Why Did The Suitcase Smell Like Adventure?

The Parallel Four Book One Part Four Chapter Four

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

The Parallel Four Book 1 Part 4

Chapter Four.

Blimey, you’d think I was draggin’ a tank shell the way Dad’s old Army demob suitcase clattered through the front door. It still had half a sticker from Cairo clingin’ to the side and smelt faintly of pipe smoke, mothballs, and misplaced adventure. I chucked my backpack down like I’d just returned from a covert mission behind enemy lines (which, to be fair, wasn’t far off) and launched meself into Mum’s arms with the enthusiasm of a homesick koala on payday.

So, not long after I got back to Hitchin—blinking like a mole in daylight and missing the salty air of Ellös—I got me first proper letter from Vinka. Real post! Not one of them bills or catalogues promising miracle socks, nah—this was addressed to me, in wobbly but determined English handwriting, and postmarked from Sweden like a badge of honour. Mum handed it over like it were a royal scroll, and I legged it up to my room quicker than a ferret up a trouser leg.

Inside was a folded bit of notepaper that smelt faintly of cinnamon and sea breeze (probably just me imagination, but go with it).

Hej Stephen,

School’s started again, and it already feels like summer was a dream. Marlin has fallen asleep in maths twice — the teacher says it’s “the heat,” but we both know it’s because she’s allergic to fractions.

I miss our talks by the lake. The clouds here aren’t as interesting without you pointing out ones that look like rugby scrums or lopsided sandwiches. I tried lying back on the grass the other day and doing it myself, but it’s not the same.

Oh, and “sjöjungfru” still makes me laugh every time I think about it. You sounded like you were trying to sneeze while swallowing a biscuit. (It means mermaid, remember?)

The leaves are already turning here, and the air smells like woodsmoke. Every time I pass the gate, I remember waving you off — and I wonder if you still have that kiss I sent you.

Love

Vinka

Hej Vinka!

Jag saknar dig. (At least, I hope that means “I miss you” and not “I smell of fish.” If it does, you have my full permission to laugh until you fall off your chair.)

School’s started again here, but it’s nowhere near as fun without someone trying to teach me how to pronounce words that sound like sneezes. I’ve been practising “sjöjungfru” — still sounds like I’m choking on a biscuit, but maybe slightly less deadly than before.

I miss cloud-spotting with you. Tried it last weekend but all I saw was one that looked like Mr. Bevan’s moustache, and that sort of ruined the magic.

Drew you a little picture of our rugby ball, so you don’t forget the most important Swedish word of all: “försök att ta tag i den” — which I think means “try to catch it” and not “throw it at the cat.”

Stephen

(your favourite English dictionary-in-training)

We kept that up for months. Every week, like clockwork, one letter would land on me doormat from Ellös, and one would fly off from Hitchin to Sweden. Mum even bought me some special airmail paper—thin stuff, barely thicker than a sneeze—but proper grown-up. Johan helped now and then, checking I hadn’t said anything daft like “you are a smelly bookshelf,” though I reckon he quite liked bein’ the translator-in-chief.

Her letters were full of stories about snowball fights, school discos, and her Aikido adventures—she and Marlin had earned a new belt, which I assumed was an upgrade to “officially terrifying.” I told her about school life back in Hitchin, how I’d made the rugby team proper, and how I’d nearly knocked over me maths teacher celebrating a try in the corridor. We swapped drawings too—she’d send a sketch of a snowy Swedish cottage, and I’d send back a dodgy doodle of our apple tree with a pair of boxing gloves dangling from it.

And the best part? Every time I saw that envelope with her curly writing and foreign stamp, it was like she were right there again—sat next to me on the dock, legs swinging, teaching me how to say “storm” without accidentally calling someone’s uncle a potato.

Now, I ain’t one for emotional displays—not unless I’ve grazed me knee or missed the last choccy biscuit—but I’ll admit it… quietly, in me head… I had missed ‘em. Even Phoebe. A bit. But let’s not make a fuss.

What I really missed, though—the stuff of dreams, legends, and whispered cravings—was dinner. And not just any grub. Oh no. This was the holy trinity: Spam fritters, tinned peas, and a mountain of mash smothered in gravy so thick it needed planning permission. Served up on our posh green plates (the ones reserved for birthdays, Bingo wins, and unexpected visits from Nan), it looked like a culinary hug with extra brown sauce.

I nearly burst into tears. Not from homesickness, mind you—don’t get sentimental—it was just the sheer beauty of that glistening golden fritter. Sweden had prawns and smoked salmon, sure. But Spam? That’s home. That’s love in a crunchy batter jacket.

As I tucked in, gravy dribbling down me chin, I felt like Odysseus, returned from distant lands, welcomed not by a banquet of kings, but by Mum, mash, and a generous dollop of comfort. I was home.

And already missin’ Sweden like a first crush who’d nicked your heart and your last packet of Opal Fruits.

As soon as I’d polished off the last smear of gravy with a well-aimed finger and a chunk of mash, I cleared me throat and launched into The Summer Saga of Sweden: An Epic in Four Acts and Several Sandwiches. Mum was mid-knitting, Phoebe was busy poking the cat, and Tim had taken up his usual position—half listening, half practising his frog impressions. But when I got going, even the telly gave up and went quiet. I told ‘em about the Misil 1, Greta’s salmon supper, Aikido throwdowns with girls who could’ve been in MI5, and of course, my fluent (ish) Swedish and the dictionary that cost me a week’s worth of Opal Fruits.

Meanwhile, they told me about their grand adventure to Peacehaven. I tried to sound impressed—really, I did—but it’s hard to compete with fjords, boatyards, and glamorous singers when the highlight of their trip was Cousin Matthew getting walloped by a jellyfish. “Made me rugged,” he apparently claimed, standing on one leg in Saltdean Lido while holding an ice cream and looking like a soggy action figure.

Still, they’d had donkey rides on the beach, nearly drowned in a deckchair, and Grandad’s farm was, and I quote, “far enough from the sea to avoid the smell, but close enough to hear the seagulls swearing.” Respectable, I’ll give ‘em that—but I still reckoned I’d won summer, hands down.

Then, right on cue, the mantle clock gave its usual wheezy “claaang” at nine o’clock sharp—sounded like someone dropping a saucepan down a well—and Mum did the traditional bedtime sweep. My two sisters were already snoring softly, limbs tangled like a basket of sleepy eels. She scooped them up like a professional rag-doll wrangler and whisked ‘em off upstairs.

Normally, Dad would’ve done that bit—chucked ‘em over each shoulder like sandbags and grunted all the way up the stairs—but tonight, he’d “nipped out for fags”… three hours ago. Either he’d taken a wrong turn or he was halfway to Dover chasing down a mythical corner shop that sold cigarettes, patience, and silence.

Tim and I did the usual bedtime shuffle—trying to look too mature to need bed while yawning like lions at a hammock festival. We dragged ourselves up to the shared room, where the wallpaper still featured cowboys in heroic poses and a mysterious stain in the shape of Australia

My bed was just as I’d left it: yellow candlewick counterpane, lumpy pillow, and that one bald patch I’d methodically unravelled last winter in the name of science. I climbed in, flopped like a sack of potatoes with homework, and within ten seconds, I was out cold.

If anyone’d tried to wake me, they’d have needed a marching band, a foghorn, and possibly a small earthquake.

Sunday morning in Hitchin, the sun slantin’ through the net curtains like it was tryin’ not to wake anyone too loud, and there I was—quill in hand (well, biro actually, nicked from the kitchen drawer), composing what I fancied might be the most important bit o’ correspondence since Churchill sent a telegram.

Sat at the kitchen table with me elbows stuck to the oilcloth and a cuppa tea gone lukewarm, I cracked open me shiny new English–Swedish dictionary like it held the secrets of the universe. Mum kept givin’ me side-eye every time I muttered something in a dodgy Nordic accent, but I was determined. This wasn’t just a letter—it was a diplomatic communiqué, a cross-border declaration of affection, sealed with linguistic daring and a dollop of East End charm.

I started with: “Ålskling Vinka”—which I sincerely hoped meant Darling Vinka and not Vinka, the eel inspector or summat equally mental. That first sentence took me fifteen minutes and two false starts, mostly because I was terrified of mixing up “thank you for a lovely summer” with “your grandmother smells of onions.” It’s a thin line, that.

I told her about the ferry home, the posh dinner, how the singer remembered us (and how Harry got himself laser-eyed by Ingrid again), and how some family from Essex thought I was the Swedish Ambassador’s nephew. I left out the part where I dropped my napkin under the table and knocked over the bread basket while tryin’ to retrieve it. Not very diplomatic, that.

To wrap it up proper, I wrote: “Kårlek, Stephen.” Thought it sounded dead romantic. Looked it up twice, just to be safe. Meant love, didn’t it? Unless I got the little circle on the “a” wrong and accidentally declared myself a piece o’ smoked cheese. Bit risky, that Swedish alphabet.

Anyway, proud as punch, I folded it, sealed it with a lick (and a bit of fluff stuck to the corner), slapped on a stamp with all the gravitas of Her Majesty herself, and marched it down to the red pillar box like a lad delivering state secrets.

As the letter clunked its way down the chute, I offered a quick prayer to the postal gods that I hadn’t just accidentally asked her to marry me, insulted her father’s moustache, or confessed to abductin’ a goat from Småland.

Fingers crossed, eh?

Alright, buckle up sunshine—’cause a week later, there it was, sittin’ on the hallway mat like it had been hand-delivered by Odin himself. A real proper airmail envelope with blue and red zigzags round the edge, my name spelled out in neat, swirly handwriting that looked like it belonged on a wedding invite, not addressed to a scruffy lad from Hitchin with ink on his elbows.

I legged it upstairs faster than a cat who’s just heard the hoover start up, slammed the bedroom door, and flopped onto my bed like a Victorian lady overcome by emotion. Took a deep breath. Then opened it like it might explode in glitter or reindeer secrets.

Inside was folded paper that smelt faintly of soap, cinnamon, and her. I swear it had a hint of sunshine from Ellös trapped inside, like the paper remembered where it had been. Her writing danced across the page—elegant, tidy, and smugly fluent in English.

Dear Stephen,

Your letter made me laugh, smile, and blush all at once — although I’m still not sure if you meant to call me darling, or a small fish. But I’ll take it either way.

Your Swedish is getting better, but “kårlek” with the little circle is technically “boiled love”… which sounds delicious but slightly alarming. You meant “kärlek” with the two little dots. Much safer. But don’t worry — I liked it. Very much.

I read your letter twice before showing Marlin, and when I did, she laughed so hard she nearly dropped her Aikido belt in the bath. She says your idea of writing letters is wonderful, and we’ve decided we are going to write to you every week. Marlin promises to include Swedish jokes. I apologise in advance.

Life here has gone back to normal — school in the mornings, homework in the afternoons, and the evenings getting cooler. The air smells of woodsmoke from the houses in the village, and the first yellow leaves are already falling in the lane outside. Petra says hi (she still thinks your name is “Stiffen”) and Greta wants to know if you’ve eaten your vegetables this week. Papa is mending the boat before winter, and every time I see it, I think about the little island we said we’d sail to one day.

I miss our walks and our cloud-spotting. Do you still remember how to say “swan” in Swedish? I do. And every time I see one gliding across the lake, I wonder if you do too. Write back soon — in Swedish, or your best attempt at it. And maybe include a photo? Marlin says boys always look different when they’re not wet from fjord water.

Lots of kärlek,

Vinka

Mate... I must’ve read that letter ten times. No—twelve. I even tried to smell the ink like a daft romantic poet. I stuck it in the secret compartment in me sock drawer, right next to me old boxing medal and a fossil I found that may or may not be a bit of pork pie from the ‘64 street party.

And then... well, I got straight to work on a reply, didn’t I? With extra effort on the dots, circles, and squiggles. I even considered drawing a little heart—but then thought better of it and drew a Viking helmet instead.

Right then, picture it: me, back at the kitchen table, dictionary in one hand, biro in the other, brows furrowed like I was defusing a bomb made of vowels and umlauts. I started me reply the proper way—bit of charm, bit of cheek, and a whole lotta hope that I didn’t accidentally propose to her gran.

Here’s how it went:

Kära Vinka,

(Dear Vinka—yes, I triple-checked this time!)

Thank you for your lovely letter. I read it so many times I’ve practically memorised it. And I’m very glad to know I didn’t accidentally declare war or offer you a haddock in marriage with my dodgy spelling. I promise to retire “boiled love” from me vocabulary immediately—unless I’m writing to a soup.

Back in Hitchin now. The streets seem louder, the clouds greyer, and me sisters somehow stickier than I remember. Mum says it’s normal post-holiday blues, but I think it’s just that Sweden was so brill, and you made it extra brill-iant. (Is that a Swedish pun? I’m working on it.)

Tim’s already asked me ten times when I going back and could he come. He liked the sound of snow and sausages. I told him he’d have to behave like a prince and get good marks, so don’t be surprised if he starts brushing his hair for once.

I miss the fjord, I miss the dinghies, and I even miss your terrifyingly accurate Aikido throws. Honestly, I think my shoulder’s still sulking. Also, tell Marlin I’ve been practising my rolling break fall on the bed. Mum’s not thrilled about the dents in the wall.

Thank you for the corrections—and yes, I remember “svan” means swan. (Though I still think they look more like grumpy ballerinas.) And the island! Of course I remember. “Lilla Skattkammarön”—Little Treasure Island. I’ve got it marked in me atlas now. One day, we’ll sail there properly. No pirates, just sandwiches and silly songs.

Here’s a picture of me in my rugby kit, holdin’ the ball like it’s the crown jewels (don’t laugh — Dad snapped it right after a match, so I’m still wearin’ half the pitch on my knees). Thought you might like proof I can look serious… even if I was tryin’ not to drop it. And here’s one of Tim in the garden with our spare ball, which is now about 80% mud, 20% leather, and 0% chance of passin’ the ref’s inspection.

Write again soon. Your letters are like a cup of hot chocolate in the middle of maths class.

Stor kärlek,

(Big love,)

Stephen

P.S. Greta was right—I have eaten me vegetables. (Mostly by accident.)

Hej Stephen,

I liked your photo very much — and yes, I laughed, but only a little. You do look very serious holding that rugby ball, like you’re guarding the crown jewels from pirates. Petra saw the picture of Tim and nicked it before I could stop her. She says she’s going to “keep it safe,” which I think means it’s going up on her wall.

I’ve sent you one of me in my Aikido kit. Papa took it just after practice, so my hair’s all over the place and I’m grinning like a fool because I’d just thrown Marlin across the mat. I thought you might like proof I can look serious too — even if I was trying not to laugh at the time.

Write soon. And maybe send me one of you not covered in mud next time?

Lots of kärlek,

Vinka

Hej Vinka,

Got your letter — and your photo. Blimey. You look like you could flip me straight over your shoulder and into next week… and I’d probably thank you for it. The kit suits you, even if you say your hair was all over the place. I reckon you look brilliant — like one of those martial arts stars from the telly, only better ‘cause you’re real.

I’ve shown it to Tim (strictly for the purpose of makin’ him jealous). He said, “She’d flatten you, mate,” which is probably true. I’ve now promised him I’ll bring you to rugby training one day just to prove the point.

And tell Petra her “safe keeping” of his picture is noted — I’ll expect to see it framed when I visit.

Jag saknar dig,

Stephen

Starting Junior School felt like stepping into Parliament—only with more crayons and less shouting. I strutted across that playground like I owned it, tie straight, badge gleaming, and jumper so navy it could’ve enlisted. Gone were the days of finger painting and wobbly milk teeth—this was serious territory now: times tables, proper desks, and teachers who actually expected you to sit still longer than a goldfish’s attention span.

Tim, poor soul, was still over in the Infant School, looking like a small lost sheep in a sea of nap mats and oversized building blocks. Meanwhile, my sisters had joined the ranks of the freshly institutionalised at nursery and were protesting like seasoned union reps. Every morning became a theatrical showdown. Phoebe would throw herself onto the lino like she was auditioning for a silent film, while Susan clung to Mum’s skirt with the grip strength of a sailor in a storm.

Tim, ever the tactical genius, had secretly smeared Vaseline all over the bannister. So instead of dragging their heels, the girls shot down the stairs like jelly-powered cannonballs. One minute they were wailing at the top, the next they were sprawled across the hallway tiles, stunned into silence. Honestly, if he’d rigged it with fireworks, it couldn’t have been more effective. Mum didn’t know whether to hug him or report him to child services.

As for me, I was just relieved I could finally walk to school without being mistaken for their keeper. Reputation’s important when you’re a junior now. Especially when you’re the lad who just spent his summer fending off Swedish fish, mastering Morse code, and falling in love with two girls on the same birthday.

Johan and I, naturally, kept up appearances as the dignified duo—clean collars, ties straight, shoes polished to a blinding shine. We left early, heads held high, as though off to Parliament to debate important matters like who’d nicked the last Wagon Wheel. On the way, we picked up a ragtag squad of mates one by one—our own little army of scholars, marching to school like we were on national service, minus the salutes and with a lot more jam sandwiches.

Tim, meanwhile, preferred to operate on what he called “creative scheduling.” He’d emerge from the house like a confused chicken, buttons all skew-whiff, sock hanging out the bottom of his trouser leg, and hair styled by a hedge. He told me he liked the red crosses in the register because they made him feel “noticed.” I told him if he collected any more, they’d give him a full set of curtains to match.

Now, that first day back—let me tell ya, I approached Junior School like I was stormin’ the beaches. Casually strolled in, eyes peeled, nerves doing the conga in my belly. I found myself a nice neutral zone by the entrance—near enough to bolt if things went south, but not so close that the teachers could collar me for an “early volunteer.”

And then, there they were—Year Six lads, already asserting dominance like they were preparing for gladiator school. One of ’em had muscles in places I didn’t even know had names. They were rugby tackling each other with all the subtlety of a pub brawl and somehow managing to stay just outta view of Miss Jenkins’ ever-watchful window.

So there it was. Playground diplomacy, Rule Number One: steer clear of the overgrown gorillas. Rule Number Two: never, under any circumstances, be the first to speak in assembly. And Rule Number Three? Always know where the toilets are… just in case nerves make a surprise appearance.