The REAL Reason HITCHIN Rugby Club is Still Unbeatable

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Fourteen

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

Chapter Fourteen.

Once in Hitchin, we did the full sentimental lap. Tea with Mum and Ron, biscuits with Harry and Ingrid, and enough chatting to wear out the kettle. Lovely to see everyone again, though I’m convinced Harry only invited us round to show off his new shed—which, frankly, had better insulation than our old flat and possibly central heating. We couldn’t resist a trip down to the rugby club either, just for old times’ sake.

One pint led to another, and wouldn’t you know it—we ended up on the pitch, “just for a jog.” That jog somehow turned into passing drills, then tackling, and before long Johan and I were giving the new lads at nine, ten, and fifteen a proper Marine-style welcome. It was chaos, glorious chaos, and I realised just how much I’d missed it. Rugby, like old mates and decent tea, never really leaves you—it just waits patiently for you to come back and get flattened all over again.

Johan and I even toyed with the idea of joining a local team when we got back to Plymouth—just to keep our boots muddy and our egos in check. But, naturally, real life had other plans.

The moment we returned to work after leave, the Corps decided it was time for pre-deployment training. Northern Ireland again. And the timing? Spot on—just in time to miss Christmas. Brilliant. Perfect, really, if you’re a snowman with no emotional attachments and a taste for damp socks.

The girls tried to take it in their stride—bit of stiff upper lip, bit of Swedish grit—but you could see it hurt. And if I’m honest, it clobbered me too. This’d be my second Christmas away from Sweden since I was seven, and the thought of missing the smell of glögg, the log fire crackling in the grate, and Petra’s truly dreadful jokes at the dinner table hit me harder than a Boxing Day ambush.

I’d spent every single Christmas and birthday in Sweden right up until I turned sixteen. Now, here we were, Royal Marines, nearly twenty-one, supposedly bulletproof—and all I could think about was how much I missed a quiet snow-covered village and the people in it.

I told Stephen I was fine about it, that we’d manage like we always did—but the truth? It felt like someone had quietly pulled the rug out from under me. Another deployment, another Christmas without them.

Marlin and I decided we’d go back to Sweden for the holidays, to be with family, but we both knew it wouldn’t be the same without the boys. We’d have the food, the fire, the laughter, even Petra’s terrible cracker jokes—but the empty chairs at the table would shout louder than all of it.

I’d grown up with Christmases that smelled of pine and gingerbread, of Papa’s pipe smoke and snow on the window ledge, and now I was bracing myself for all of that with half my heart missing. We were Marines’ wives now, apparently—meant to smile, be strong, keep the home fire burning. Some days, I could manage that. Other days, it just felt like standing in the cold, waiting for the sound of boots on the step that wouldn’t come.

To soften the blow a bit, we were tossed a crumb of mercy—one glorious week of leave in November before heading off to Strab ban, just south of Londonderry. We’d been there before, helping out on our last tour, so we knew the score. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a winter wonderland—unless your idea of festive cheer involves concrete watchtowers and the distant sound of bin lids being banged in warning.

Still, the only real silver lining was knowing we’d be back by March, and the girls—bless ’em—had already extracted a promise of the ultimate ski trip to make up for missing Christmas. We left the planning entirely in their hands, which could go either way.

On the one hand, we might end up carving perfect turns on alpine slopes like a pair of Royal Marine Olympians. On the other… we might find ourselves stuck in some snowbound lodge in the middle of nowhere, relying on my candlelit attempts to teach them the polka for entertainment. Either way, it was bound to beat crouching behind sandbags while fantasising about Mum’s roast potatoes and a telly with more than one fuzzy channel.

We wrote whenever we could—letters, postcards, scribbles on the back of ration box lids—anything to keep the girls in the loop. But this time felt different.

Maybe it was the timing. For the first time since we were nippers, Johan and I wouldn’t be spending Christmas—or our birthdays—in Sweden. No snow, no log fires, no Petra’s dodgy jokes or Lars pretending not to cry at the Swedish King’s speech.

Just soggy country lanes in Northern Ireland, rifles slung over our shoulders, and a creeping sense of seasonal gloom. It’s hard to summon much festive cheer when your stocking’s a plastic ration bag, and the only thing hanging from a tree is your soaking wet camo poncho.

Most days were spent manning the permanent vehicle checkpoint—waving at angry drivers and pretending we still had fingers under our gloves. When we weren’t doing that, we were tagging along with the police on rural patrols, trudging through villages so quiet the biggest threat was some old dear chasing chickens with a broom.

Now and then, we’d be sent to help cordon off some remote bit of moorland being searched. That meant hours of standing in a field, praying for something—anything—to happen, while the rain discovered new and imaginative ways to soak us from angles we didn’t know existed.

And then there were the joys of overnight Observation Posts. Drop into some lonely hillside, dig in, and commence “hard routine.” No lights, no sound, cold food straight from the tin, and relieving yourself into a plastic bag like a tactical raccoon.

Glamorous, right? We might as well have been MI6—if MI6 operated out of ditches, smelled of boiled socks, and kept their secrets in a sandwich bag.

They called it a gym, but really it was a sandbagged shed with a multi-gym that clanked like scaffolding, a couple of running and rowing machines that rattled with every stride, and a punchbag hanging lopsided from a rusted chain.

Julafton at the lodge was everything it should’ve been—fresh snow blanketing the world outside, the scent of cinnamon and cloves dancing through the kitchen, and candles flickering in every window like little beacons of hope. Johan and Stephen were far away, somewhere cold and miserable, playing Marines in the dark—but for a few precious minutes that evening, we spoke to them.

Just after six, the phone rang.

A crackly connection. Then—“Good Jul!”—and there they were, our boys, grinning down the line like a pair of scruffy choirboys. We each took turns, holding the phone like it was made of gold. They were cold, wet, and tired—but hearing our voices, and knowing we were safe and together, lifted their spirits. They sang us a dreadful rendition of Stilla Natt, which made Grandma Greta cry and Lars declare we needed more schnapps.

But the real surprise came after the call, once the food was cleared away and everyone settled by the fire.

Tim and Petra had been suspiciously giggly all day—sharing glances, whispering like naughty school kids. I thought perhaps they were just enjoying having a bit of time together without muddy boots or marching orders. But then… Tim stood up.

Tim. Who once hid under a table to avoid English lessons.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Um. Everyone. Could I… say a quick thing?”

Petra’s cheeks turned the colour of the lingonberry jam.

Tim fidgeted with something in his pocket, then took a deep breath. “I had a word with Erik a few days ago—asked him, proper like, if I might ask Petra to be my wife.” He looked over at Erik, who gave the faintest of proud nods.

Then he turned to Petra.

In front of your whole mad, brilliant family… "will you marry me?”

Silence.

Then Petra gasped—hands to her face—tears already falling. “Ja! Of course I will!”

And just like that, the room exploded.

There was clapping, whooping, crying—aunt Ingrid sobbing into a tea towel, uncle Stefen offering Tim a shot of aquavit, and little Sven shouting, “Does this mean there’s going to be cake?!”

Marlin and I hugged so tightly we nearly fell into the fireplace.

It was perfect. A Christmas to remember. Even without our boys beside us, love filled the lodge like warm light through frost-covered windows. And knowing they were out there, fighting the cold with courage and camo, we carried their warmth in our hearts… and promised ourselves we’d tell them everything—especially about the ring—when they finally came home.

The house was still hushed, heavy with the smell of strong coffee and cardamom, the hush of snow outside blanketing every sound like a hymn. I was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, gently stirring the porridge when Petra wandered in, robe pulled tight and hair still tousled from sleep, but with a smile that gave everything away.

“God Jul,” I said softly, handing her a warm mug of coffee.

She wrapped her fingers around it like it was the only thing keeping her upright and leaned against the counter, grinning like a girl keeping a very big secret—which, of course, she was.

“I still can’t believe he did it,” she whispered.

“On Julafton, no less,” I teased, nudging her with my elbow. “Like something from a storybook.”

She nodded, eyes wide. “I keep playing it over in my head. He asked Papa... properly. Said if he was going to marry a Rask, he’d better do it the Swedish way.”

I set the spoon down and turned to her fully, smiling so hard it hurt. “So... when?”

“Easter,” she said, breathless with the thrill of it. “The village church here, just like you and Stephen. And then a registry one in Hitchin, once we’re back.”

Perfect. A mirror of our own path.

Then, with a sudden shy glance, she added, “I was wondering... would you be my bridesmaid?”

I blinked. “Petra... of course! I’d be honoured.”

She let out a happy little squeak and hugged me, sloshing a bit of coffee onto the floor, not that either of us noticed.

“I’ve already asked Marlin, and she said yes. You’ll wear matching dresses, nothing too puffy,” she added with a smirk. “Tim gets to pick the colour, though. He said something ridiculous like ‘regimental black and gold’—so expect trouble.”

I laughed. “At least let me veto anything with ruffles.”

“And,” she went on, voice lowering with sudden emotion, “he’s asking Stephen to be his best man.”

A beat of silence. I felt my throat tighten.

“Says he’s the big brother he always had. That Stephen pulled him through when everything went sideways, and he wants him beside him when everything goes right.”

I wiped my hands on a tea towel, blinking quickly. “Well… he’d better practise his speech. Stephen won’t get through it without crying.”

“Neither will I,” Petra admitted, sniffling into her sleeve. “I didn’t think I’d ever be this happy.”

“Come on then,” I said, linking arms with her. “Let’s get dressed. You’ve got a wedding to plan—and a church service to book straight after.”

As we stepped out into the snowy lane, the bells in the village church began to chime. Christmas morning in Sweden had never sounded so sweet.

The service had been beautiful, of course. Candles flickered against the wooden beams, the air thick with incense and the gentle murmur of familiar hymns. The whole village had turned out, bundled in wool coats and knitted scarves, their voices rising with the joy of Christmas morning. Petra sat beside me, positively glowing. Tim, bless him, sang every word in phonetic Swedish with the confidence of a man who thought volume could hide pronunciation.

As the final “Nu tändas tusen juleljus” faded into the rafters and the organ let out its last sigh, we filed out into the crisp, bright air. Snowflakes still drifted lazily from the pine trees, and the whole world felt wrapped in white linen and quiet wonder.

“Come on,” Petra whispered, tugging at my arm. “Before Papa starts talking about the war again.”

We slipped away from the cluster of villagers exchanging Good Jul and found Pastor Linberg shaking hands at the church door, his cheeks pink with cold and contentment.

“Good Jul, Pastor,” Petra said, her voice suddenly full of nerves.

“Good Jul, dear Petra! And to you too, Vinka. Such a lovely service, wasn’t it?”

“It was perfect,” I said, giving Petra’s hand a squeeze.

Petra cleared her throat. “Actually, we were hoping to speak to you… about booking the church.”

His bushy brows rose. “Oh? A christening already?”

Petra giggled. “No, no! A wedding. At Easter, if possible.”

His face lit up like a lantern. “Well now, what a Christmas gift! Tim’s a fine lad—and he sings like a cannon.”

We all laughed.

“Do you have a date in mind?” he asked, pulling a little black book from his pocket, the leather cover as worn as his cassock.

“Easter Saturday,” Petra said. “That gives us enough time to get the English registry done too.”

He flipped pages, nodded. “A lovely choice. The daffodils should be out by then.”

“And Vinka and Marlin will be bridesmaids,” Petra added proudly, nudging me.

“Well then,” said Pastor Linberg, pen poised, “shall we pencil it in, or shall we make it official?”

“Official,” Petra said, straightening her scarf with a determined grin.

He scribbled something in his book, looked up and said warmly, “It will be an honour to marry you, Petra Rask. Now, go celebrate—before your father steals the bishop’s wine again.”

We laughed, hugged him, and practically danced back down the church path, our boots crunching in rhythm.

Petra leaned in and whispered, “I haven’t told Tim yet. He thinks I’m still ‘thinking about dates.’ Wait till he sees how organised I can be.”

“Oh, he’s in for it now,” I said with a wink.

And with that, we stepped back into the swirl of family, snow, and Christmas joy—hearts full, plans made, and the promise of spring blooming beneath the frost.

Christmas dinner at the lodge was always something of a performance—part festive feast, part chaotic ballet. Papa as he was known in his gentler moments, had carved the ham with his usual precision, as if it were a military operation. Lars kept everyone’s wine topped up like a seasoned maître d’, and the candles flickered in the draft every time someone leaned over for the pickled herring. Classic Swedish chaos, in the best way.

I was sitting between Petra and a bowl of suspiciously wobbly beetroot salad, watching as she kept sneaking glances at Tim like he’d hung the stars himself. Papa sat proudly beside her, chest puffed like a rooster who’d just handed over the farm keys. Opposite him sat Mamma, the softest smile in the room, with Tim next to her—already working through his second helping like he thought food might run out before Easter. And Marlin, lovely, unshakeable Marlin, was calmly buttering a crisp bread with the same precision she applied to intelligence reports. We were a full table, minus our boys, but the warmth more than filled the gaps.

“So,” Mama said, setting down her fork and resting her hand lightly on Tim’s arm. “Easter Saturday then?”

Petra nodded, cheeks pink with excitement—and maybe a little wine. “Yes, after church this morning, we spoke with Pastor Linberg. He checked his little calendar and said we could have the service at two. That gives us time for hair, flowers, nerves…”

“…and changing your mind,” I added with a wicked grin.

Petra gasped. “Vinka!”

Tim nearly choked on his roast potatoes.

Papa chuckled into his glass. “Well, it is good to leave options, just in case.”

“Tack, papa,” Petra said dryly, rolling her eyes. “That’s very reassuring.”

Tim raised his hand like he was volunteering for trench duty. “For the record, I’ve had enough time to change my mind, and I haven’t. So unless someone tackles me on the aisle, I’ll be there. With bells on.”

“Oh, you’ll be there,” I teased. “But not with bells. With Stephen.”

Tim looked down at his plate, then back up with that boyish smile of his—the one he tried to hide when he was being sentimental. “I want Stephen to be my best man. He’s… well, he’s always been there. For everything. He’s my brother, but more than that. He’s the reason I got through it all. The Army, my exams… life, really. I want him next to me.”

Marlin reached across and gave his hand a little squeeze, her eyes softer than usual. “He’ll be honoured, Tim. And furious you didn’t tell him sooner.”

Petra laughed. “We’ll tell him once he’s back. He might be stuck behind sandbags right now, but there’s still time. Easter’s ages away.”

Tim glanced out the window, where snow was falling soft and steady across the lake. “I just hope he’s safe. Both of them.”

There was a quiet moment then—not heavy, but full of love. We all missed them. Johan, with his quiet strength and that crooked grin. Stephen, my Stephen, probably cracking jokes in a freezing OP, smelling like camo and hope. We raised our glasses.

“To the boys,” I said.

“To the boys,” everyone echoed.

Then Papa cleared his throat. “And to the future Mrs. Tim Heale. May you survive his rugby socks and his snoring.”

Petra blushed scarlet. Tim held up his glass. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

“And prettier than you deserve,” I added.

“Oi!”. “I’m sitting right here.”

Mama smiled, that warm, knowing smile only mothers have. “Yes, and for once, behaving yourself. Let’s enjoy that while it lasts.”

And we did. That Christmas dinner turned into laughter, stories, more wine than was strictly necessary, and plans—plans for dresses, invitations, cake tastings, and whether Sven should be allowed near the microphone. We talked late into the evening, wrapped in candlelight and good cheer.

And in that lodge, tucked away in the snowy woods of Sweden, the world felt safe. Whole. Even with the boys away and uncertainty all around us, we had something golden to hold onto.

Love. Family. And a wedding to plan.

Somewhere damp and windswept in Northern Ireland was Stephen and Johan.

Letters from home were like gold dust—rare, precious, and usually smudged with love, coffee rings, or the odd lipstick mark if you were lucky. That morning, we were tucked away in a draughty barn doing our best impressions of cold, soggy scarecrows when the post came in.

It was Johan who spotted them first—two blue airmail envelopes peeking out of the corporal’s battered satchel like shy valentines.

“Oi, these ones have Swedish stamps,” he said, grinning like a loon. “That’s a good sign.”

He handed mine over, and I didn’t even wait for permission—I was into it like a kid unwrapping birthday presents. Vinka’s writing always made me smile. Even when she was describing something completely ordinary—new curtains, or Tim burning the toast again—it felt like sunshine in my head.

But this time it wasn’t curtains. It was big. Huge, actually.

Tim had proposed.

Our Tim. The same lad who once tried to impress a girl by juggling cricket balls and ended up smashing two windows and his own nose. That Tim. I had to read it twice just to make sure it wasn’t some elaborate Swedish joke. But no—he’d gone and done it properly. Julafton evening, in front of the whole flaming family. Papa Erik had even given his blessing. Vinka wrote that Petra cried, Tim cried, even Marlin might’ve cried but blamed it on the pickled herring.

I just sat there, letter in hand, grinning like an idiot and thinking: about bloody time.

Johan was reading his letter beside me, lips moving, eyebrows dancing. Then he let out a low whistle. “They’ve set the date,” he said, looking up. “Easter Saturday. Church wedding in Sweden. Registry office in Hitchin too. Double the fuss, double the cakes.”

And then, tucked into the same envelope, another letter. Tim’s handwriting—wonky as ever, like he was wrestling the pen instead of writing with it. Short, straight to the point, but enough to make my throat close up.

He wanted me as best man.

That one hit harder than the cold ever could. I looked back down at Vinka’s last line, written in her curly script: He said it had to be you. You’ve always been his compass.

I swallowed hard, blinking more than usual. Must’ve been the wind blowing through that blasted barn. Yeah—the wind.

Johan nudged me with his elbow. He didn’t say anything, just gave me that knowing grin. We sat there a while, side by side on a stack of ammo crates, letting it sink in. Tim was settling down. Properly. And for the first time in weeks, the barn didn’t feel quite so cold.

Then, just as we were feeling halfway warm inside, we got summoned. Briefing room. Morale-boosting nonsense, we figured. These things usually meant two weeks of extra duties and maybe a new poster in the canteen. But this time?

Caribbean.

Six months.

Beaches, rum, sun, and more sun. The whole room erupted. Lads cheering, clapping, making ridiculous plans for snorkelling and cocktails with umbrellas.

But not us.

Johan and I just looked at each other. And that one look said everything.

Sure, it sounded nice. Very nice. Better than bogs and checkpoints, for sure. But it also meant six more months away. Six more months of missing birthdays, missed breakfasts, missed bloody life.

We’d done nearly four years. Four good, hard, proud years. But this job—it wasn’t just a job anymore, it was a wall between us and the people we loved. And for what? Another stripe? Another far-flung deployment? We weren’t boys anymore chasing adventure. We were husbands. Family men.

So that night, after lights out, we made the decision.

We’d leave.

We’d finish the tour, of course. Do it properly. But when the time came to sign on again, we’d shake hands, hand in our kit, and walk away with our heads held high. No regrets, just ready.

Because as much as we loved the Corps—and we did, fiercely—it didn’t hold a candle to waking up in our flat with the smell of real coffee, the sound of the girls laughing, and no sergeant screaming about boot polish before sunrise.

And there was a wedding coming. One we couldn’t miss.