal.

“Tonight, we celebrate. Dinner out. Proper one. White tablecloths. No paper menus. Somewhere posh.”

Stephen looked up from the teapot. “Do they let people like us in?”

Marlin grinned. “Not if they see you first.”

“Does this mean I have to wear trousers?” Johan groaned.

“Yes,” I said. “And shoes. And comb your hair. All of you.”

The children whooped. Otto tried to high-five the toast rack. Vera whispered something to Olivia and they both giggled. Nils mouthed steak and chips to Otto like it was the Holy Grail.

We had started the morning as four proud parents. Now, we were eight. One gang. One team. One extended family who’d somehow managed to raise four brilliant little minds through deployments, upheaval, and the occasional hostage negotiation over broccoli.

Tonight, they’d eat like royalty.

Tomorrow? Back to chores.

But today?

Today, we won.

We arrived by taxi minibus, of course. No parking stress, no split arrivals—just the eight of us, swept in together like a small, well-dressed diplomatic mission.

Nils and Otto stepped out first—smart navy suits, polished shoes, hair neatly parted. They adjusted their ties with the kind of care that suggested they’d practised in the mirror at least three times before leaving. Behind them, Vera and Olivia emerged like young debutantes—elegant dresses, subtle ribbons in their hair, cardigans folded just so over their arms. Beautiful. Confident. Not a crease out of place.

Stephen whistled low under his breath. “We’ve raised MI6’s junior division.”

“Better,” I said. “They’ve got manners.”

Marlin looked radiant in a deep green dress, Johan sharp in his charcoal blazer. Stephen, for once, had actually tucked in his shirt and ironed it. Miracles do happen.

We entered the Red Fox Brasserie like we belonged there—and we did. The maître d’ gave us a brief, surprised blink—then a smile.

“Table for eight. Heale party?”

“That’s us,” I said. “And we’re celebrating.”

“Clearly,” he murmured, already guiding us through to the private room.

The table was beautiful. White linen. Crystal glasses. Folded napkins in a tight fan shape. Vera clocked the cutlery layout instantly and whispered to Olivia, “Work from the outside in.” Olivia nodded like she was being briefed before a royal banquet.

The children sat perfectly—no slouching, no elbows on the table. Nils adjusted his cufflinks, yes, he insisted on cufflinks, and Otto placed his napkin across his lap like he’d been doing it since birth.

They were impeccable. No fidgeting. No interruptions. They listened, spoke clearly, asked questions about the menu like young diplomats deciding trade agreements.

Stephen glanced across at Johan and murmured, “They’re better than we were at that age.”

“Better than we are now,” Johan replied.

And then the rest of the evening unfolded just as beautifully…

The wine list arrived, thick and bound in soft leather. Stephen opened it like it might detonate. After a moment of scanning the page, his brow lifted slightly.

“Well now… would you look at that.”

I leaned over. “Is that what I think it is?”

He nodded. “Two bottles, 1975 Pauillac Château Claude.”

Marlin caught the name and raised an eyebrow. “That’s rare.”

Johan leaned forward. “Very rare.”

It wasn’t just any wine. It was a story in a bottle. A taste of something we’d all shared, once—long ago in Berlin. I remembered the day we first came across it. Stephen remembered it too. He always does. And tonight… it felt right.

Stephen gestured to the waiter. “We’ll take both.”

The waiter, now visibly impressed, gave a subtle nod. “Excellent choice, sir. Very elegant. Shall I decant?”

“Yes, please,” I said, smiling. “It’s a special occasion.”

The wine waiter returned, decanter in hand, and as he poured the deep ruby wine into our glasses—with the same ceremony as a christening—Vera asked innocently, “May we have a little for the toast?”

Stephen and I exchanged a look. A soft nod from me.

The waiter hesitated, then glanced at the label on the bottle. “This is… quite a fine vintage.”

Stephen replied, “So are they.”

The man gave the smallest smile and gently poured a whisper of wine into each of the children’s glasses. They looked stunned. Honoured.

“To Nils, Vera, Otto and Olivia,” I said, lifting mine. “May this moment stay with you forever.”

“To the next chapter,” said Stephen.

The glasses clinked—and the wine, dark and velvety, warmed more than just the throat.

The children sipped—carefully, reverently.

Vera whispered, “This tastes important.”

“It is,” I said.

And she was right. It was. More than they knew. That wine had stories to tell. And one day… it would again.

The waiter brought the third bottle of Château Claude with just a touch more ceremony this time—he’d sensed it too. This wine wasn’t just a drink. It was a thread through time.

Stephen leaned back, his glass half-raised, eyes distant with memory.

“You lot have heard bits of this,” he said, nodding at the children. “But this bottle—this exact label—goes way back.”

Johan smiled knowingly, and the others leaned in.

Stephen continued, “Back in ’73, just after we finished school, Johan and I set off on our Grand European Tour. Had ourselves a pair of those Euro rail tickets, a stack of pre-booked hostels, and one proper wild card stop—a few nights at Château Claude in Pauillac.”

Vera blinked. “you booked a vineyard?”

“Oh yeah,” “We might’ve been young, but we weren’t stupid.”

Johan chuckled. “It was a deal we found in a French student paper. Three nights, vineyard tour, meals included. We thought we’d be sleeping in a barn. Turned out... it was magic.”

He spoke slower now. Calmer. The wine softening his edges, the memory anchoring him in something warm.

“Claude, the owner, greeted us at the station. Drove us up in a dusty old Renault. Showed us the vines like he was introducing us to his children. He didn’t just make wine—he lived it.”

“And his wife, Edith,” Johan added, smiling. “She fed us like we’d just come back from war. Treated us like sons. Ironed our shirts. Sent us out with sandwiches wrapped in wax paper.”

“They had a son, Pierre. Same age as us, but he was away on a school trip—Leon, I think. Never met him. Always meant to write back, but... life happened.”

He paused to take another sip, eyes flicking to the label.

“This,” he said, holding the glass up, “was the first proper wine I ever tasted. Properly. Claude made us sit down, hold the glass to the light, smell it, swirl it, wait... then sip.”

I’d heard the story before, but tonight, it carried something more. As though that wine, decades later, still held the shape of those days—boys becoming men under the warmth of strangers.

As Stephen sat back, swirling his thoughts with his glass, Johan spoke softly.

“I wonder what became of them. Claude and Edith. It’s been what—sixteen years? I wouldn’t mind going back one day. Just to see.”

“Imagine that. Us, turning up on the doorstep, couple of old soldiers with our kids in tow.”

“You should,” Vera said. “It sounds like home.”

“Yeah,” Nils added, quietly. “And maybe Pierre’s still there.”

He said it so simply. None of us knew. Not yet. That Pierre, the officer in Berlin, the one who steered them back to this very wine, is that Pierre. Claude and Edith’s son.

But the story’s patient.

Stephen raised his glass again. “To Claude and Edith. For their kindness. And for teaching us that the best things take time.”

Johan followed. “And to the places that shape you—even when you don’t know it yet.”

We all drank.

The children too—just a sip. The moment deserved it.

After we closed the front door behind us, the house fell into that familiar quiet—the kind that only comes after a special night. No slamming. No shouting. Just the calm hum of home.

Nils and Vera were still holding onto the last crumbs of energy, but they knew the drill. Upstairs they went—no complaints, no wriggling. They’d had their moment, and now they were glowing with it.

We moved gently through the bedtime routine—our own kind of debrief. And this time, we let it linger.

Vera’s Room

Her room, as always, was a picture of quiet order. Books stacked by subject. Pencils lined like soldiers on parade. Her desk lamp cast a warm pool of light across a half-written thank-you card she’d started—already penning a note to Auntie Marlin about “the sea bream and how I didn’t spill a drop.”

She was already changed into pyjamas, folding her dress over a hanger before sliding under the duvet. I sat on the edge of her bed.

“You were very grown-up tonight.”

She nodded, eyes soft but proud. “I liked the speeches.”

Stephen leaned against the doorframe. “Think you’ll write one of your own next time?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I’d need to practise.”

“You’ve got your desk,” I said, smiling. “Plenty of room for ideas.”

She smiled, curled on her side, and closed her eyes. Her desk lamp clicked off.

Nils’s Room

Across the landing, Nils’s room was a little more chaotic. Books open, diagrams taped to the wall, half a model aeroplane stuck to the window ledge. But his desk was there—functional, scattered, alive with thought. Tonight, he’d laid out the wine cork and one of the menus from the restaurant like souvenirs.

Stephen ruffled his hair. “So, future head boy… did the steak live up to expectations?”

“Better,” he said, already under the covers. “I think the sauce was made of magic.”

I laughed, tucking in the sheet.

He turned to me, suddenly thoughtful. “Do you think Claude and Edith ever got our letter?”

Stephen blinked. “You wrote them one?”

Nils nodded. “I found a copy in your scrapbook. You never sent it.”

We exchanged a glance. One of those quiet, slightly shaken ones.

“We’ll make it right,” I said softly.

He smiled. “Good.”

His desk lamp flicked off with a soft click.

Downstairs – Later

Two children. Two rooms. Two desks lit with the promise of everything ahead. And us—Stephen and me—back at the kitchen table, the last sip of tea going cold.

“I still think we should go back one day,” he said quietly, staring at the label on the empty bottle.

I nodded. “So do I.”

And somewhere, upstairs, two dreams were beginning to form. Rooted in tonight. Reaching for tomorrow.

It all started—like most things around here—with a cup of tea, a bit too much free time, and a shed full of motorcycles that looked like they’d just come off the factory floor.

We’d only just finished our first big batch of restorations. The pride was still fresh, the oil barely wiped from our hands. In the line-up:

Two Manx Nortons, rebuilt from the ground up with a view to taking them on a proper track day—eventually.

Two MV Agusta's, a matching pair that looked so good we couldn’t bear to start them just yet.

My beloved Norton Commando, ticking over like a dream.

Johan’s Gold Flash, polished and purring.

And a pair of GS850s for more practical riding—if you can call anything we do practical.