Why Did My Old House Feel So Empty?

The Parallel Four Book One Part Eleven Chapter Eleven

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.21

Transcript

The Parallel Four Book One Part Eleven

Chapter Eleven.

It felt strangely hollow to park on the neighbour’s drive and not walk up to our old front door. I sat for a moment, staring at the house that used to be home. The curtains were drawn, the letterbox stiff and silent, and the windows stared back blankly, like eyes that no longer recognised me. There were no voices drifting from inside, no flickering light from the lounge, no scent of toast or laundry on the air.

Just stillness.

For a fleeting moment, a tight ache gripped my chest—part grief, part confusion. As though I’d come back from some grand adventure to find the map had changed and the legend had vanished.

Harry must’ve seen it on my face. He reached across and gave my hair a ruffle—not the playful kind, but the quiet, fatherly sort that says I’m here without needing words.

Ingrid, ever one step ahead, turned in her seat. “Your mum,” she said gently, “left a note with the neighbours. She’s gone for now. Said she needed a break, some space.”

I nodded stiffly, trying not to blink too hard.

“She left your clothes and bits in the garden shed,” Ingrid said gently. “We’ll go and fetch them now we’re home—they can stay in the spare room at ours, where they belong.”

The words garden shed thudded in my chest. As if my childhood had been boxed up and stored like winter tools and forgotten bicycles.

“Sorry, love,” she said, her voice soft but not pitying.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded again and climbed out of the car, the drizzle softening the edges of everything.

The old house stood silent behind me, full of echoes no one cared to hear. Curtains drawn, doors shut—it was no longer mine.

But ahead, the door to Harry and Ingrid’s swung open, warm light spilling out like a welcome. It wasn’t where I’d grown up—not officially—but I’d spent more nights than I could count in that house. Sleepovers, school mornings, holidays. In a way, it had always been my second home. And now, it was my only one.

We fetched my cold, damp belongings from the garden shed. The bags felt heavier than they should have, as if soaked in something more than just rain. My clothes were musty from neglect, but Ingrid, bless her, tossed them straight into the wash before even touching her own suitcase. No fuss, just quiet care.

Later, Johan disappeared upstairs and came back with a rolled-up poster under one arm. Without saying much, he took down one from his wall and replaced it with this one beside my new bed. A small gesture, but it hit me like a punch. I bit down on my lip. Kindness like that—it was the kind that cracked you open.

As it turned out, I ended up living with Johan and his parents right through to the end of the summer holidays. When we got back from Sweden, Mum, Tim, Phoebe, and Susan had finally returned home. Apparently, there’d been a court case and all sorts of drama while we were away—but thankfully, none of it landed on my shoulders.

In truth, I couldn’t have been happier. I was still living with Johan, and without Phoebe around to pester us, life was just about perfect.

Over the years, Johan had come along with us on plenty of trips down to Peacehaven to visit my grandparents, and we’d had some proper brilliant weekends and half-terms down there. Not that we ever mucked in on the farm, mind you—me and Johan, future men of mystery and mischief, had absolutely no intention of getting covered in pig muck or herding anything with four legs.

While Tim was out living his best dung-splattered life—wading through fields, chasing after tractors, and asking Granddad deeply technical questions like “How fast does this one go?”—we kept ourselves busy with the finer things the occasional trip to Newhaven beach, where the pebbles doubled as medieval torture devices and the wind could exfoliate your entire face whether you wanted it or not.

On rare warm days, we’d all bundle off to the Saltdean Lido with my cousins and splash about like caffeinated dolphins until we were shrivelled, shivering, and definitely “not cold” according to our stubborn declarations.

Tim, meanwhile, was firmly convinced that destiny had him pegged for life as a pig-farming, tractor-driving legend in wellies. And to be fair, Granddad didn’t do much to discourage that idea—he even let Tim steer the old Massey once, though he spent most of the time circling the same hen house like a confused Dalek.

Tim was absolutely smitten with farming. Properly besotted. He even joined the Young Farmers Club at Oaklands College, strutting in each Wednesday evening smelling like a curious blend of cow shed, silage, and ambition. Honestly, the lad wore Eau de Manure like it was Chanel No. five.

After the great parental fallout (which deserves its own chapter, ideally dramatised in black and white with ominous music), Mum moved them down to Peacehaven. Tim and Phoebe enrolled at Telscombe Junior School, while I stayed up in Hitchin, living the good life with Johan.

Being ten, Tim had a go at the eleven-plus. Unfortunately, the exam didn’t go so well—it flunked him, you might say. His dreams of Grammar School stardom vanished quicker than Granddad’s socks in the washing machine. So off he went to the local comprehensive—big, loud, chaotic, and full of kids who thought Latin was a football team.

To be fair to him, he took it on the chin. Though I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tried to tunnel out through the school fields on a Massey Ferguson, freedom blowing in his hair and bacon butties packed for the road.

Uncle Derek—Mum’s younger brother—had once blazed the agricultural trail in fine style, boarding at Haddam Hall before graduating from Plumpton College with a first-class degree in muck and machinery. The man could reverse a trailer blindfolded and quote crop rotation like poetry.

Naturally, we all hoped Tim might follow in his muddy footsteps. He certainly had the enthusiasm—he wore it like overalls—but the timing was off. The whole messy business of our parents’ split had knocked him a bit sideways. When he sat the entrance test for Hadam Hall, he struggled like a sheep in a sack race—plenty of noise, not much progress—and didn’t quite make the cut.

Still, what he lacked in academic polish, he more than made up for in passion. And volume. The boy could do a disturbingly accurate impression of a pig giving birth—something he’d performed, unprompted, at more than one family dinner—so none of us had given up hope.

This set Tim on a very different course in life. His first year at the comprehensive saw him unceremoniously plonked into the bottom set—a group that seemed less interested in learning and more in seeing how many chairs could be balanced on a radiator. The classroom had all the educational value of a punch-up behind the bike sheds, and most of the kids were better at starting fires than spelling their own names.

It wasn’t school—it was a zoo, and Tim was fed up with being the only one who didn’t fancy swinging from the lights.

Now, Tim still loved the Sea Cadets—he wore that sailor’s cap with pride, and could tie a bowline behind his back while reciting the phonetic alphabet—but by thirteen, he was ready for a change. The chaos of school had left him looking for something a bit more grounded, a bit tougher. Something that didn’t involve dodging airborne stationery.

So he made the leap—kept his Sea Cadet memories close, but swapped his cap for a beret and joined the Army Cadets. It was a turning point. Suddenly he had direction, a sense of discipline that didn’t come with a detention slip, and a newfound reverence for boot polish. He wasn’t just following orders—he was finding purpose. And it suited him.

By the beginning of September, with our return from Sweden behind us, I’d officially moved back in with Mum and the rest of the crew at our old house. Technically, at least. In practice, I still spent most of my time at Johan’s, where life continued to feel steady, familiar, and oddly dependable.

While the rest of them were busy navigating the emotional rollercoaster of the great parental split—complete with loop-the-loops and the occasional screaming fit—I was quietly gliding along the monorail of borrowed normality, thanks to the calm, organised chaos of the Heald household. There, everything had a place: socks, opinions, even emotions. It wasn’t perfect, but it made sense. And at that point in my life, that was more than enough.

During the Easter school break, Johan and I decided to pay a quick visit to the farm—a reunion with my family, and, with any luck, not one involving a shovel. Rucksacks strapped on, we marched off to Hitchin railway station like a pair of teenage adventurers on a quest for pigs and sandwiches.

Several train changes, two deeply suspicious station sarnies, and a minor skirmish with a vending machine later, we finally arrived at the familiar five-bar gate marking the start of the farm lane. It creaked open like the saloon doors in a spaghetti western, only we were armed with nothing more than sleeping bags and the kind of optimism that gets you volunteered to muck out the pigsty.

As we strolled along the winding track, a chorus of birdsong drifted down from the treetops like nature’s own greatest hits album. Some birds were clearly sopranos—bright, cheerful, early-morning types—while others had more of a baritone vibe, the grumpy-until-coffee crowd. Their calls echoed across the fields as if they were locked in a cross-country sing-off, each trying to outdo the other with trills, chirps, and the occasional melodic heckle.

I hadn’t realised the countryside came with such a top-tier soundtrack.

Rabbits and smaller birds darted for cover as we approached, vanishing into the hedgerows with theatrical flair—only to peek out moments later with a collective expression that said, “False alarm. Just two harmless bipeds.”

In a nearby stubbled field, a brown pheasant strutted through the hay like it owned the place, dragging its absurdly long tail behind it like a reluctant wedding guest hauling a train they never asked for. It pecked lazily at the ground, giving exactly zero attention to the swarm of flies currently treating my face like an all-access buffet.

Honestly, if pheasants had a taste for flies, it could’ve saved me a great deal of swatting, flailing, and muttered profanity.

Then, right on cue, two hares—each roughly the size of an overcaffeinated Jack Russell—erupted from the undergrowth and tore into a frenzied game of high-speed tag across the meadow. They zigzagged, doubled back, and vanished into a thicket as if they’d just remembered they were late for a very important meeting—possibly with a rabbit wearing a waistcoat.

As if nature hadn’t already pulled out all the stops, the strangest noise suddenly reached my ears—somewhere between a snort, a broken kazoo, and a cat trying to cough up a particularly stubborn fur-ball.

I turned to see the source: a hedgehog, bumbling along beside the hedge like it was late for its own surprise party. Not just any hedgehog—this one was the size of my hand but built like it had spent the entire winter living off pies and zero regrets. I froze, half in awe, half expecting it to explode from sheer roundness.

It stopped, fixed me with two beady blackcurrant-sized eyes, clearly unimpressed, then shuffled off with the kind of attitude that said, “Move along, sunshine—I’ve got places to be.”

Johan, never one to let a good moment slip by without a bit of flair, launched into a pitch-perfect impersonation of Johnny Morris from Animal Magic. He gave the hedgehog a posh voice and the sort of existential crisis usually reserved for Sunday evenings.

I was in stitches.

Who needs a zoo, I thought, when the English countryside’s putting on live performances—no queues, no overpriced ice creams, and a whole lot more personality. You just had to show up, keep your eyes open, and try not to step in anything unfortunate.

By the time we finally reached the farmhouse, I was hot, sweaty, starving, and doing my best not to inhale the cloud of flies that had, for reasons known only to them, appointed me their group leader.

The black and white collie spotted us first and promptly lost its mind—barking with such wild enthusiasm it nearly dragged its kennel halfway across the yard. Seconds later, my sisters exploded out of the house like they’d been launched from a catapult, followed closely by Mum, wiping her hands on a tea towel and squinting into the sun.

The moment I saw her, every nuisance—bugs, sweat, aching feet, and even the slightly judgmental hedgehog—suddenly felt worth it.

Nan had laid on a proper ploughman’s lunch—warm, crusty bread that practically sighed when you tore it apart, hunks of cheddar sturdy enough to build a garden wall, and a homemade chutney that smelt suspiciously like it could strip paint... but tasted absolutely divine.

As I tucked in, Nan settled opposite me at the table, watching with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for wildlife documentaries. “My, haven’t you grown!” she declared—not once, but several times—as if I were a beanstalk and she was holding out for golden eggs.

I promised myself right then never to say that when I got older… though I now realise it’s as inevitable as taxes and apologising to furniture when you bump into it.

Still, Nan was glorious. Powder-scented, warm, and always ready with a hug that made the world feel a little less complicated. One squeeze from her and everything seemed alright again—even if your face was still sticky with chutney.

Glancing out the window for any sign of Tim, I spotted only a truck doing lazy loops in a far-off field. Probably Granddad, I thought—either checking the crops or practising for the world’s slowest rally.

Inside, Phoebe and Susan bounced over, radiating pride as they modelled their latest creations: aprons sewn with all the finesse of a sewing machine on a trampoline. Susan’s pocket had an artistic tilt that defied both gravity and common sense, while Phoebe’s apron ties looked like they’d been measured during a blindfolded sack race—yet somehow, they still formed a bow.

Naturally, I praised them like they were the future of haute couture, which earned me beaming smiles and an excited announcement about baking gingerbread men. Johan and I exchanged a look and, without a word, made a swift and tactical retreat—exit stage left—before we were recruited to lick mixing bowls or become unwilling test subjects for slightly undercooked limbs.

Out in the fresh air, we spotted the farm truck heading our way—though oddly, there didn’t seem to be anyone driving it. It bounced along the track, gears grinding slightly, but still no sign of Granddad’s tell-tale cap bobbing above the dashboard.

For a brief, unsettling moment, I wondered if the truck was possessed.

Then, from somewhere below the steering wheel, a mop of dark brown hair popped into view, followed by Tim’s triumphant, cheek-splitting grin. He was so short, he had to peer through the wheel like a pirate squinting through a porthole.

And yet, somehow—defying every known law of physics, road safety, and farming insurance—he manoeuvred the truck with alarming confidence. Through the gate, across the track, and to a neat stop right beside us, cool as a cucumber that had just stolen a tractor and absolutely no regrets.

Peering through the side window, I spotted Tim proudly throned atop a stack of mismatched cushions, his body tilted forward like he was trying to launch himself into orbit. He was perched so close to the steering wheel, his nose could’ve doubled as a bonnet ornament. On tiptoes just to tickle the pedals, and with a look of steely concentration that suggested either deep focus or mild constipation, he was—against all odds and every health and safety regulation in existence—actually doing a decent job.

My kid brother, driving a farm truck like it was a special episode of Junior Farmer’s Top Gear. Who knew?

Just then, the truck door creaked open and out clambered Granddad from the back like a stowaway, flanked by two enthusiastic dogs. One was a manic spaniel with the attention span of a goldfish and the coordination of a pinball, the other a black-and-white collie who took its herding duties far too seriously—even when there was nothing to herd but grandchildren.

Not to be outdone, Tim launched himself from the cab and crash-tackled us into a surprise group hug. It was heart-warming—briefly—until the dogs decided to get involved like a pair of furry cannonballs.

Suddenly, we were all on the floor, caught in a glorious mess of limbs, tails, tongues, and laughter. A proper farmyard welcome—and not a single one of us came out clean.

A nearby tractor rumbled into view—an old red Massey Ferguson puffing along like a steam-powered dinosaur. At the helm was Uncle Derek, who swung down from the cab with the grace of a man who’s done it a thousand times… and still occasionally misses the last step.

Barely a word passed before Johan and I were hoisted into the back like sacks of spuds—limbs flailing, dignity left somewhere in the dust.

Tim and Uncle Derek took it in turns to deliver a running tour commentary as we chugged our way around 300 acres of farmland. Highlights included what Uncle Derek proudly referred to as “Pig City”—an entire suburb of metal shelters scattered across a field like a bizarre alien colony. Apparently, pigs are prone to sunburn, which turned out to be the most unexpected skincare tip I’d heard all week.

I’d always assumed pigs were uniform little pink sausages with curly tails—basically, walking cartoon characters. Not so.

This farm had your classic bubblegum-pink variety, sure, but also a wild assortment of porky oddballs. Some looked like they were wearing rugby shirts, with neat black hoops stretched across their backs. Others were shaggy, rust-brown creatures that resembled something you’d find living in a hedge, and a few had spots and floppy ears so massive they could’ve doubled as parasails.

If there were ever a Miss Piggy pageant, this lot could’ve covered every category—and probably smashed the talent round too.

Up close, they were massive. And I don’t mean chubby—I mean small car with a snout massive.

I’d spent years wisely steering clear of the pig pens, under the comforting assumption that pigs were lumbering, lazy beasts. Then Tim, ever the font of unsettling trivia, informed me that pigs can run. Fast. As in faster-than-you-when-you-realise-you’ve-entered-the-wrong-field fast. Add to that a mouthful of surprisingly sharp teeth, and I decided that being on the receiving end of a pork-powered nibble was not high on my bucket list.

Tim, of course, was utterly fearless. He sloshed buckets of feed around like a porcine maître d’ at an all-you-can-eat buffet, completely unfazed by the stampede of salivating snouts thundering along behind him.

We started feeding duties at the far end of the farm, slowly working our way back toward the house. Each pen got its ladleful of slop, dished out from a bucket that looked better suited to bailing out a sinking boat. The stuff inside defied description—somewhere between soup and regret.

Normally, Granddad and Uncle Derek collected bins of leftover school dinners to feed the pigs—every uneaten fish finger, mystery meat, and splat of beige gravy. But with schools shut for the Whitsun holiday, the pigs were now dining on the coastal cuisine of hotel kitchen leftovers. A bit fancier, in theory.

I swear one of them sniffed the slop, gave a derisive snort, and looked genuinely disappointed it wasn’t served on a doily.

The pigs didn’t seem the least bit fussy about what landed in their troughs. Today’s special was a five-course mystery meal: sausage rolls wrapped in suspiciously flaky pastry (hopefully beef, though I didn’t dare ask), an assortment of battered seasonal veg, custard that jiggled ominously—possibly harbouring hidden sponge—and an ocean of gravy in every shade from beige to “what on earth is that?”

Tim, clearly fluent in swine cuisine, measured out just the right amount of mush for each breed. Some pigs were on a strict pure grain diet, like proper little gym queens, while others were content on the full-fat buffet plan with extra lashings of mystery custard.

Uncle Derek, ever the bacon whisperer, took great delight in explaining how the flavour of pork could be fine-tuned depending on what the pigs were fed. Apparently, custard-fed pigs don’t taste like pudding—which, frankly, felt like a missed opportunity.

I just nodded politely, secretly eyeing one plump porker who gave me the kind of side-eye usually reserved for people who skip the queue at Greggs. I imagined him sizzling away between two slices of white bread with a dollop of tomato sauce and felt a brief pang of guilt… followed swiftly by hunger.

Tim, meanwhile, was in his absolute element—stroking snouts, slopping slops, and moving among the pigs like some kind of muddy Disney prince. The pigs clearly adored him.

Me? They gave me a sniff, a snort, and then shuffled off like I was the tax man.

Tim declared, with great ceremony, that he wanted to be a farmer when he grew up—had his heart set on agricultural college, just like Uncle Derek. I, ever the bringer of inconvenient truths, gently pointed out that college involved things like exams, certificates, and, unfortunately, not bunking off school at every opportunity.

His face dropped like a lead pork pie. Conversation over.

He muttered something about “education being for sheep, not pigs,” then stomped off to hurl another sausage roll into a trough like a man personally betrayed by the entire academic system.

One of the best days of the holiday—by far—was spent in a sun-drenched meadow playing our own version of a “countryside carnival,” taking potshots at a precarious pyramid of tin cans balanced on a fallen tree trunk. Armed with an air rifle and a shotgun, we took turns channelling our inner cowboy.

The air rifle was manageable—light, accurate, almost polite. The shotgun, on the other hand, felt more like handling a small cannon. Firing it wasn’t so much about aiming as it was about bracing for impact. It didn’t just kick—it tried to launch you back to where you came from.

Granddad and Uncle Derek kept a close eye on us all day, partly for safety and partly to ensure we didn’t shoot anything valuable. They also insisted we keep a tally of every shot fired—partly to track ammo, but mostly because it sneakily roped Tim into doing maths without realising. Possibly the only way to get him to add up willingly.

One morning, before even the roosters had their first coffee, Tim, Johan, and I tiptoed downstairs like burglars on a mission. Granddad was already in the kitchen—boots on, flask in hand, looking far too alert for someone who clearly hadn’t slept since the ‘50s.

“No noise,” he warned, in a tone that suggested we were about to infiltrate MI6, not just sneak into a field.

We hiked out to a far-off meadow Granddad affectionately called the breakfast buffet—supposedly a hotspot for rabbits. As the sun rose, so did the rabbits, all casually munching on grass like they hadn’t just been cast as extras in our amateur hunting scene.

Granddad brought only one shotgun—probably to ensure none of us turned a simple rabbit shoot into a full-blown Rambo reenactment. One by one, we lined up behind the hedge, took aim... and missed.

The first blast sent every rabbit into panic mode. They scattered like schoolchildren hearing the dinner bell, vanishing in all directions with an agility that felt deeply personal. We spent the next half-hour crouched like failed ninjas, peering through grass, waiting for one brave soul to pop back up.

Surely it couldn’t be that hard to hit one?

But no—turns out rabbits are faster than our reflexes and smarter than our egos. What was meant to be an “easy morning hunt” ended with a grand total of zero rabbits and three thoroughly humbled would-be marksmen.

Feeling slightly deflated and wearing expressions that could curdle milk, we trudged back to the farmhouse with not a single rabbit to show for our efforts—just a bruised ego and a sulky lower lip between us.

Granddad, ever the wise old owl, explained that hitting a moving target wasn’t just about pulling the trigger and hoping for divine intervention. Oh no. There was wind direction, animal behaviour, scent, stealth... Apparently, rabbits have the hearing of M I 5 agents and the noses of bloodhounds.

In short, we were loud, smelly amateurs.

But just as our spirits hit rock bottom, Granddad issued a challenge: learn to walk through the woods without sounding like a herd of clog-wearing elephants.

Game on.

Breakfast vanished faster than the rabbits had.

Granddad assured us we’d get another shot at glory the next day, but first, we had to prove ourselves in the ancient and sacred art of stealth. Our mission: head off into the woods—unsupervised—and practise walking quietly.

No stomping. No twig snapping. And absolutely no arguing.

Basically, the complete opposite of how we normally operated.

While Granddad and Uncle Derek busied themselves with actual useful things, we were to tiptoe around the undergrowth like diet ninjas in wellies, hoping to master the fine balance between stealth and not falling flat on our faces.

Equipped with a round of sandwiches each, a pack of biscuits, and two bottles of Tizer (because hydration, obviously), we set off into the wilderness. Well—the back field.

Finding a stretch of woodland wasn’t difficult—this was Sussex, after all; trees came as standard. The real challenge was locating one without sisters lurking nearby, ready to ruin our top-secret operation with questions, giggles, or an impromptu fashion show.

Once we were confident we were alone and unobserved, we began our stealth training in earnest.

Johan, ever the enthusiast, dubbed it Operation Whisperfoot. I called it trying not to fart while walking on gravel.

As we approached the first row of trees, our socks became instant sacrifices to the local bramble population. Within seconds, we were all snagged like Christmas turkeys in string bags, letting out yelps and muttered expletives as we wrestled ourselves free from the thorns.

So much for silent movement—we sounded like a herd of angry cats being shoved through a cactus patch.

Not quite the graceful forest ninjas we’d imagined. More like mildly injured toddlers lost in a blackberry bush.

Determined to improve, we tried the “ten paces and freeze” method. Johan gave hand signals like he was orchestrating a rural SWAT team, but our collective shuffling could’ve woken a hibernating bear—or at the very least, every pigeon within a two-mile radius.

Next came solo stealth attempts, with the rest of us scoring each other like forest-themed Come Dancing judges. It became immediately clear that we were all equally hopeless—one twigsnap away from disqualification.

Naturally, we blamed our boots.

Convinced they were the problem, we whipped them off and decided bare feet were the answer. They were not.

Not only were we no quieter, but we now risked impaling ourselves on pine cones, thorns, and half-buried sticks. Silence may be golden—but in woodland, barefoot, it’s just painful.

Eventually, adopting the heel-to-toe method like cautious ballerinas tiptoeing through a minefield of leaves and beech nut shells, we crept into the woods with all the elegance of confused flamingos.

We marked out a course—about fifty paces—and declared a new challenge: make it from one end to the other without being heard. It was basically Grandma’s Footsteps.

The dry leaves crunched like cornflakes, the twigs snapped like firecrackers, and the rules were brutal: any sound, and it was straight back to the start. No mercy. No exceptions.

Progress was... measurable. Just.

We finally called a truce and flopped onto a fallen log, unwrapping sandwiches with the reverence of men who’d earned them. The woods were still except for the faint chatter of birds and the occasional creak of a branch in the breeze.

I took a bite, then glanced at Tim. “So… when’s the last time you wrote to Petra?”

He hesitated mid-chew, eyes flicking down to his sandwich like it might somehow shield him. “Been… a while.”

“How long’s ‘a while’?” I pressed.

He exhaled through his nose, brushing a crumb from his knee. “Couple of months, maybe more. Truth is… I don’t know what to say. Every time I start, I end up scribbling something that sounds daft, or like I’m trying too hard. Then I bin it.”

I arched an eyebrow. “You’re overthinking it.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I just… I don’t want her thinking I’m an idiot. Or worse—that I don’t care. Which I do. More than I should, probably.”

I shook my head with a knowing smile. “Mate, you don’t have to send poetry. She’d rather hear from you—even if it’s just about how your boots leak or how you nearly got flattened by the post van.”

His lips curved, but his eyes stayed thoughtful. “You reckon?”

“I know,” I said. “And by the way, she’s been asking why you’ve gone quiet. That’s your green light.”

Tim gave a slow nod, staring into the trees. “Alright. I’ll write. Tonight.”

“Good,” I said. “And maybe leave out the bit where you nearly impaled yourself on that stick earlier.”

He smirked. “Nah, I’m putting that in. Might make her laugh. She likes to laugh.”

It was the way he said it—soft, almost to himself—that told me more than he probably meant to. And as we sat there in the spring hush, picking at our sandwiches, I realised my kid brother was in deeper than he knew.

By the end, we weren’t exactly silent—but we had learned to swear much more quietly.

By late afternoon, our stomachs were growling so loudly we were worried we’d scare off the wildlife more effectively than the shotgun ever could. Deciding we’d done enough creeping about for one day, we trudged home like famished explorers who’d survived an expedition armed only with Tizer and a packet of biscuits.

At dinner, with the entire family gathered around the table, my sister Susan gave us a sideways glance and, with her usual knack for stating the obvious, said, “You lot are very quiet—are you alright?”

I nearly kissed her for her insight, but thought better of it. I was hungry, not unhinged.

The next morning, true to his word, Granddad was up before the sun. We heard him clattering about in the kitchen like a one-man brass band—equal parts pans, purpose, and unnecessary volume.

Johan, Tim, and me tumbled out of bed and got dressed at record speed, managing socks, boots, and zips with only minor injuries and a fair bit of swearing under our breath.

In the kitchen, Granddad was waiting, deadly serious, ready to give us a refresher on gun safety. He looked like a man trying to explain quantum physics to three overexcited Labrador puppies—and getting about the same level of understanding in return.

We headed back to the same field as before, though this time our approach was slower, more deliberate. Less comedy troupe, more amateur commandos.

Sure enough, the rabbits were back—happily munching their breakfast, blissfully unaware of three boys belly-down in the grass, pretending to be elite marksmen.

When my turn came, I took the shotgun, steadied my breathing, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot rang out... and so did every rabbit in the postcode.

Granddad gave us a live demo in the ancient—and slightly alarming—art of gutting and skinning a rabbit. No knife required.

This was not the moment for weak stomachs or city-boy squeamishness. It was all about rolling up your sleeves, pretending you weren’t bothered, and diving in. Literally.

Apparently, the trick was to get started before the poor thing cooled down. Once you found the membrane over the flesh, it was like turning a furry sock inside out—if the sock happened to be filled with organs.

Surprisingly, we got the hang of it faster than expected. By the end, we looked like the countryside version of a butchery masterclass. Fanny Cradock would’ve been proud—and probably a bit horrified.

We brought back four neatly prepared rabbit carcasses, which earned us a beaming nod of approval from Nan—her version of a standing ovation.

But before our furry friends could be transformed into dinner, they needed the full countryside spa treatment: a rinse, a de-shotting (removing any sneaky bits of lead), and a brief interlude while we turned the kitchen into something resembling the prep scene from a medieval banquet.

Soon enough, the rabbits were submerged in Nan’s cauldron-sized cooking pot—the kind of thing you could comfortably stew a small dragon in—and the rich, savoury smells began to fill the house like a reward for a job well done.

My sisters got involved too, armed with peelers and wildly enthusiastic chopping skills. Carrots, spuds, and onions were diced and hurled into the pot with flair—and absolutely no regard for size consistency.

Then came the gourmet twist: a couple of tins of tomato soup and a handful of freshly picked herbs from the garden—though I’m fairly certain one of them accidentally added a dandelion. A generous shake of salt and pepper later, and the bubbling brew was left to simmer away like a potion.

That evening, we dined like a family of hungry wizards. Everyone had contributed—some with actual culinary skill, others with pure chaos—but the rabbit stew was hearty, delicious, and completely unforgettable.

It was moments like those—full bellies, proud smiles, and the occasional airborne vegetable—that made saying goodbye feel like pulling off a plaster: slow, dramatic, and far more emotional than anyone wanted to admit.

When the time came for Johan and me to board the train back to Hitchin, we did our best to look stoic and not sniffle like we’d just watched Watership Down. Hugs were quick, waves were brave, and nobody mentioned the lump in their throat. As Tim stepped forward to clap me on the shoulder, I leaned in and murmured, “And don’t forget—write to Petra. She’s waiting to hear from you.” He gave a small nod, the kind that carried more weight than words.

The good news was, the farm would always be there—for future escapes, impromptu adventures, hunting rabbits and the kind of grounded, muddy magic that made everything else feel manageable, no matter where “home” happened to be—or what version of chaos was currently unfolding in it.

Back at school, we were thrown straight into the end-of-year tests—like sacrificial lambs to the academic gods.

Miraculously, Johan and I excelled, somehow landing top marks in almost every subject. Even in Religious Studies, we did surprisingly well—though that probably had more to do with our talent for asking awkward questions like, “If Noah took two of every animal, who brought the termites?” than any actual biblical understanding.

Our teacher gave us top marks, possibly out of admiration… or sheer relief that the term was nearly over and she wouldn’t have to answer any more theological conundrums from the front row.

That summer kicked off with Sea Cadet camp, where we got to swap textbooks for throttle controls. We learned to pilot RIBs—those inflatable speedboats with engines that make you feel like a Bond villain chasing down spies. It was brilliant fun.

That week was our first real taste of independence, salt air, and shouted commands from adults in shorts and peaked caps who took nautical health and safety far more seriously than they took their suntan lotion.

Johan and I arrived wide-eyed and eager, armed with sleeping bags, slightly squashed sandwiches, and just enough nautical knowledge to tell port from starboard—most of the time.

The first day kicked off with introductions, bunk allocations, and the Great Mosquito Massacre of 1967—our bunkroom was clearly the main base of operations for the insect army.

After a restless night of swatting, scratching, and muttered curses, we emerged groggy but determined, ready for the highlight of the entire camp: the powerboat course.

This meant driving Ribs (Rigid Inflatable Boats)—basically giant black sausages with engines strapped to the back. Sleek, fast, and just unstable enough to feel dangerous, they were hands down the coolest thing we’d ever seen.

Our instructor was a wiry ex-Navy petty officer with a tan so leathery he looked like he’d been varnished. A whistle hung permanently from his neck, and his voice could slice through fog like a destroyer’s prow.

“This here is your throttle,” he barked. “Touch it like you’re stroking a cat. Not like you’re throttling your younger sibling, understood?”

We nodded obediently—though Johan cast me a sideways glance, as if throttling a younger sibling was still firmly on our to-do list.

The training itself was a blast—literally. The boats were nimble, fast, and made a delightful growling noise as we skimmed across the water, wind in our faces and grins firmly in place.

We practised man-overboard drills—tossing a fender and bucket into the sea and racing to rescue it while pretending it wasn’t full of seaweed and mild disappointment. We learned how to approach dinghies without capsizing them (mostly), and navigated through a series of floating cones which we inevitably knocked over like aquatic bowling pins.

Each collision was met with a slow, theatrical shake of the head from our instructor, who seemed to oscillate between despair and reluctant amusement.

One highlight came when Johan, riding a wave of overconfidence, attempted a dramatic power-turn to impress a group of passing girl cadets.

He succeeded in drenching them with a tidal wave and very nearly beaching the boat in the process.

The girls were not impressed.

Our instructor, however, awarded Johan an imaginary medal for “accidental crowd control,” presented with all the solemnity of a royal investiture—minus the knighthood and dignity.

Evenings were spent comparing blisters, swapping sea stories (most of them wildly exaggerated), and avoiding the one cadet who somehow managed to get his foot stuck in something on a daily basis.

Meals were a mixed bag—soggy fish fingers, rubbery scrambled eggs, and a suspicious stew we christened The Kraken. No one asked what was in it, and no one really wanted to know.

Still, by the end of the week, we were officially certified as powerboat drivers—and entirely convinced we could now singlehandedly run a naval operation, should the need ever arise. Preferably one involving speedboats, dramatic theme music, and absolutely no rubbery eggs.

By the time we returned home—sunburnt, mosquito-bitten, and reeking faintly of outboard motor fuel—we were walking a little taller, even if it was mostly from the bruises.

Sea Cadet camp had been the perfect launch into a summer that promised more adventure. And with Johan’s family arriving soon, it was only just getting started.

As the week wrapped up, Johan’s extended family arrived from Sweden, bringing their usual blend of warmth, charm, and stylish knitwear.

Vinka and Marlin immediately gravitated toward Johan and me, which we accepted with the grace of seasoned gentlemen—meaning we stood a little straighter, deepened our voices by half an octave, and tried not to trip over our own feet.

Tim, meanwhile, seemed caught between wanting to impress Petra and not quite knowing how. At first, their conversations were a bit stilted—half smiles, polite nods, and the occasional awkward overlap where they both spoke at once and then laughed too loudly. But as the days passed, the stiffness melted into something warmer. They’d find themselves lingering at the edge of the group, sharing quiet asides or laughing at a private joke no one else could hear.

One afternoon, while the others were distracted by Johan showing off a particularly ridiculous woollen hat, I noticed Petra and Tim sitting on the porch steps, mugs in hand. She tilted her head slightly. “Why didn’t you write for so long?” she asked, not accusing—just curious. Tim rubbed the back of his neck, glancing down. “I… didn’t know what to say. Didn’t want to send something that sounded daft.” Petra’s lips curved into a small smile. “You could have just said hello.” Something in his expression softened, and they both looked away at the same time, sipping their drinks as if that might hide the blush in their cheeks.

I caught them at it later, still talking, both grinning at something Petra had said. As Tim walked past, I leaned in just enough for him to hear. “Careful, mate—people will start talking.” He rolled his eyes, but the colour in his cheeks said more than words ever could.

Later that evening, as Petra was helping clear the table, Vinka appeared at her side, a knowing glint in her eye. “You and Tim seem… chatty,” she said lightly. Petra tried for nonchalance but failed spectacularly, fumbling a stack of plates. “We’re just talking.” Vinka’s smile turned sly. “Mm-hmm. And I’m just helping with the washing up.” Petra’s cheeks warmed, and she turned back to the sink, though not before I saw the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips.

Ronnie, meanwhile, had his nose buried in textbooks, technical diagrams, and what looked suspiciously like IKEA manuals. He was knee-deep in prep for his shipbuilding apprenticeship and took it all very seriously—lecturing anyone within earshot on keel strength, mahogany grain, and how cabinet joints should never, under any circumstances, squeak.

We admired his dedication—truly we did—even if half of what he said sailed right over our heads, and the other half just made us feel incredibly grateful we weren’t the ones stuck sanding planks or measuring hull curvature in the blazing sun.

Tim and Petra lingered on the platform while the grown-ups sorted tickets and shooed luggage into the guard’s van. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the station roof, making the dust in the air dance.

“So… farm for the rest of the summer?” Petra asked, rocking on her heels.

“Yeah,” Tim nodded. “Grandad’s got a list of jobs for me as long as my arm. You’re going back to Sweden?”

Petra pulled a face. “Mm-hmm. Back to school stuff… and chores.”

Tim fished in his pocket and produced a scrap of lined paper, folded into a neat square. “My address at Grandad’s. If you want to write.”

She took it, glancing up with a small smile. “Only if you write back this time.”

“I will,” Tim said, trying to sound casual but failing a bit. “Promise.”

For a moment they just stood there, shuffling their feet. Then Petra gave him a quick, slightly awkward hug—more of a bump of shoulders than anything else, but it made Tim’s ears turn pink.

A few yards away, I pretended to be checking the departure board but couldn’t help watching. There was something about the way my kid brother straightened up, trying to look older than his eleven years, that made me smile. He didn’t see me, but I saw him—every bit the young gent, in his own way.

The guard’s whistle blew, and Petra stepped back towards her carriage. “Bye, Tim!”

“Bye!” he called, waving until the train pulled out, her scrap of paper tucked safely into her pocket.

It felt like a floating version of a sitcom waiting to happen… and we were more than ready to supply the laughs.

The ferry crossing to Sweden began with all the excitement of a school trip mixed with the chaos of a suitcase explosion.

No sooner had we stashed our bags in the cabin than Johan launched himself onto the top bunk, loudly declaring it “dibs forever,” and immediately cracked his head on the ceiling.

Vinka, not missing a beat, handed him a packet of plasters like a seasoned field medic and claimed the bottom bunk oppersite Marlin, who was already organising her belongings with military precision.

I, naturally, ended up with the bunk that creaked suspiciously every time I breathed.

Once settled, we set out to explore the ship—a floating maze of duty-free temptations, shiny staircases, and mysterious corridors that all somehow led back to the same gift shop.

Petra and Ronnie made a beeline for the games room. Petra immediately began pouring a worrying amount of money into a claw machine in an increasingly desperate attempt to win a giant stuffed moose. Meanwhile, Ronnie found himself locked in a pinball machine showdown with a Norwegian teenager named Nils, who approached competition with the intensity of an Olympic athlete and the frown of a man late for battle.

Meanwhile, Johan and I discovered the sun deck. Despite the Baltic breeze doing its best impression of a wind tunnel, we braved it with bravado—and promptly lost both our sandwiches and our dignity to the wind.

Vinka and Marlin arrived moments later, looking effortlessly composed in stylish windbreakers, and watched us with expressions somewhere between amusement and mild pity as we scrambled after flying napkins across the deck like seagulls in sneakers.

Later, we all regrouped for lunch in the ship’s buffet restaurant. The food was surprisingly decent, with only a few unidentifiable items lurking among the hot trays.

Things took a turn at the dessert counter, where Petra accidentally catapulted a scoop of chocolate mousse onto a passing waiter. It hit him squarely in the chest with the splat of something far more deliberate.

To his credit, he took it remarkably well—dabbing at his shirt with a napkin and muttering something about “Swedish children and flying pudding” being a known occupational hazard.

The engines thrummed underfoot, and the sea stretched grey and endless on all sides. Vinka and Petra leaned against the rail, the wind tugging at their hair.

“So,” Vinka said over the rush of water, “anything interesting happen before you left?”

Petra hesitated, then pulled the folded scrap of paper from her coat pocket. “Tim gave me his address at his Grandad’s farm. Said I should write.”

Vinka’s brow arched. “And will you?”

Petra looked out across the waves, a small smile curling at the edges of her mouth. “Maybe. If he writes first.”

Vinka grinned, nudging her. “You’re as bad as each other.”

Petra tucked the note back into her pocket, still gazing at the horizon. “Maybe.”

That first evening onboard, we dressed for dinner.

Ronnie had borrowed Johan’s second pair of trousers, along with a shirt, tie, and blazer—he didn’t have much in the way of formal clothes, what with school uniforms not being a thing in Sweden. Still, he pulled it off well—neat, polished, and trying not to look too pleased with himself.

Then Vinka and Marlin walked in, and everything shifted.

They wore delicate summer dresses—soft colours, ribboned waists, just enough to look grown-up without losing the sparkle of who they were. They looked… stunning. Not in the way people talk about film stars or pageant queens—but in that quiet, jaw-dropping way that makes your heart stop for a second before it catches up.

Johan and I exchanged a glance—one of those rare, wordless ones where everything’s understood. We’d talked, after Christmas, about how much Vinka and Marlin meant to us. Back then, it had felt like a crush, something light and sweet and undefined. But now… it felt more real. More rooted.

I knew then, without question, that I loved Vinka. Not in some overblown, teenage drama kind of way, but in a quiet, certain way—like I’d been carrying it around for a while without quite realising. I didn’t say anything, of course. Some things are too big for ferry dinner conversations.

And from the look on Johan’s face as Marlin smiled at him, I knew he felt exactly the same.

Even Petra, in a soft yellow dress, looked lovely—radiant in her own composed, clever way. She sat beside Ronnie, who suddenly seemed very aware of his borrowed blazer and tried (and failed) to adjust his tie with nonchalance.

That night, something unspoken hung in the air between us—not awkward, not overwhelming, just new. We were the same four friends we’d always been… and yet, not quite.

That evening, we called on their parents and made our way down to dinner together. The ten of us—kids and adults—had a table right in the centre of the dining room. It felt oddly grand, like we were hosting a miniature diplomatic summit, only with better dessert options.

As always, our manners were impeccable. Johan and I took quiet pride in pulling out chairs, using the right cutlery, and not talking with our mouths full—a skill we’d taken time to perfect, mostly to impress Vinka and Marlin, who noticed far more than we gave them credit for.

By the time we stood to leave and head to the evening show, several passengers stopped Harry and Erik to compliment them. “Such fine young people,” they said. “So polite. A credit to you.”

It was the kind of praise that made your ears go pink and your back straighten just a little more. We didn’t say much, but I think we all felt it—that glow of quiet pride, and the unspoken sense that we were becoming the kind of people the adults could be proud of.

We went into the show, and although the dancers had changed—and the new comedian left us more confused than amused—the singer was the same. She was a warm, elegant woman with a voice like honey and a smile that could light up the room. She’d been performing on the ship for years, and it felt oddly comforting to see her again, like a familiar landmark in a sea of change.

Later that evening, after the show, we made our usual pilgrimage to the café for cocoa. To our delight, the singer was there too, chatting with passengers.

She spotted Johan and me immediately. “Well, if it isn’t my young gentlemen from last summer,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

We introduced Vinka, Marlin, Ronnie, and Petra, who were all instantly charmed. She pulled up a chair and joined us for a few minutes, asking about school, our trip, and whether Johan still did that terrible magic trick with the napkin (he did—and performed it again, to groans and applause).

It was one of those golden ferry moments—simple, a little magical, and full of laughter. We sipped our cocoa, basked in the warm glow of the ship’s lights, and felt, just for a while, that everything was exactly as it should be.

After the show, full of food and fizzy drinks, we roamed the ship one last time, still riding the high of the evening. Johan, ever the instigator, convinced us to try karaoke. With Vinka’s encouragement and Marlin’s mischievous grin daring us on, we signed up as a group—because if we were going to embarrass ourselves, we were going to do it together.

Moments later, the four of us were on stage, belting out ABBA’s “Waterloo” with all the energy and enthusiasm of a Eurovision finale—minus the choreography and with slightly more voice cracks.

We didn’t win the contest—though we did come dangerously close to starting a conga line—but we earned a hearty round of applause, some impressed nods from fellow passengers, and, for reasons still unclear, someone’s leftover chips as a thank-you for the entertainment.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was brilliant. One of those moments you don’t plan, can’t recreate, and wouldn’t change for anything.

Still buzzing from our karaoke triumph (and possibly the sugar), we drifted out of the lounge and into the cool evening air. The ship had quieted, the sea dark and glassy beneath a silver-sprinkled sky. Moonlight glinted on the water, soft and steady, like a secret being whispered across the waves.

We walked back to the cabin in pairs, slower now, warm from laughter and cocoa, the buzz of the night settling into something quieter, something more.

Johan and Marlin walked ahead, close enough to brush shoulders, murmuring in their own little world. Every now and then, Marlin giggled, and Johan tried very hard to pretend he wasn’t smiling.

Vinka and I followed, hand in hand.

It wasn’t something we talked about—not since Christmas. That night in the cabin, curled up close under borrowed blankets while the snow fell outside… it had changed something. Quietly, gently. Not in the way adults would assume, but in the way two hearts start to find their rhythm around each other.

Her fingers laced through mine easily now, no awkwardness, no second-guessing. Just a steady, silent comfort that made the ferry feel less like a ship and more like a memory in the making.

“That was… something,” I said, giving her hand a light squeeze.

I laughed softly. “We were off-key and ridiculous.”

“True. But brave,” I said. “And you were brilliant.”

I looked up at him then—really looked—and for a brief moment the noise of the ship, the night, the whole world seemed to quiet around us.

“We should sing together more often,” I said, my voice low.

“Only if it means walking back like this after.”

I didn’t reply, but my smile said everything.

By the time we reached the cabin, Johan had the key ready and Marlin was already halfway into another story. The four of us slipped inside, voices hushed now, wrapped in that warm, glowing hush that only comes after a perfect night.

And as we got ready for bed, I caught Vinka’s eye once more, and knew—without needing words—that whatever this was between us… it was still there. Still real. Still quietly growing.

Inside the cabin, the familiar chaos resumed—four sets of shoes kicked off in all directions, cardigans flung over bunks, someone (Johan) stepping on someone else’s (Marlin’s) foot, and a general tangle of tired limbs and stifled giggles.

The ceiling was still just as low, and Johan managed to bump his head again while climbing onto the top bunk. Marlin muttered something about writing warning signs in multiple languages, and I rolled my eyes with affectionate amusement.

I moved toward the ladder to take the top bunk—when I felt a gentle tug at my wrist.

“Stay,” Vinka whispered.

Before I could reply, she pulled me softly into her bunk, lifting the corner of the blanket like it was the most natural thing in the world. No fuss. No questions. Just a quiet, confident gesture that said everything she needed it to.

Johan and Marlin were already whispering up above, voices muffled, occasionally punctuated by laughter or the rustle of bedding. Petra and Ronnie could be heard faintly through the wall, arguing in the way only siblings could—low-level and constant, like background radio.

Vinka and I lay side by side, the narrow bunk warm and close. At first we were back to back, letting the silence settle, then slowly—instinctively—we shifted until we were curled together, her head tucked under my chin, our fingers loosely entwined beneath the covers.

The soft hum of the ship’s engine was the only sound now, steady and lulling, like a heartbeat underfoot.

“Did you mean it?” I whispered after a while, barely louder than the breath between us.

“Mean what?”

“When you said you had good intentions.”

I turned slightly, just enough to feel her smile in the dark. “Every word.”

I didn’t say anything else, just rested my forehead gently against his. And in that quiet, creaky bunk, swaying gently somewhere between two countries, two childhoods, and whatever came next—we slept.

Together. Still just us. Still everything.

The following day, after polishing off another hearty breakfast and navigating our way around a surprisingly aggressive game of shuffleboard, we made our way to the ship’s library to continue our noble quest for knowledge.

Or, more accurately, to avoid being trampled by the crowd in the duty-free shop.

Midway through our literary pursuits—which consisted mostly of leafing through books we had no intention of finishing—the ship’s singer, the very same one who had wowed the lounge crowd the night before with her renditions of ABBA and Elton John, strolled in.

With a warm smile and a theatrical flourish, she invited us to join her for lunch.

Naturally, we accepted faster than you could say “complimentary bread basket.”

Lunch was both glamorous and surreal.

Between forkfuls of smoked salmon and bursts of laughter, she casually mentioned that her uncle owned the entire shipping line—as you do—and that this ship was her favourite to perform on. We tried our best to look unfazed and not choke on our meatballs.

The lunch stretched into a two-hour affair filled with music chat, travel stories, and Johan nearly taking out a passing waiter with an overly enthusiastic hand gesture during a tale about boat engines.

Eventually, we made our way back to the library—full, slightly starstruck, and carrying the warm afterglow of feeling like minor celebrities.

The library on the ship was unusually quiet, even for a floating archive of forgotten hardbacks and nautical maps. We were tucked away in the corner, lounging in those slightly-too-formal armchairs that made you sit straighter than you wanted to.

Petra and Ronnie were off somewhere—possibly still wrestling with the claw machine—and the rest of the ship seemed to have gone into a collective post-lunch food coma.

Marlin closed her book and looked over the top of it at Vinka and me, a little too casually.

“So… you two shared a bunk again, huh?”

Johan shifted in his chair and raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything. I glanced at Vinka, unsure if I should go for humour or honesty.

Vinka beat me to it.

“We did,” I said simply, not looking away from Marlin. “Same as at Christmas.”

There was a moment of silence, the kind that makes the air feel thick with unspoken thoughts. Then Johan leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees.

“You’re both okay with that?” he asked, not accusing—just curious, maybe even a little protective.

I nodded, and Vinka gave a quiet smile.

“It’s not like we planned it. It just... happened. And it felt right,” I said, keeping my voice low.

I added, “It’s not a big deal to us. We just like being close. It helps us sleep. That’s all.”

Marlin studied us both for a moment, then shrugged and sat back, satisfied. “Fair enough. I just wanted to check you weren’t turning into one of those weird couples who start finishing each other’s sentences and talking in code.”

I grinned. “Not yet.”

Johan gave a small laugh, glancing at Marlin. “I mean, if they start matching outfits, we stage an intervention.”

“Agreed,” said Marlin, mock-serious.

I chuckled, relieved. “We’re not there yet. But I do have a nice jumper that would suit Vinka.”

Vinka rolled her eyes and nudged me with her elbow, but didn’t let go of my hand.

The moment passed, easy and light, but something about it felt important—like we’d just crossed a small threshold in the way we talked, in the way we trusted each other.

Outside the windows, the sea stretched on and on, deep blue and endless. And in that quiet corner of the ship, it felt like the four of us were anchored to something solid—friendship, understanding, and whatever this new chapter was we were slowly growing into.

The grown-ups, clearly sensing we were running purely on teenage enthusiasm and lingering adrenaline, disappeared to the garden with cold drinks and newspapers. That left the four of us sprawled across the lounge like a group of mildly sunburnt bohemians.

“I feel like I’m still swaying,” Marlin said, leaning her head back dramatically over the arm of the sofa.

“You are swaying,” Johan replied. “You’re sitting on a bouncy cushion.”

“Details,” she said, flicking a grape at him.

Vinka and I were perched by the open window, legs tangled, sharing a bottle of fizzy lingonberry soda. The scent of wildflowers drifted in on the breeze. A bee buzzed lazily past as if even it couldn’t be bothered to sting anyone today.

“We should go to the lake tomorrow,” Vinka suggested, tracing a finger around the condensation on the glass. “Pack a picnic. Swim. Do nothing heroic whatsoever.”

“No ropes, no sails, no galley duty,” I agreed. “Just floating and flopping.”

“Floating and flopping sounds like your autobiography title,” Johan said with a grin.

“Better than yours: The Boy Who Capsized Everything.”

“Fair,” Johan nodded. “Chapter Twelve: That Time I Tried to Impress the Girl and Drenched Half the Baltic.”

“I still have seaweed in my trainers from that day,” Marlin added helpfully.

We all laughed, the kind of laughter that came from the belly and stayed in the chest long after the sound faded. It wasn’t about jokes—it was about being together. About shared memories, sun-warmed skin, and a holiday that already felt like legend in the making.

“We’ve got, what… ten days left?” Johan asked, quieter now.

“Don’t,” said Vinka, closing her eyes. “Let’s pretend it’s forever. Just for tonight.”

And so we did. We stayed up far too late, played cards badly, raided the fridge for leftovers, and watched the sunset turn the lake gold through the window.

It wasn’t adventure in the bold, daring sense. But it was friendship—deep, content, and glowing softly at the edges. And sometimes, that’s the best kind of adventure there is.

The next day, true to plan, we packed up for the lake like seasoned professionals—blankets, flasks of elderflower cordial, cucumber sandwiches (cut into triangles, naturally), towels, a slightly under-inflated lilo, and enough biscuits to supply a scout camp. Erik dropped us off with a wink and strict instructions not to come back sunburnt or soggy. We promised nothing.

The lake shimmered in the late morning sun, framed by whispering pines and the occasional dragonfly skimming across its surface like it had somewhere urgent to be. We claimed our favourite patch of grass by the water’s edge and spread out in lazy stages. Johan immediately launched himself into the lake with a yell, while Marlin followed with more elegance and significantly less splashing.

Vinka lay beside me on the blanket, eyes closed, face tilted to the sun. Her hand found mine without looking, and for a while we said nothing, just listened to the sound of the water, the laughter, the gentle rustle of leaves. There was something achingly beautiful in the quiet—like the holiday knew it was drawing to a close and had decided to slow everything down so we could feel every moment.

Then, just as it all teetered on the edge of poetic perfection, Johan re-emerged dripping wet and grinning like a man possessed.

“I declare war,” he announced.

That was all the warning we got before he lobbed a sopping handful of waterweed directly onto my chest. Marlin shrieked and joined in without hesitation, scooping water with a flip-flop. Vinka, for the record, was on my side… until she wasn’t.

The water fight escalated quickly, devolving into an all-out splash battle that saw us diving, ducking, and laughing so hard we could barely breathe. At one point, Johan tried to balance on the lilo and deliver a speech declaring victory. He made it halfway through before tipping off sideways like a particularly confident heron losing its footing. We called it a draw.

Later, when we were tired and happy and sun-warmed again, we stretched out on the grass in a lazy tangle of limbs, clothes drying on rocks nearby like colourful flags of truce. Marlin read aloud from a battered paperback she’d found in the house, while Johan dozed with a biscuit perched on his chest. Vinka curled up next to me, her head on my shoulder.

“I wish we could freeze this,” she whispered. “Bottle it up, take it home.”

“I’d need a pretty big bottle,” I murmured, kissing the top of her head.

She looked up at me then, eyes a little more serious. “What happens when we leave? What happens to this?”

I hesitated, then held her gaze. “It doesn’t end. It just... changes shape. But it’s still us. Always.”

She didn’t say anything, just nodded and nestled in closer, like she believed me. Or wanted to.

As the sun dipped lower, the shadows grew longer, and we packed up our things slowly, reluctantly. Johan tried to claim the lilo had “become sentient” and refused to deflate it. Marlin rolled her eyes but smiled as she helped him fold it anyway.

We walked back along the woodland trail in the amber light, four silhouettes in step, quiet now—not from sadness, but from the kind of peace that only comes after a perfect day.

That final night, the house was quiet. The grown-ups had turned in early, the lights dimmed, and the comforting smell of baked apples and cinnamon still lingered faintly from dessert. Outside, the sky was a blanket of stars, the kind you only see in places without streetlights or cities breathing down your neck. The lake was a mirror of moonlight, perfectly still.

We’d all crept out to the back garden with cushions, mugs of hot chocolate, and enough blankets to stage a siege. The air was cool, but the warmth between us did most of the work. Johan and Marlin were curled together on one end of the bench swing, her legs draped across his lap, his hand idly tracing lazy circles on her knee.

Vinka and I lay side by side on a blanket spread across the wooden decking, staring up at the sky, fingers laced together between us. I glanced over to find her already watching me with that quiet, amused expression she wore whenever she knew I was thinking too hard.

“I don’t want this to end,” I whispered.

“I know,” I said. “Feels like we just got here.”

I turned onto my side, propped up on my elbow. “We’ll write. And call. And next holiday we’ll plan something even bigger. Maybe Italy. Or a ski trip. With less falling over.”

“Or more,” I grinned. “Falling over has its moments.”

I laughed softly, then leaned down and kissed him. It was slow, gentle, the kind that spoke more than words ever could—of trust, of comfort, of something that had grown deeper and more certain with each shared moment.

“I’m really going to miss you,” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “Not really. We’re just on pause between chapters.”

A few steps away, Johan let out a dramatic sigh. “Would you two stop being adorable? You’re setting the bar too high.”

Marlin nudged him. “You love it.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, then leaned in to kiss her forehead.

The four of us fell into companionable silence, just the crackle of the garden lantern and the distant hoot of an owl keeping us company. It felt, in that moment, like nothing could touch us—not time, not distance, not the looming end of the holiday.

Eventually, yawns won out over romance, and we gathered our things with sleepy smiles and heavy limbs. At the top of the stairs, before we split into our rooms, Vinka slipped her hand into mine again. I glanced at Johan, who gave a knowing nod as Marlin tugged him gently towards their door.

We didn’t need to say anything. It was all understood.

This wasn’t goodbye.

It was just—to be continued.

The morning of departure arrived far too soon.

Sunlight spilled through the lace curtains in threads of gold, lighting up the dust motes like glitter in the quiet air. The house, which had been brimming with laughter and clattering cutlery only days ago, now felt subdued. Even the floorboards seemed to creak more softly, as if they, too, were reluctant to disturb the peace.

I lay awake, Vinka curled against my side, her breath warm on my shoulder. Neither of us moved for a long time. There was something sacred in that stillness—two people trying to stretch time with silence and touch. Eventually, her hand reached up and traced the line of my jaw, and I turned to meet her eyes.

“We should get up,” I whispered.

“I know,” she replied, not moving.

But eventually we did. Slowly. Regretfully. Like every motion might bring the train a little closer.

Downstairs, Erik and Harry were already loading bags into the car with the quiet efficiency of seasoned dads who knew better than to ask too many questions at a moment like this. Petra and Ronnie were on the porch, leaning against the rail with matching sleepy expressions. Marlin wandered into the kitchen, bleary-eyed but smiling. Johan followed a moment later, rubbing his neck.

“Feels like we just got here,” he muttered.

“Because we did,” I replied.

Breakfast was a quiet affair—toast, jam, strong coffee, and that heavy feeling in everyone’s chest. The kind that only comes with goodbyes that matter.

Vinka held my hand under the table the entire time, squeezing it now and again like she was checking I was still real.

When it came time to leave, there were hugs all round—tight ones. The kind that last a little too long and leave your jumper smelling of someone else’s shampoo. Erik clapped me on the shoulder. Anna kissed my cheek. Even Petra, in her own awkward way, wrapped her arms around me before swiping at her eyes and claiming it was “just hay fever.”

Johan and I loaded into the backseat next to our bags. Vinka stood by the gate, arms wrapped around herself, her dress fluttering in the breeze. I leaned out the window as the car started to roll.

“I’ll write you a novel,” I said.

“You’d better,” I smiled, and blew him a kiss.

And just like that, we were moving—away from the lake, away from the cabin, away from the kind of summer you tuck deep in your memory and carry with you for the rest of your life.

As the car rumbled down the gravel track, Johan nudged me. “Promise me we’ll never let life get boring.”

“Not a chance,” I said.

And in the rearview mirror, Sweden faded into trees and sunlight—but never truly out of sight.

The boys’ car has just disappeared down the lane. The house behind is quiet now, bags no longer being zipped, voices no longer echoing up the stairs. Marlin and I linger in the garden, barefoot on the dew-soaked grass, standing under the birch tree where they’d all gathered so many times over the past weeks.

Marlin: “Well… that’s that then.”

“Feels strange. Like someone’s turned the volume down on summer.”

Marlin: “I hate goodbyes.”

“I hate this one the most.”

Marlin: “You okay?”

“I will be. It just hurts more than I thought it would. Stephen and I... we had something this summer. Not just a holiday fling. It was real, wasn’t it?”

Marlin: “Yeah. It was. I saw it. Felt it. The way he looked at you—you were his whole world, Vinka.”

“I think he still is mine.”

Marlin: “Come on. Sit. Let’s be sad together for a bit.” “You know, Johan got under my skin. In a good way. He’s got this... steadiness. Makes you feel like nothing’s going to fall apart when he’s around. I didn’t expect that from him.”

“You’re good together. I saw it, especially on the boat. And in the library... you two were like old souls playing at being young.”

Marlin: “He told me he didn’t want the summer to end. I said it wouldn’t—not in the ways that matter.”

“Do you think they’ll still feel the same once they’re back in England?”

Marlin: “Yes. I do. Maybe not every second of every day, but the important bits? The feelings? Those stay. They’re stitched into us now.”

“Promise me something?”

Marlin: “Anything.”

“If we ever starts to forget what this felt like—this summer—you’ll remind me”

Marlin: “With every cinnamon bun and every ABBA song.” “Come on. Let’s go inside before someone finds us looking like a sad Swedish postcard.”

“We’re not sad. Not really. Just... full.”

Marlin: “Full of love?”

“Yeah. That.” “Can I ask you something?”

Marlin: “You can ask me anything. You know that.”

“Then… why haven’t you slept with Johan?”

Marlin: “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just… not yet. Not like this.”

“Because of us? Because Stephen and I—”

Marlin: “No, not because of you. What you and Stephen have is beautiful, Vinka. Honestly. I think it’s brave. I’m happy for you.” “Johan’s everything I never expected. He’s kind, and funny, and steady like a mountain. But… I want it to be right. I don’t want it to happen just because it’s summer or because it seems like the next step. I want to know it’s ours. That it’s not borrowed from someone else’s story.”

“That makes sense. You’re wiser than I am.”

Marlin: “No, just more cautious. You and Stephen—what you did—it came from something real. That was your moment. Mine… it’s still growing. Maybe I’m just waiting for it to bloom.”

“And you think Johan will wait?”

Marlin: “I know he will. That’s how I know he’s worth it.”

Late afternoon in the ship’s library. The lounge buzz has died down, and the sea hums steadily beyond the thick windows. Meand Johan sit in a quiet corner, oversized chairs, feet up, half-heartedly flicking through books they’re not really reading. There’s a long pause, filled only by the turning of a page and the clink of a teaspoon from a nearby trolley.

“You alright?”

“Yeah. Just… thinking.”

“Dangerous habit, that.” “About Marlin?”

“You always see right through me.”

“That’s what best mates are for.”

“She’s… incredible, isn’t she? I mean—Marlin. She’s smart, calm, sharp as anything. I could listen to her for hours.”

“You have. We both have. I think she might be smarter than all of us combined.”

“Yeah… I’ve thought about it, you know. About taking the next step. Like you and Vinka.”

“And?”

“She’s not ready. And that’s alright. I’d wait a year if I had to. Ten, even.”

“She told Vinka something similar. Said she didn’t want to rush it just because it felt like the ‘right moment’ on paper.”

“That sounds like her.” “I think… I’ve always known she’s not someone you pressure or push. You just… stay beside her until she decides to let you in completely.”

“That’s a rare kind of patience.”

“She’s worth it.”

“She is. You both are.”

“What about you and Vinka? You okay?”

“Yeah. More than okay. It’s hard to explain. When it happened, it just… felt right. Like it wasn’t something new, but something we’d always known was coming.”

“I get that. You two have always had a kind of… current running between you.”

“Sometimes it scares me how much I feel for her.”

“Then you’re doing it right.”

“You ever worry we’ll mess it up?”

“All the time. But then I remember—we’ve got each other. The four of us. That’s a good start.”

“That, and your endless optimism.”

“It’s a full-time job.”

“It’s mad, isn’t it? This summer. Everything’s shifted. Feels like we grew up a bit without meaning to.”

“Yeah. Like life nudged us forward a step.”

“And now we’re heading back, same school, same streets, but… not quite the same us.”

“We’ll carry it with us. The boat, the sea, the girls, the late nights under the stars… it all stays. Even when it feels like it’s slipping away.”

“Memories like that—sticky things. They cling. They shape you.”

Johan reached into his rucksack and pulls out a folded, slightly crumpled Polaroid—the one Petra had taken on the deck the day before we handed back the yacht. The four of us, sun-kissed and windswept, grinning at the camera like the world belonged to us.

“Here. For your wall. Or your wallet. Wherever you need reminding.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“We’ll make more memories, you know. Christmas, skiing, next summer… this isn’t the end.”

“No. Just the turning of a page.”

“Come on, sailor boy.

And just like that, our summer began its quiet descent into memory. The ferry hummed steadily beneath our feet, carrying us away from the magic and back to reality. But something had changed—not just in the way Vinka’s hand fit so perfectly in mine, or how Johan looked at Marlin when he thought no one was watching—but in us. We weren’t boys chasing holidays anymore. We were beginning to understand the weight of feelings, the roots of real friendship, and the tender beginnings of love. Whatever lay ahead—school, winter, growing up—we’d always have this summer. And for now, that was enough.