The Parallel Four: An Epic Journey Into Alternate Dimensions

The Parallel Four Book One Part One Chapter One

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.

Fit, Healthy & Happy Podcast
Welcome to the Fit, Healthy and Happy Podcast hosted by Josh and Kyle from Colossus...

Listen on: Apple Podcasts   Spotify

Chapters

• 8:17 [Ad] Fit, Healthy & Happy Podcast
• 8:57 (Cont.) The Parallel Four: An Epic Journey Into Alternate Dimensions

Transcript

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.

The Parallel Four

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

Introduction

“It still amazes me, Vinka… how two boys in the soot and bustle of East London, and two girls in the snows of Sweden, could be born on the very same day—and somehow, against all odds, our lives would find each other. Back then, Johan and I were just scruffy lads running the streets of Poplar, while you and Marlin were tucked away in Ellios, wrapped in white winters and summer light.”

Stephen, “We didn’t go to the same schools, or even speak the same language at first, but the threads were already pulling us closer. Letters, holidays, those first awkward visits where shyness melted into laughter. It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t easy—but it was real. Somewhere along the way, friendship became something deeper.”

“I can still remember the first time I realised I couldn’t bear to say goodbye to you. A boy shouldn’t fall so hard, so young—but I did. And while I stumbled through half-formed words, you somehow understood anyway.”

“And you weren’t the only one. Johan’s quiet strength found its match in Marlin’s fierce spirit. And even Tim and Petra, coming from their own paths, became part of our story—woven in like family, whether they meant to or not.”

“So this first book… it’s the story of all of us. From our births in two different worlds, through the laughter, the mischief, and the heartbreak of growing up. Until the moment when schooldays ended, and we stood on the edge of the wider world, with love in our hearts and everything still ahead of us.”

“Looking back now, it feels like destiny. But at the time… it was simply life—messy, beautiful, and unforgettable.”

“And this is where it all begins.”

"Och det här är där allt börjar"

You’re about to meet The Parallel Four.

Du är på väg att träffa The Parallel Four

And I promise you—we’re worth the trouble.

Och jag lovar dig, vi är värda besväret.

Chapter One

“Egg and Soldiers & Skinka smörgås”

Now back in ol’ London town, before the world got all shiny and full of microwaves and posh coffee shops, my life was like a never-endin’ game of gömma och söka (hide ’n’ seek) through a maze of tight alleyways, flappin’ washing lines, and the warm, bossy sound of Ingrid’s voice floating out the window: “Stephen, älskling, come in now before you catch your death — and wipe your feet this time!”

See, I practically grew up at Ingrid’s kitchen table. A place of deep wisdom, lukewarm tea, and toast that never matched but always did the trick. Mum had gone back to work—bless ’er—so she handed the reins over to Ingrid, who ran that household like a loving but slightly terrifying army sergeant in slippers.

She raised me and Johan like a pair o’ mismatched socks—him all blonde and smiley, me brown-haired and already sarcastic at five. But we were tight. Real tight. Grew up like brothers, even if our accents sounded like Dick Van Dyke tryin’ to speak IKEA.

We’d chat in this bizarre lingo—half Cockney, half Swedish—like some backstreet version of the United Nations. One minute we’re natterin’ about marbles and pie, next thing I’m yellin’ across the street, “Johan! Ska vi leka kurragömma?”—which, for the uninitiated, means “Let’s play hide and seek!” Yeah, we were cultured before it was trendy.

By five, I was marchin’ into the lounge after a long day of adventures and askin’ Mum, “Can I have a skinka och ost smörgås for tea?” She just stared like I’d asked for unicorn steaks on a flaming silver tray. “It’s ‘am and cheese, Mum. Keep up, will ya?”

Now Ingrid—oh, she didn’t mess about. That woman could get a five-year-old to eat boiled turnip like it was Christmas pud. “No fuss, no waste!” That was her battle cry. You left a crust on your plate, and she’d give you a look so sharp it could cut a tin of Spam in half. I once left a fish finger—never again. The guilt alone nearly turned me Catholic

Then, April 1958 rolls round, and boom—Tim arrives. My baby brother. Made a grand entrance right there in the front room, delivered by one of them no-nonsense nuns from St Frideswide’s Mission House. Word is she could deliver a baby, patch a leaky tap, make the tea, and still have time to scold your old man for swearin’. Legend.

At the time, we were still crammed into what the council liked to call a “modest family home” — in reality, a two-up, two-down terrace with peeling wallpaper, a temperamental front door, and an outside carzí that could freeze the courage of even the bravest soul on a January morning. Mum — tough as a dockside welder — waged daily war on the grime, armed with bleach, elbow grease, and the sort of tenacity that could make mildew pack its bags and leave town.

And Ingrid, bless her efficient Swedish soul, stepped right back in when Mum went off to work again. Took charge of Tim just like she did with us. Raised us all with a mix of fierce love and terrifying discipline. We knew our pleases from our thank-yous, and we knew how to throw a right hook at injustice if it ever tried nickin’ our biscuits.

So yeah—that was childhood in the East End. A little bit Cockney, a little bit Viking, and a whole lot of scrapes, scraps, and skinka.

By the tender age of three, me and Johan got packed off to nursery. Not the fluffy kind with singing circles and carrot sticks, nah—this place was run out of a condemned school buildin’ that still wore its World War II shrapnel like it was somethin’ to be proud of. Looked like the Luftwaffe had left it as a reminder: “Don’t get comfy, lads.”

Meanwhile, little Tim—still fresh out the wrapper—was livin’ the dream with Ingrid, soakin’ up Swedish like a sponge with sticky fingers and half a biscuit in his gob. Kid could say “tack så mycket” before he could tie his shoelaces.

Now, every Tuesday and Thursday, us local lads gathered in the echo chamber that was the community hall. Boxing club, they called it. Gloves the size of pillows, shorts so short they barely qualified as clothing, and noses that bled like someone owed ’em money. But we turned up. Every time. Like it was church—only with more bruisin’ and less forgiveness.

Me and Johan? We were naturals. Learned how to jab, duck, and most importantly—not cry when your nose exploded in front of your mates. That was the golden rule: never cry. Bleed all you want, just don’t sniffle.

Then there’s Tim. Joined us at the age of three—barely taller than the gloves, bless ’im—but he was game. Proper game. Kid waddled in, grinnin’, gloves floppin’ about like he’d borrowed ‘em from a circus bear. But he took it like a champ. We punched, ducked, tripped, and laughed our way through three glorious years. By the end of it, we were a bit tougher, a bit scabby, and 100% sure we could take on Rocky Masinano—whoever he was.

Back in Ellös, before the summer folk showed up with their fancy yachts and loud radios, life was just the sea, the rocks, and the smell of fish guts hangin’ round the harbour.

I grew up right next door to Marlin. She wasn’t just my best friend—she was my partner in crime. If I was caught stealing cinnamon buns, it was only ‘cause she didn’t distract Mama quick enough. If I was climbing the boathouse roof, she was already up there, hand out, daring me to follow. We were tighter than a pair of wool socks fresh out the wash.

Our days were salt water and scraped knees. You’d hear her shout across the yard, “Vinka! Ska vi bada?” and off we’d go, legging it barefoot straight into the sea, no towels, no plan—just us, trying to see who could stay in the freezing water longest before our lips turned blue.

Papa only needed one eyebrow to keep us in line, but Mama… she was a whole orchestra by herself. “No fuss, no waste!” she’d say, same as aunt Ingrid back in London, I reckon. Leave so much as a crust, and she’d give you a look that could sink a ferry.

Then came April 1958, and along popped Petra. My baby sister. I tell you, she wasn’t like other babies—none of this wailing for cuddles and clinging to Mama’s skirts. Oh no. From the start she had that look, like, “I’ll do it myself, thanks.” If Phoebe was the needy type, Petra was the opposite—stubborn as a mule, cheeky as anything. By the time she could walk, she was nicking herring off Papa’s plate and legging it down the garden, giggling like she’d just robbed a bank.

She never wanted the spotlight—didn’t need it. She just got on with it, tough as old boots, but with this grin that told you she knew exactly how much trouble she was causing.

So there it was—me and Marlin ruling the shoreline, Petra tagging along but always doing things her own way. Growing up in Ellös with those two was like living in one of Papa’s fishing nets: a bit tangled, a bit smelly, but strong as anything and impossible to break free from.

Our houses in Ellös weren’t anything grand, but they were ours. Painted the way every proper Bohuslän house should be—one a deep falun red, the other a sun-faded yellow—standing side by side like they’d grown out of the rocks themselves.

Step into ours, and the first thing you’d notice was the smell—fresh bread if Mama was baking, or woodsmoke drifting from the stove. The floors were scrubbed pine, with Mama’s rag rugs stretched across them, bright with every colour she could find. The furniture wasn’t new—it had lived a few lives before us—but it was solid, softened with cushions and quilts so you could flop down anywhere and feel at home.

Over at Marlin’s, it was just as clean but with a bit more… chaos. Lars was forever dragging fishing gear indoors—nets, boots, a bucket or two—and somehow they ended up parked by the kitchen door. But Silvi kept it warm and welcoming all the same. Lace curtains she’d stitched herself, copper pans polished until you could see your face in them, and flowers in the window, even in winter, as if to remind the sea it wasn’t the only one allowed to be beautiful.

Both houses were never cold. In winter the stoves burned steady, filling the rooms with heat that wrapped around you like a blanket, and in summer the doors and windows stood wide open, letting in gull cries, sea air, and the sound of waves slapping against the harbour wall.

They weren’t fancy, not in the least. But clean, comfortable, and full of love? Always.

Marlin and I were only three when our parents bundled us into these crisp white gi that made us look like runaway pillowcases and marched us off to the little Aikido dojo above the old boatyard hall. The place smelled of tatami mats, sea salt, and floor polish—and to us it felt massive, like a whole new world where falling over was actually encouraged. We spent most of those first weeks tripping over our own belts and collapsing in heaps of giggles, but we thought we were warriors.

A year later Petra joined us—tiny, serious, and already stubborn enough to glare down kids twice her size. While Marlin and I were busy rolling around like sea otters, Petra planted her feet like she owned the mat. First time someone tried to throw her, she just stared, crossed her arms, and said, “Nej, not today.” Even the sensei laughed. From then on, the three of us trained side by side, learning how to fall, how to fly, and—most importantly—how to grin like fools every time we actually managed to pull off a proper throw.

School in Ellös wasn’t far, but in winter it felt like an expedition. Every morning, Marlin and I strapped on our little wooden skis and slid down the frosty lanes, scarves flapping out behind us like sails. By the time we clattered into the schoolyard, red-cheeked and panting, we looked like we’d come from the North Pole instead of just up the road.

And when the lessons were done, we headed straight for the indoor pool. Not just in summer—oh no, all year round. While the sea froze outside, we were in there splashing, racing, and daring each other to dive the deepest. The place smelled of chlorine and wet towels, and we loved it. It was our second playground.

But if skiing and swimming kept our bodies busy, reading kept our minds racing. We were book-mad, the pair of us. Stories were treasure, and we devoured them faster than Mama could bake buns. We’d sit nose-to-nose over the same book, whispering about the heroes and villains like they were neighbours from down the street. More than once, the teacher had to call our names twice to drag us back out of a story.

That was school life for us: skiing in, swimming out, and filling the spaces in between with words that carried us further than skis or strokes ever could.

But just as we were hittin’ our stride, the tenement went and did what tenements do—got even bleedin’ worse.

That place welcomed yet another miracle—some would say “blessing,” others muttered “cramped inconvenience.” Enter: Phoebe, March 1960. Another mouth to feed, another nappy to trip over.

By then, the hiuse had stopped pretendin’ to be a home. It was more like a mossy cave with delusions of grandeur. Damp in the corners, water tricklin’ down the walls like it fancied itself an indoor waterfall, and mould settin’ up a five-star resort behind the cooker. It was grim with a capital G.

Me old man, Mick Heale, and Johan’s dad, Harry Heald — both men of action and neither the type to sit around watchin’ mushrooms sprout in the pantry — decided it was time for a change. British Road Services snapped ’em up quick, and before we knew it, the whole lot of us were packed off to Hitchin, Hertfordshire. Trees! Grass! Birds that weren’t pigeons! We couldn’t believe our eyes.

By March 1962, both our families had moved into brand-spankin’ new council houses. Three bedrooms. Indoor plumbing—yes, toilets inside the house! No more freezin’ your backside off in the outside loo at midnight. We even had kitchens where the ceiling didn’t sweat cabbage juice.

The Poplar chapter came to a close—not with a bang, but with the sweet, musical gurgle of a flushin’ toilet. Progress, mate.

Now Hitchin—well, it might as well’ve been the moon. Everything was green. People smiled. And, tragically, there was no boxing club. Apparently, up north of the Thames, kids preferred poetry and netball.

But Dad? Nah, he weren’t havin’ that.

He chucked a pair of gloves at me and Tim, strung up his old army kit bag from the apple tree in the garden, and declared it the new training ground. “No excuses, lads,” he barked. “Gotta keep your fists sharp and your guard up.”

Johan got a pair too, courtesy of Harry, and the three of us went at it in the back garden like it was Madison Square Garden—only with more mud and fewer spectators.

Black eyes, sore ribs, grazed knuckles—all part of the badge. We wore ’em like medals. And Tim? That little menace dished out more bruises than he took. Turned out, three years of bein’ our practice dummy gave him a right mean left hook.

Rugby, right? It didn’t so much arrive in our lives as it did charge in, covered in mud, smellin’ of Deep Heat, and swearin’ under its breath. It slipped through the wire fences of the local rugby club like some scruffy gospel, and by the age of six, we were already chasin’ leather balls and even muddier dreams.

Most Saturdays, me, Johan, and little Tim would glue ourselves to the touchline fence like rugby-mad orphans starin’ into a butcher’s window. Watchin’ the grown-ups thunder round the pitch, knockin’ ten bells outta each other, we were dead certain we could do better—if someone would just give us a chance... and maybe some kit that didn’t smell like an old dog.

Then Sundays came. Oh, glorious Sunday mornin’s—where the gates finally creaked open for the under-fives. And there we were, swaggerin’ in like miniature gladiators, chest puffed, laces undone, and socks already halfway down our ankles. We hurled rugby balls and ourselves around that sacred patch of grass with all the grace of tumbleweed in a wind tunnel.

And that, my friend, was it. Hooked. Obsessed. From that moment on, rugby weren’t just a sport. It was the way of life. With grass stains as badges of honour, and knees that stayed scabby till summer.

Meanwhile—back on the home front—our front garden boasted this gnarly old cherry tree. To most, it was a tree. To us? It was a tactical outpost. A fortress. An escape hatch from the force of nature known as... Phoebe.

Now, Phoebe didn’t just arrive. She declared herself. From day one, she made it crystal clear—she was the main character. Clingier than a soggy sock in winter and twice as persistent, she could track us down faster than a bloodhound with a grudge.

Mum, bein’ the diplomat she was, insisted we include her in everything. Me and Tim? We took that as a personal challenge. We’d “accidentally” forget her when headin’ out to play, suddenly remember she existed when it was time to come back. If she caught on—which she always did—we scrambled up that cherry tree like a pair of feral monkeys, just to claim a few precious minutes of peace.

Did it work? Not really. Phoebe would stand at the bottom, throwin’ pebbles at us like a miniature siege engine, shoutin’ Swedish insults she half-understood. The girl was relentless.

Once we’d made the great escape from Poplar to paradise—aka Hitchin—we were dispatched to the local infant school, conveniently perched at the top of the road. Tim came too, though he was in the class below us and insisted that made him “more mature.” Yeah, alright, Professor Pint-Size.

Me class had about twenty kids, give or take, and on day one, me and Johan hatched a genius plan. If we didn’t want anyone knowin’ what we were on about—we’d just switch to Swedish.

Simple, effective, and highly confusing to the average six-year-old.

See, I’d been practisin’ with Ingrid for years—fluent in “Top Secret Playground Chat.” Came in handy when Phoebe was goin’ full drama queen. Me and Johan would break into Swedish, and boom—within seconds, she’d huff, puff, and stomp off like an offended squirrel, usually to go annoy Tim instead.

Now Tim, to be fair, didn’t always take it lyin’ down. If Phoebe pushed her luck, he’d politely, and occasionally physically, make his point. Once or twice, she got a nudge strong enough to knock her off her pedestal—and down the garden path.

After that, Phoebe developed what you might call a healthy respect for Tim. Like a cat watchin’ a dog that’s pretendin’ to nap—but might bite at any moment.

And that, my friend, was our little empire: rugby balls, cherry trees, dodgy Swedish code, and enough sibling squabbles to keep the neighbours entertained for years.

Now, Tim, bless ‘is bruisin’ little fists, weren’t exactly thrilled about this whole “bring your sister everywhere” business. He’d much rather be out with his own little crew—John and Tony from his class—throwing’ a rugby ball, climbin’ fences, or just lurkin’ anywhere Phoebe wasn’t.

Luckily for us, fate handed us a gift—Phoebe went to a different nursery. In the opposite direction, no less. So weekday mornings turned into full-blown tactical operations. Me, Johan, and Tim would set off like escapees from Colditz, takin’ the long route to avoid any chance of Phoebe interceptin’ us with her clingy radar and infinite questions about absolutely nothin’.

We’d sneak down alleyways, double back past Mrs Langley’s hedge, and sometimes crawl under that gap in the fence near the corner shop—all to avoid the human homing pigeon that was our sister.

After school, I’d usually leg it to Johan’s house—my little haven of Phoebe-free bliss. No shriekin’, no curtain-climbin’, no sudden demands for attention like she was auditionin’ for a West End drama. Just peace... and the smell of whatever Swedish delight Ingrid was rustlin’ up in the kitchen.

But of course, peace don’t last.

Inevitably, Mum would call out: “Stephen! Come help keep an eye on your sister!”

Which, in family code, meant: “Good luck stoppin’ her from scaling the bookshelf and starting a small fire.”

Now if there was one thing I truly hated—I mean proper loathed—it was the school summer holidays.

Other kids? Oh, they were over the moon. Six weeks of no school, lie-ins, ice creams, and general mischief. Me? I was stuck in a suburban no-man’s land, where time slowed to a crawl and me best mate Johan was off livin’ the Swedish dream.

Every year, like clockwork, Johan and his folks would vanish to Sweden for the entire summer. His dad—Harry—would come back after a week for work, but Johan? He was off explorin’ forests, swimmin’ in lakes, eatin’ cinnamon buns the size of me head, and probably wrestling moose for fun.

And me?

I got Tim, who when he weren’t out with John and Tony, treated me to his personal brand of entertainment—usually in the form of surprise punches and the ever-popular, “Guess Which Eye I’m Gonna Blacken Today.”

Worse still—Phoebe duty. All. Summer. Long.

That girl had a sixth sense for boredom. If I so much as glanced at a book, there she was, materialisin’ outta nowhere like a ghost in pigtails. “Whatcha readin’? Is it about me? Read it to me! Let’s play something! Are you listenin’? I’m talkin’ to you!”

She was like a moth to a lightbulb—only louder and significantly harder to swat.

So I did the only thing I could—I read. Endlessly. Not for school. Not for fun. For survival. Books became my hideaway, my shield, my imaginary wormhole outta the chaos.

Every day I marked off on the calendar like a prisoner scratchin’ tally lines into a wall. Countin’ down the days till Johan came back. Till someone who understood the code—who knew when silence was golden and when a well-timed Swedish word could clear the room.

When Johan finally came back from Sweden—tanned like a chimney sweep’s dream, taller than he left, and full of stories—he brought with him a whole bloomin’ dictionary of new Swedish words. He’d sit there, teachin’ me how to say “smörgåsbord” and “kräftskiva” while I was tryin’ to eat me soggy toast, feelin’ ever so slightly posh—like I was some international man of mystery with jam on his chin.

He spun tales of Ronnie, his older cousin—two years ahead and apparently a walking encyclopaedia of wisdom, mischief, and probably dodgy advice. Every story started with “Ronnie says...” or “Ronnie did...” and ended with me thinkin’, Blimey, sounds like the Swedish version of James Dean in wellies.

But what really got my ears perked up—besides the promise of cinnamon buns and moose adventures—was when Johan mentioned two girls.

Vinka and her best mate Marlin.

Both our age. Both—according to Johan—very pretty. and both allegedly very interested in meetin’ me. Me! Stephen from Poplar, with one sock always fallin’ down and a face like I’d been permanently startled.

Johan claimed he talked about me “all the time,” like I was some exotic prince from a far-off land. I imagined them sittin’ round a Swedish dinner table goin’, “Tell us more about this brave, mysterious English boy with the sticky hair and mismatched shoes!” I nearly believed it meself.

I told Johan the truth: my summer had been less international romance, more toddler-wranglin’ boot camp. Phoebe had hit peak cling. Like a one-girl Broadway show with a daily matinee in my shadow.

Luckily, we got a break—two weeks down in Peacehaven with Nan and Granddad. Ohhh, Peacehaven. Doesn’t sound glam, I know, but to us? It was like bein’ shipped off to the French Riviera—if the Riviera had pebble beaches, relentless wind, and ice-cold seas that made your toes curl like stale bacon.

We spent a few days on the beach in Newhaven with our cousins, freezin’ our bits off and pretendin’ we were tropical explorers. Tim, true to form, spent most of his time on the farm with Granddad, bondin’ with pigs and smellin’ suspiciously similar. I reckon the pigs thought he was one of ’em by the end.

Me? I stayed close to the house. Buried meself in books. Tryin’ to dodge Phoebe, who’d latched onto Nan like a barnacle on a pier post. Nan, bless her, took it like a champ. Never once complained. She had the patience of a saint and the stamina of a circus juggler. Let Phoebe do her shows, sing her songs, stage her meltdowns—all without blinkin’.

And that woman? She saved my sanity.

I owe her everything.

Then came the next family plot twist, right in the middle of the legendary Big Freeze of ’62—a winter so cold it could turn your nose hairs to icicles before you got to the end of the garden path. Just after Christmas, with the country buried under more snow than sense and civilisation grinding to a standstill, we had ourselves another dramatic entrance.

Now, you know it’s serious when the midwife can’t get through. Roads were snowed under, buses abandoned, milk froze in the bottle, and even me old mans tea went cold before he’d even poured it. So when Mum went into labour, it was up to Nan and Aunt Marjorie—armed with a kettle, a wet flannel, and sheer bloody-mindedness—to bring Susan into the world.

Meanwhile, I spent most of the day glued to the front window in me duffle coat and woolly bobble hat, eyes peeled on the skies like a mini air raid warden. I was fully convinced a stork was gonna swoop by and drop the baby straight down the chimney like an Post Office special delivery. I stood there, arms at the ready—prepared to catch that baby like a wartime hero. Bit disappointed, to be honest, when no bird showed up. Felt like I’d wasted a good flask of hot Ribena.

But once Susan had made her appearance—and the world didn’t end—it had a knock-on effect I hadn’t dared hope for…

Phoebe finally had a new victim.

Sorry—playmate. Same thing, really.

With a fresh audience for her daily monologues, interpretive dances, and dramatic fainting routines, me and Tim got a blessed break from the Phoebe Show. Peace at last.

Well… for about five minutes.

Then the novelty wore off, Susan started cryin’, and Phoebe went straight back to centre stage like she’d never left.

Johan come back from Christmas in Sweden looking like he’d just stepped out of a ski catalogue. Learned to ski in a week, naturally, and now carried himself like the Swedish Olympic Committee was going to ring any minute.

While I’d been wading through the grey slush of Hitchin, he’d been at a brilliant joint birthday bash — balloons, snow lanterns, the works — celebrating his, Vinka and Marlin’s big day. He told me he wished I could’ve been there, which was sweet… though it did land a bit like a friendly pat on the back straight after a kick in the shins.

Still, it was good to know he’d thought of me — even if I was stuck back home, toes going numb, watching chimney tops for mythical storks that never came.

“That party was magic. We had the whole back garden glowing with snow lanterns Papa helped us build, and Grandma Greta baked two enormous cakes — one chocolate, one lemon, so no one had to choose. Johan strutted around in his new ski jumper like he was already famous, and Marlin and I wore the hats Petra knitted for us. Everyone was laughing, singing, and stamping their feet to keep warm.

I’d heard plenty about Stephen by then, of course — Johan never stopped talking about him — but I couldn’t quite picture what he looked like. In my head, he changed every time: sometimes a tall, serious boy, sometimes a cheeky one with messy hair. I wondered if he liked snow, if he could skate, and whether he’d ever try the chocolate cake or stick to the lemon. Strange to think how someone you’ve never met can already feel like a part of your story.”

Our infants school sat just at the top of the road, no more than a five-minute trot—less if you ran, more if your shoes fell off halfway there. Most mornings, me and Johan joined the local herd of small, slightly sticky children, all trundlin’ along like a miniature parade of chaos and elbows.

By that point, we felt like seasoned commuters. Schoolbags swingin’, one strap always tryin’ to fall off, shoelaces never quite tied properly no matter how many double knots Mum did. Half the time we looked like we’d escaped from a jumble sale.

There were twenty or so of us in the class, give or take one who’d always be off with glue poisoning or chickenpox. We were tight—thick as thieves, even if none of us had anything worth nickin’.

But best of all—blessedly, beautifully—there was no Phoebe.

Those school hours were like bein’ on holiday from a very loud, very sparkly cruise ship. She was still stuck at nursery in the other direction, rehearsin’ her next performance of “Everyone Look At Me Immediately (Part 9).”

School meant no dramatic interruptions, no unexpected glitter clouds, no sudden demands for interpretive dance in the middle of maths. It was pure, unfiltered Phoebe-detox.

Now, outside of school, we had other strategies.

One of the best involved the old apple tree at the bottom of our garden. To most people, it was just a gnarly old fruit tree that dropped rock-hard apples and upset the lawnmower. But to me? It was a tactical masterpiece.

A fortress of solitude, a reconnaissance post, and a glorious Phoebe-free zone.

I’d scramble up that thing like a feral squirrel, wedge meself between the branches, and sit there—completely still—like a tree-dwelling ninja, peepin’ through the leaves like some suburban spy. And wouldn’t you know it—the back fence backed right onto Hitchin’s rugby club.

From up there, I had a front-row seat to all the weekend matches. No ticket needed, no adults yellin’, and more importantly—no Phoebe tryin’ to narrate the game in interpretive song.

It was bliss.

Plus, the punch bag Dad’d hung from the tree—the same old army kit bag that’d already survived a decade of abuse—gave me the perfect cover story.

So when Mum came shoutin’ down the garden path: “Stephen! What are you doin’ up there?”

I’d just yell back, “Trainin’, Mum! Workin’ on me uppercut!”

She never argued with training. Not after Dad declared it “character building.” And certainly not if it meant I wasn’t actively pushin’ Phoebe into the rose bushes.

No lie—Sunday mornings were right up there with fish and chip Fridays and snow days. That was when me and Johan strutted down to the rugby club, puffed up like little warriors, ready for battle.

Well—training, anyway. No actual matches yet. Apparently, the adults weren’t keen on the under-sevens losin’ all their teeth before they lost their milk ones. Fair enough.

But we learnt the ropes:

– How to throw the ball without braining anyone.

– How to catch it—with hands, not the side of your face.

– How to kick without pullin’ something that’d keep you out for a week.

And the rules—oh, the rules.

We studied ‘em, sure... but mostly so we could find the loopholes. If there was a way to score while hangin’ upside down from a goalpost, we were gonna figure it out.

Tim was with the under-sixes and took it just as seriously. He had this little focused scowl on his face, like a five-year-old version of a disgruntled coach.

But the best bit? The truly glorious part?

Phoebe was banned.

No siblings allowed. No glitter. No tantrums. No dramatic monologues. Just muddy bliss and egg-shaped balls, and a few hours of freedom where no one tried to make us dress up as fairies or “perform” to imaginary royalty.

Back at infants school, me and Johan were still tighter than a pair of jeans after Christmas dinner. Inseparable. Like jam and toast. Like fish and vinegar. Like Phoebe and attention-seekin’.

We did everything together:

– Ate together (usually tryin’ to swap bits we didn’t like).

– Played together (including one legendary conker battle that’s still talked about).

– Got told off together (mostly for talkin’ too much, too loud, and in too many languages).

And somewhere between school dinners and wet play, we discovered our joint obsession:

War stories.

Not just the big-picture history stuff, either. No—we were all about the escapes. The tunnel-diggin’, barbed-wire-jumpin’, disguise-wearin’ kind. We were hooked.

Enter: Commando comics.

Those little black-and-white booklets became our holy grail. We pooled our pocket money each week like two mini military historians on a mission.

You’d find us at the corner newsagent, huddled over the spinner rack, flippin’ through till we found the perfect tale—preferably one involving POW camps, secret maps, and heroic moustaches.

And every day endin’ in ‘Y’ which was all of them—I’d be round Johan’s house, where we’d curl up in his room, buried under a fortress of comic pages, reading like we were decoding secret battle plans.

Sometimes, Ingrid would read us Swedish stories—proper classics. Half the time we didn’t know what was goin’ on, but oh, we nodded like we understood every word. We’d sit there, serious as judges, listenin’ to tales of trolls, giants, and brave little blokes with names we couldn’t pronounce.

And somehow, even not understandin’ half of it, those stories felt ten times more exciting.

Maybe it was the mystery.

Maybe it was Ingrid’s voice, smooth and sharp like a fresh slice of rye bread.

Or maybe it was just the magic of sharin’ stories with your best mate, not needin’ everything to make sense—just knowin’ you were in it together.

Once a week—like clockwork—the school loaded us all into this ancient, wheezy bus that sounded like it was powered by complaints and stale crisps, and carted us off to the local outdoor swimming pool.

Now, when I say outdoor, I don’t mean “sunny lido with parasols and lollies.”

I mean a cement rectangle of arctic misery, where the water was so cold it felt like it’d been piped straight from the North Sea. Honestly, it was less swimmin’ and more survival training.

Jumpin’ in was bad enough—but gettin’ out? That’s when the east wind—cold, bitter, and clearly holdin’ a grudge—would slap you across the back like you’d just nicked its wallet.

And yet, me and Johan, bless our frostbitten hearts, took to it like a pair of overenthusiastic penguins. We didn’t so much swim as flail with conviction—arms everywhere, legs kickin’ like we were tryin’ to fight off invisible sharks. But if it earned us a badge, we were all in.

Front crawl? Sort of.

Breaststroke? Technically.

Doggy paddle? Our signature move.

By the end of term, our mums had to start sewin’ swimming certificates onto extra bits of jumper ‘cause we’d run outta space.

Then Johan starts tellin’ me about life over in Sweden. Again.

Apparently, while we were turnin’ blue in municipal puddles, Vinka and Marlin were flyin’ through school like a pair of brainy snowflakes—floatin’ in all graceful and clever, not a soggy plimsoll in sight.

“Natural learners,” Johan says.

“Bookworms with skis.”

They could read like machines, write essays in cursive Swedish with actual joined-up logic, and probably recite Viking sagas backwards while ice skatin’. Their readin’ was apparently as sharp as ours—maybe even sharper, though we didn’t like to dwell on that. A bit of healthy delusion never hurt anyone.

And while we were sufferin’ through open-air hypothermia, they were swimmin’ in heated indoor pools. Pools with roofs. Warm ones.

Imagine that. Swimmin’ without your ears turnin’ purple and your soul leavin’ your body.

And to top it all off—get this—they skied a mile to and from school.

Every. Winter. Day.

Didn’t even moan about it. Just clipped on their skis and glided through the snow like they were born in it. Me? I couldn’t even get down the hill on a tea tray without yellin’ “Mum!” halfway down.

And then came the cherry on the Nordic cake—Swedish Wednesdays.

While we were stuck in assembly watchin’ Mr. Peters bang on about punctuality and liver casserole, Vinka and Marlin were off havin’ ski racing lessons.

‘Cause apparently, skiin’ to school wasn’t sporty enough.

It was all so unfair.

We got frostbite and soggy socks.

They got hot chocolate and Olympic prep.

Still, Johan seemed proper proud of ‘em. And I’ll admit—part of me couldn’t wait to meet these snow-queen genius girls he kept bangin’ on about.

Even if I’d have to brush up on me Swedish first.

And learn how not to fall over in the snow.

Turns out, these girls—Vinka and Marlin—weren’t just brainy snowflakes with a knack for glidin’ through school and snow like they’d been born on skis.

No, no.

They were also already small-time martial arts legends.

While me and Johan were still figurin’ out how to tie our own shoelaces without endin’ up in a knotted heap on the carpet, Vinka and Marlin had been tyin’ belts in Aikido class twice a week since they were three.

Three!

Alright, me and Johan had been boxing since we were three, but.

By the time we were masterin’ Velcro, they were movin’ from white to yellow belt like it was nothin’. Barely blinked. And it weren’t just kiddie flips either—they had dreams of black belts, fancy moves, and tossin’ people across rooms with grace and flair.

Honestly, Johan and I were both proper impressed.

And just a little bit terrified.

The idea of two elegant, snow-loving bookworms who could flip you over their shoulder without spillin’ their cocoa? That’s a combo you don’t argue with.

Still, Johan always spoke about them with this sort of wide-eyed admiration.

“They’re just like us,” he’d say.

“Book lovers. Love learnin’. Curious about everything.”

Only, you know… maybe they read with a bit more elegance. Fewer biscuit crumbs ground into the pages. Less jam on the corners.

Apparently, they’d already started learnin’ English at school, and were well into the same subjects as us—stories, history, anything with a good dose of adventure and unlikely escapes. They sounded like the kind of girls who’d help you plot a tunnel out of a POW camp and then offer to make a hot drink afterwards.

I was desperate to meet ‘em. Not just because of the martial arts thing. Or the reading thing. Or the “they’re beautiful and Swedish and might possibly like me” thing.

Mostly, I just needed a change.

The thought of another summer without Johan was already grim enough—like a soggy chip on a rainy Monday. But throw in the new chaos duo at home?

Phoebe and Susan had now fully evolved into a bickering double act. A non-stop comedy routine, except no one was laughin’. It was all high-pitched arguments, choreographed tantrums, and dramatic performances worthy of a sold-out show at the Palladium.

I tell ya, I was this close—this close—to applyin’ for asylum in Sweden. Or Finland. Or anywhere, really, that served peace and quiet with a side of sanity.

Honestly, even a reindeer herd sounded more manageable than an afternoon with Phoebe makin’ up musicals and Susan singin’ the wrong key like it owed her money.

Me and Johan were, let’s be honest, an academic dream team.

Top of the class in everything.

Maths? Smashed it.

Reading? Lived for it.

Science? Please—we knew the periodic table and how to spell it.

And we were modest, too. Very humble. The most humble, really.

A couple times a year, Johan’s family would head off to Sweden, to visit Ingrid’s side. And every time he went, it felt like someone had nicked me favourite book halfway through the best chapter. I’d be left sittin’ there, stuck on a cliffhanger, wonderin’ what’d happen next while Phoebe attempted interpretive dance routines in the living room.

So there I was, 1963, just about bracin’ meself for another Phoebe-infested summer—complete with jazz hands and Susan’s off-key backing vocals—when it happened.

Something amazing.

Johan’s parents popped round for a cuppa and casually dropped the biggest bombshell since the Blitz:

“Would Stephen like to come with us to Sweden? For the whole summer?”

I tried to act cool—just gave a shrug, you know, as if I wasn’t about to burst into flames with excitement.

Inside? I was mentally packin’. Socks, books, invisible Viking sword, three imaginary thank-you speeches.

I even briefly wondered if “Future Godfather to Your Brilliant Daughter” was too much to write on the thank-you card.

Honestly, I nearly launched meself into low orbit.

Dad, of course, was a legend. Laid-back as ever, he gave it the classic thumbs-up and said:

“Long as he don’t come back speakin’ only Swedish and askin’ for pickled ‘erring on his cornflakes, I’m all for it.”

Mum, meanwhile, went full accountant-meets-border-control.

She had that look in her eye—the one she reserved for over-budget gas bills and suspicious use of the biscuit tin. The idea of sendin’ me abroad while jugglin’ three other kids and a weekly shop that required battlefield logistics... well, it didn’t exactly scream “holiday magic” to her.

“It might be a tad unfair,” she said through tight lips, “to send you gallivantin’ off to Scandinavia while Tim and the girls are left scrappin’ over who gets the last custard cream.”

Fair point, in theory.

Except—Nan and Granddad’s farm was already on the cards for the rest of ‘em.

A different kind of holiday, sure—but still a proper adventure.

With pigs, jam jars, and the occasional tractor chase thrown in.

If I was honest, I knew they’d be fine.

Tim would befriend a pig.

Phoebe would find a mirror and start rehearsing her West End debut.

Susan would probably fall in love with a jam jar.

And me?

I was finally goin’ to Sweden.

Six weeks of forests, lakes, cinnamon buns, foreign-language guesswork, and—most importantly—Vinka and Marlin.

The countdown had begun.

And for once, it was countin’ towards freedom, not just the next swimming lesson in a puddle of hypothermia.

Now, to his credit, Tim put on an Oscar-worthy performance of bein’ absolutely chuffed for me.

Grinnin’, noddin’, wishin’ me all the best—suspiciously cheerful, if I’m honest.

Of course, this had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I’d already bribed him with exclusive rights to my entire toy collection for the duration of my Swedish sabbatical.

Me Lego, me Matchbox cars, the prized tin robot with one wobbly leg—all his.

“Honestly,” he said, flashin’ a grin like butter wouldn’t melt, “I just want to hang out with Granddad and the pigs.”

Yeah. I bet he did.

Not ‘cause he loved pigs.

But because he knew I wouldn’t be around to stop him stuffin’ Weetabix in the tape deck of me toy radio again.

Now Phoebe—bless her dramatic soul—objected with the force of a union strike.

There were tears.

Crossed arms.

Threats to run away—though, to be fair, her escape route only got her as far as the bottom of the garden, where she sat on the compost bin like it was a throne of injustice.

And then, of course, came the dramatic flounce onto the sofa—face down, legs kickin’ like she’d been personally betrayed by international diplomacy.

Mum, bein’ the tactical genius she was, defused the whole situation with military precision:

– One new dress (with sparkles).

– One promise that she could have a friend over for tea.

Boom.

Crisis averted.

Peace restored.

World saved—again—by accessories and sugar.

And Susan?

Well, she didn’t have the foggiest idea what was goin’ on. But she sensed mischief in the air.

Babies can smell betrayal.

She kept glarin’ at me from behind her dummy, like she knew I was off on an adventure and takin’ the fun with me.

It was part confusion, part stink-eye, part “I will remember this, and one day, I shall rise.”

All I had to do now was:

– Behave myself (which, let’s be honest, was already pushin’ it),

– Keep me room tidy (a task on par with taming a wild lion),

– And await Mum’s final verdict.

I felt like a prisoner up for parole.

One wrong move, and it was back to Phoebe’s interpretive dances and the unmistakable aroma of pigs in the pantry.

But if I could just hold it together a little longer…

Sweden was within reach.

It all started as just another routine shopping trip with Mum.

You know the kind—me trailin’ behind her like a bored trolley boy, starin’ at tins of Spam and wonderin’ if life had any meaning beyond boiled carrots and aisle seven. We were tickin’ off the usual list: bread, milk, whatever was on offer and vaguely edible.

Then—we popped into the post office.

Nothin’ outta the ordinary at first. Some bloke moanin’ about stamps, someone else tryin’ to post a parcel bigger than the actual building... classic British chaos.

And then, right there—casually, like she was askin’ for change—Mum says:

“One-year child’s passport, please. For my son. Name’s Stephen, photo’s here.”

I nearly fainted on the spot.

My stomach started doin’ cartwheels, my brain packed its bags and left, and my face—judgin’ by the look from the old dear behind me—had gone full “confused badger wins lottery”.

Was I dreamin’?

Was this a test?

Had I died and come back in a parallel universe where dreams come true in the middle of the post office queue?

Somehow—miraculously—I managed not to shout “I’M GOING TO SWEDEN!” at full volume and knock over a display of padded envelopes.

But the second we left that building?

Boom. I was off.

I exploded into a full sprint—legs flailin’, heart racin’—like I was bein’ chased by a bear.

More accurately, I was propelled by pure, unfiltered joy.

Like someone had stuck a firework up me school shorts and yelled, “Run, for your life!”

I legged it all the way to Johan’s house, probably knockin’ over a cyclist or two on the way, and burst through his front door like a herald of the Norse gods, shoutin’:

“The verdict’s in—I’M GOING TOO!”

Honestly, I might’ve done a cartwheel.

Or three.

The look on Johan’s face?

Somewhere between “this is the best day of my life” and “please tell me we’re bringing extra biscuits.”

“I remember the day I found out Stephen was coming to Sweden that summer. I was sitting at the kitchen table, swinging my legs and pretending to do my homework when Mamma — Anna — came in from the hallway with a letter in her hand. She had that little smile that meant she was about to tell me something good.

‘Vinka,’ she said, ‘your cousin Johan is coming for the summer… and he’s bringing his friend Stephen with him.’

I must’ve lit up like the candles on my last birthday cake. I’d heard so much about Stephen from Johan — this boy from England who could run faster than anyone, get into all sorts of mischief, and somehow talk his way out of trouble again.

I grabbed my coat and ran straight to Marlin’s house to tell her. She was helping her mum peel potatoes, and I burst through the door without even knocking. ‘Stephen’s coming!’ I said.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘The Stephen?’

‘Yes! The one Johan’s always talking about. They’ll stay at our place first, and then maybe we’ll go to the lake.’

Marlin grinned. ‘I wonder if he can swim.’

‘I wonder if he can do anything,’ I teased — though really, I was just curious. I didn’t know it yet, but that summer was going to change everything.”

Before we set off on what I was already callin’ “The Grand Swedish Expedition” in me head, Mum and Ingrid took me and Johan into town for that sacred British ritual known as:

“Buyin’ the new school uniform.”

Now, part of it was practical.

Mum said there wouldn’t be time when we got back, what with all the unpackin’, stories, and inevitable laundry avalanche.

But mostly—it was because of what she called:

“You must dress smartly for dinner on the ship.”

Which, in Mum Law, translated to:

– No ketchup stains.

– No grass marks.

– And absolutely, under no circumstances, no playin’ rugby in your trousers.

She didn’t say it so much as carve it into stone.

She picked out a crisp white shirt, a blazer so sharp it could slice bread, and a pair of trousers that looked allergic to fun.

I eyed Johan, who just shrugged like this was perfectly normal. To him, dressing up for dinner was standard Scandi practice. To me, it was like bein’ drafted into the Navy.

Back home, Mum folded my new gear—along with my Sunday-best outfit—into Dad’s old Army demob suitcase. The thing looked like it’d done three world tours, two trench stints, and been sat on by an elephant. Corners scuffed, handle dodgy, and a faint whiff of nostalgia and mothballs.

But it still had a soul, that case.

And, miracle of miracles, just enough room for the most important item of all:

My rugby ball.

I packed it with all the care and reverence of someone handling the Crown Jewels. Nestled it right there between me socks and a comb I’d never use.

Dad got involved at this point, like it was some ceremonial rite of passage.

He took out one of those battered brown luggage labels from the kitchen drawer—the kind that look like they’ve seen more baggage claim belts than a Kings Cross porter—and wrote me name and address in his best block capitals.

“Just in case it goes wanderin’,” he said, tyin’ it to the handle like it was a farewell note to a beloved pet.

Then he showed me the suitcase’s teeny-tiny key—this little silver thing smaller than me thumb—and how to unlock the case with a twist that made you feel like you were breakin’ into MI5.

Finally, he tied the key to a bit of string and slipped it round me neck like he was passin’ on a sacred amulet.

“Don’t lose it,” he said, all serious. “It’s yer passport to adventure.”

And there I was—standin’ in the hallway, clutchin’ me rugby ball, suitcase packed, key around me neck—feelin’ like a mix between James Bond and Paddington Bear.

Only with slightly bigger ears and a blazer that itched.