Is This the Real Viking Grandpa?

The Parallel Four Book One Part Three Chapter Three

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

After what felt like a lifetime—roughly four eternities in seven-year-old years—I finally clocked it.

That sound.

That thunderous chug-chug, followed by a hiss so fierce it nearly took me eyebrows off. The whole platform shook as the steam train came roarin’ in like a fire-breathin’ dragon on wheels. It snorted, it huffed, it belched out black clouds o’ charcoal smuts that stuck to your coat, your suitcase, and—in my case—me freshly brushed barnet.

I was instantly smitten.

Proper in love.

Me and Johan dashed up the platform like a pair o’ over-caffeinated spaniels, eyes peeled for the big golden number twos on the carriage doors—our proud claim to second-class luxury, if your definition of “luxury” includes no legroom and suspicious sandwich smells.

Once aboard, we crammed ourselves in with the rest of the day’s bargain travellers, wedging the luggage between our knees, tossing lighter bags onto the rack above and hopin’ none of it came back down mid-journey and knocked someone out cold.

The door shut behind us with a lovely clunk—like the sound of an adventure officially begining.

Then came the guard’s whistle, the flash of his green flag, and just like that—

We were off.

London-bound.

Two scruffy little explorers off to foreign lands with cheese sandwiches, itchy socks, and dreams of Vikings and cinnamon buns.

The train’s steady clickety-clack had this weird magic to it—sort of hypnotic, like it was trying to lull us into some railway trance. Even the loudest kids on the carriage started nodding off.

Well… for about five minutes.

Me and Johan were trying not to laugh as we watched Ingrid’s head bobbin’ about like one o’ those dashboard nodding dogs, doin’ that slow forward dip before snappin’ back up like a startled owl. She fought it, bless her—but the clickety-clack always wins.

I soon discovered I’d made a critical error in wardrobe choices:

Short trousers… on tartan upholstery.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever sat down on itchy train seat fabric with bare legs, but I’ll tell ya—it’s like plonking yourself on a hedgehog wearing a kilt. I tried shuffling, shifting, squirming—nothin’ helped. The seat was winning, and I had no chance of walking off that train without a rash that looked like I’d fought a plaid porcupine.

Desperate for distraction, I started foggin’ up the window with me breath, drawing what I considered artistic masterpieces—a castle, a Viking, a rather good impression of Mr. Peters from school with his nostrils flared.

That was until the nearby passengers—the kind that treat public transport like a sacred cathedral—started givin’ me that look.

You know the one.

Frosty glares, tight lips, a well-practised “Tut” that could curdle milk.

My window gallery got shut down real quick.

Artistic expression, apparently, is frowned upon when it blocks someone’s view of Hertfordshire hedgerows.

Me and Johan had our noses glued to the window like detectives on a stakeout—eyes peeled, lips twitching, brains working overtime.

To pass the time, we launched into what would go down in history as the most chaotic game of “I Spy” ever played on the British rail network.

And not just any “I Spy”—nah, this was bilingual.

We were flippin’ between English and Swedish like the UN in short trousers.

“I spy with my little eye… something beginning with ‘B’.”

“Bus?”

“Nope.”

“Bil?” that’s ‘car’ in Swedish, for the uninitiated.

“Also no.”

“Birch tree?”

“YES!”

We were on fire, I tell ya.

With the whole countryside rushing past us, it was like playin’ bingo at 60 miles an hour—hedgerows, tractors, sheep staring like they owed us money—it was all up for grabs.

Then, just as Johan was winding up his next clue—disaster struck.

The train gave one of those deep, chest-rattling WHOOOOOOs from the front end, and next thing we know—we’re plunged into a tunnel.

Dark.

Loud.

And within seconds, the carriage filled up with a thick, clingy coal-flavoured fog, like someone had let off a Victorian smoke bomb for a laugh.

Harry—quick as a flash—lunged for the window and slammed it shut, but not before the soot made its move.

A big ol’ lump of smut came flying in like it had a vendetta and landed smack on Ingrid’s cheek, perfectly placed like a moustache drawn by a very cheeky toddler with a marker pen.

Harry, bless him, leapt into damage control mode.

Out comes the handkerchief—bit of a lick for luck—and he starts scrubbing at her face like he’s cleanin’ a windscreen.

But it was too late.

The black mark just smeared, going from “cheeky soot blob” to abstract charcoal swirl, like someone had tried to finger-paint Picasso with their eyes shut.

Ingrid’s glare?

Mate…

It could’ve frozen lava.

I swear the temperature in the carriage dropped by ten degrees. Even the other passengers went quiet, like they’d just witnessed a diplomatic incident.

With the calm fury of a woman who’d raised three boys, endured public transport, and once cooked a three-course meal during a power cut, Ingrid retrieved her powder compact from her handbag—slowly.

Deliberately.

Like a knight drawin’ a sword.

She opened it with a snap so sharp it probably woke a sheep three fields over, and began repairin’ the damage with the grim precision of a general preparing for battle.

Even the mirror flinched.

As the light crept back in and we trundled into London, the train’s rhythm changed—gone was the soft clickety-clack of countryside calm. Now it was all clunk, screech, rattle, and the faint suspicion your carriage wheels were being held on with bits of string and hope.

Faces started appearing on the platform—staring in through the windows with a mix of curiosity, confusion, and just a touch of mild horror.

Fair enough.

From their point of view, we probably looked like a travelling circus act.

Especially Ingrid, bless her—still mid makeup repair, dabbing soot with the determination of a woman who refused to arrive in the capital looking like a coal miner in pearls.

Me and Johan sat up proper sharp, straightened our collars—both of which had acquired charming smudge patterns—and gave each other a look that said: Right then. Dignity. Engage.

The train came to a shudderin’ halt, and we leapt the dreaded gap like proper commuters—or at least tourists pretending not to be tourists, tryin’ not to stack it headfirst into a briefcase.

We’d made it.

King’s Cross

The real deal.

A temple of travel, noise, and more pigeons than a Trafalgar Square postcard.

With all bodies accounted for and the suitcases retrieved—each one weighin’ roughly the same as a medium-sized elephant—we set off across the concourse like a well-meaning herd of travel-weary donkeys.

I’d never seen so many people movin’ at once without actually crashin’ into each other.

It was like a very British stampede—all muttered apologies, umbrellas at half-mast, and briefcases swung just low enough to endanger small animals.

We rallied behind our groaning luggage trolley, squeakin’ along like it’d seen better decades, and headed in tight formation towards the next challenge:

The Circle and District Lines.

Now, if you’ve never tried to navigate the London Underground in the mid-’60s with a suitcase, a sleep-deprived Swede, and a tin of emergency boiled sweets—you’ve never truly known stress.

Down we went.

Concrete staircases that seemed to stretch forever, tunnels tiled so shiny you could do your hair in ‘em, and signs that pointed in every direction at once.

Between Harry, Johan, and me, we somehow summoned the strength of Samson—or at least a slightly overconfident Scout patrol—and heaved those cases through the maze.

We must’ve looked a right picture:

– Me red-faced,

– Johan luggin’ a bag like he was smuggling treasure,

– Harry barking directions like a man tryin’ to reverse a steamship in a phone box.

But somehow—miraculously—we made it through the tiled labyrinth.

The adventure was still on track.

And next stop?

The docks.

Where the real journey—the sea voyage to Sweden—waited just over the horizon.

There we were, waitin’ on the underground platform, surrounded by posters for Milky bars, Man from Uncle and a bloke playing “Roll Out the Barrel” on a harmonica like his life depended on it.

Suddenly, the air shifted.

A warm, dusty gust swept down the tunnel, and you could feel it coming—the beast.

Like a rock star with zero chill, the train blasted past us, all wind and thunder, coat flaps flapping and newspapers flying. Then—screech!—it stopped… just far enough ahead to make the whole platform shuffle forward like confused penguins late for bingo.

The doors sighed open and we squeezed in, elbow to ribcage, bag to shin, into a carriage packed tighter than a tin of sardines at a sumo convention.

I ended up wedged beneath the armpit of a man who clearly believed that deodorant was a government conspiracy.

I’ve smelt better dustbins.

Still—silver lining—I wasn’t completely flattened. And my suitcase only hit one person on the shin. Result.

So there I stood—practising shallow breathing, staring at a “Mind the Gap” sign like it held the secrets of the universe and wearing me best “I’m fine” face, which probably looked more like a slow-motion panic sneeze.

Miraculously, the ride was brief. We spilled out at Liverpool Street, red-faced, sweaty, and victorious.

One last train to go:

The overground to Harwich.

That bit was less chaotic—more sit down and recover—and before long, we were steaming into the station with the scent of salt in the air and something massive rising over the horizon.

Then I saw it.

The ship.

I stopped in me tracks, mouth open, suitcase hanging off one hand like I’d just remembered it existed.

It was colossal.

Titanic—but without the unfortunate ice cube.

It loomed over the dock like a floating skyscraper, big and bold and bristlin’ with adventure, mystery, and the tantalisin’ promise of a buffet.

This weren’t just a boat.

This was the mighty ferry—the beast that’d carry us across the roaring North Sea to Gothenburg.

Me first-ever trip abroad.

My escape from custard creams and curtain-climbers.

I stood there like I was looking at the Eighth Wonder of the World, imagination running wild—spy missions, Viking treasures, cinnamon buns the size of steering wheels.

Then I felt an elbow in me ribs.

Johan, of course.

Back to reality, mate. You’ve got a suitcase to carry and a deck chair to claim.

This was it.

The real adventure was about to begin.

And it came with a funnel, a flag, and more lifeboats than a boy could count.

From the moment we stepped aboard, everything switched to Swedish—well, at least they did.

Me? I gave it a go.

But some of those words felt like my tongue had joined a gymnastics class it hadn’t trained for.

Rollin’ R’s, vowels doing somersaults, sounds coming out that I’m not sure were entirely legal in Britain.

Still—I was determined.

Threw myself into conversations with the enthusiasm of a dog at a dinner table.

Even if my replies mostly consisted of:

“Ja!”

“Inte säker, men okej!”

“Not sure, but okay!”—a phrase that got me through most social situations, actually.

I was about on par with Harry, to be honest.

Now, Harry had been married to Ingrid for years, but he still treated Swedish like it was a mildly annoying house guest—tolerated it at mealtimes, didn’t engage much, and hoped it would leave quietly without causing a scene.

Between the two of us, we understood far more than we let on, which made us highly suspicious conversationalists and utterly useless in an argument.

“What did he say?”

“No idea. Might’ve called you a cabbage.”

“Right. Well... best not respond then.”

The ship itself?

Massive.

A proper floating city, with all the charm and layout of a confusin’ IKEA showroom.

Decks stacked like a wedding cake, all neat layers on top and mysterious dark ones underneath—just to keep things spicy.

Corridors twisted round like a bad plumbing diagram, lined with identical doors that made you start doubting your own memory.

“Wasn’t that door 212? Or was it 221? Hang on… who’s this bloke again?”

Room numbers became our only hope—little glowing digits in brass frames, like lighthouses in the fog.

Me and Johan had a cabin just next to his parents. Cosy, neat, and, miracle of miracles, not shared with twelve strangers and a pile of luggage.

We only got lost twice before we found it.

Though I’m fairly sure we passed the same fella three times, lookin’ increasingly desperate and clearly still searchin’ for the loos.

Poor sod looked like he might try knocking on a lifeboat next.

We were seven.

We’d barely managed to take our coats off before the explorer impulse kicked in and we legged it down the corridor like we were late for a treasure hunt.

That cabin?

Nice enough.

But when you’ve got an entire floating fortress to explore, you don’t sit around folding socks.

We escaped the beige door labyrinth, turning corners like confused delivery boys, until we reached this massive grand hallway—all shiny chrome, velvet ropes, and a pair of glittering staircases that looked like they’d been nicked straight out of a Bond villain’s lair.

There were lifts, too—proper posh ones, with little light-up floor numbers and buttons that glowed like they knew secrets.

We piled in, hit the button for Deck 5, and waited.

Jolt. Ding. Whoosh.

The doors opened… and we stepped out like royalty.

Royalty in scuffed shoes and hair stuck up from static, but royalty nonetheless.

The carpet underfoot?

Plush.

Red.

So soft it felt like walkin’ on marshmallows in your socks, which, frankly, should be the standard for all flooring everywhere.

But then… we saw it.

Straight ahead—just beyond the thick glass and velvet ropes—was a scene so out of this world, I half expected someone to shout “Launch the missiles!”

Men in crisp white uniforms sat in front of glowin’ screens, fiddling with dials, flipping switches, and squintin’ at charts like the fate of the planet depended on accurate compass readings.

Some had headphones clamped to their ears, nodding and muttering like they were taking calls from the Moon.

Others paced back and forth inside a glassed-off control room, looking deeply concerned, possibly about navigational safety—or biscuits gone missing.

I stared, gobsmacked.

It looked like the control deck of a Cold War spy thriller.

Or one of those “How Things Work” books from the school library—only in full 3D and smellin’ faintly of polish and sea air.

Later, I found out this was called the bridge.

Which was a bit of a shock, to be honest.

Up till that point, the only “bridges” I knew involved:

– Trolls,

– Old ladies playing whist,

– Or those rusty walkovers by the canal that smelled of soggy chips.

This one?

This one had charts, radios, and possibly lasers, though I never confirmed that bit.

Now this version of a bridge—not the troll-dwelling, card playing kind—was a right hive of activity.

Buttons flashing, charts sprawled out like pirate treasure maps, and men running about with that serious “Europe’s counting on us” energy.

There were tide tables pinned to the walls, like secret naval codes, and shelves of colour-coded files standin’ there like they were in uniform too.

Blokes were furiously drawing lines on sea charts the size of carpets—straight faces, compass whirling, rulers slamming down like they were playing the most intense game of Battleships known to man.

I was stood there, proper gobsmacked, taking it all in… until my eyes caught a sign in big, bold, no smiles here letters:

“NO PUBLIC ACCESS”

Ah. Right.

Me and Johan did that slow-motion backward shuffle all guilty-like—the one you do when you’ve just nicked a biscuit before dinner and Mum walks in.

Then—BANG—we were off.

Legging it down the grand staircase like startled deer, dignity flapping behind us like a loose scarf in a wind tunnel.

We didn’t stop till the air smelled less like navigation charts and more like… perfume and panic.

We’d landed in…

The Onboard Shop.

A place that felt like someone had mashed together a duty-free, a market stall, and Woolworths on a sugar high.

Posters everywhere shouting “HALF PRICE!” like they were tryin’ to sell you a telly in the Blitz.

Racks of slightly wrinkled T-shirts stood about looking confused, like they weren’t quite sure if they were souvenirs or emergency pyjamas.

There were perfume counters smelling like a celebrity boxing match—all expensive and overpowering, like two posh aunties having a row at a wedding.

And then—the booze section.

Oh, mate.

It looked like the back of a Co-op, but if the Co-op was run by cowboys.

Blokes were strutting out, grinning like they’d just robbed a saloon, dragging bags full of Marlboro multipacks like they were planning to build a fort out of them.

I swear one geezer winked at his carton like it was about to help him win a poker game.

Then I clocked the ladies’ corner—a whole glittering galaxy of trinkets, bangles, and spaghetti string necklaces twisting on them little rotating stands.

Women hovered over the glass counters like seagulls over chips, picking stuff up, putting it down, picking it up again like they were auditioning for a role in a retail opera.

It gave me a proper flashback—Mum draggin’ me round the shops, telling me “just five more minutes”, which we all knew meant I’d age a whole school year before we left the store.

Just near the tills, where wallets got nervous and grown-ups suddenly remembered their budget, there stood an oasis of comfort.

A glorious display of chocolate bars, stacked like sacred artefacts.

And next to them—those posh tins of biscuits, the ones with embossed lids and painted cottages that made you feel like opening them was a crime against art.

I made a mental note:

Steer Harry this way, sharpish.

He might not be fluent in Swedish, but he spoke Chocolate.

And since kids had to be accompanied in the shop, what better designated adult than a fellow choccie sympathiser?

Down the deck we wandered, led by our noses.

The air changed—thick with cigarette smoke, a whiff of cheap lager, and some poor soul’s aftershave battling for its life.

I reckon it was losing.

Whatever it was, it smelled like it’d been bottled in a back alley and labelled “Manpower.”

We followed the scent symphony and landed at what could only be described as…

A pub, but make it space age.

No door. Just a smooth open plan zone, with padded high-back sofas, floors so shiny you could shave in ’em, and a jukebox blarin’ out Buddy Holly like it was havin’ a one-man concert.

We loitered casual—like miniature Rockers with nowhere to be and not enough hair grease between us.

Soakin’ in the sounds, we gave it just long enough to look cool, then scarpered before someone decided we were too young, too nosy, or just looking for unattended crisps.

Then—Deck 4’s secret gem.

Tucked away at the far end, behind a plant that looked suspiciously fake and a lamp with a wobble, was a library.

Yeah. A proper one.

Well-stocked, nice and quiet, and smelt like old pages and polite disapproval.

Only one fella in there—hiding behind a newspaper so big, I half-suspected he was building a tent or spying on someone.

Either way, he weren’t bothering us.

So we slipped in, whispering like undercover agents, and started plot-tin’.

Not for sweets. Not for books.

For freedom.

Operation Fresh Air:

Our mission to reach the outside deck.

To breathe in real sea air.

To feel the wind in our hair.

And hopefully not lose a limb to some angry steward or a particularly enthusiastic door.

We gave each other a nod—the serious one, the kind that says “if I don’t make it, tell me mum I died brave.”

The next stage of the journey?

Underway.

Now, before we get too deep into heroics—let me remind ya—Harry had warned us.

In that same voice he used when telling tales from the war… or how he once fixed a boiler with nothing but a spoon and sheer willpower.

“Those big steel doors?” he said.

“They’ll snap your fingers clean off, they will—slam shut like a guillotine if you ain’t careful.”

He was clearly picturing us as a couple of overconfident chimpanzees with a death wish.

Naturally, we took his warning very seriously.

And by that, I mean…

We ignored it completely and came up with a clever workaround.

See, Harry had also declared—“Children must be accompanied if going outside.”

Well… he never said by whom, did he?

So we stationed ourselves in the port side corridor, keepin’ one eye on the door and the other on potential accomplices.

To pass the time, we played a few rounds of Rock, Paper, Scissors.

I won most of them, obviously—strategic genius that I am.

And then—bingo.

Our golden ticket appeared.

A loved-up couple, giggling their way down the corridor like they’d just won a prize draw.

She was twirling her engagement ring like it came with a spinner and he looked like the sort of lad who’d say “after you” even if a fire broke out.

He reached the door, all chivalrous like, and swung it open with flair for his beloved.

And that—that was our moment.

With our most angelic faces on—innocent as kittens—we strolled right behind her, ducking under his arm like we were ushers at their wedding.

“Tack så mycket!”

Swedish for “cheers, mate”—or close enough.

And just like that—we were outside.

The air hit us like a blast of pure freedom—salty, crisp, fresh, and carryin’ the scent of mystery, diesel, and whatever they were serving in the crew’s canteen.

Mission: Accomplished.

Now, you’d think the danger would be getting out there.

But no, mate.

Turns out, the deck itself had it in for us.

I barely got three steps into my nautical victory lap before I nearly tripped over a deckchair—a rogue bit of folding furniture that, I swear on my mum’s Sunday roast, lunged at me unprovoked.

I gave it a glare. It didn’t move.

But I know what it did.

Still, shaken but unspilled, Johan and I made our way to the railing—miniature sea captains peering out over our salt-sprayed kingdom.

And what a view.

The land was still visible, just clingin’ to the edge of the horizon.

Massive cranes loomed up like robotic giraffes, stretching their necks for containers, while forklift trucks zoomed about like caffeinated ants, buzzing from one pallet to another in some weird industrial ballet.

We were mesmerised.

Spellbound.