Rugby Pride & Family Tradition | From Clubhouse Cheers to Vineyard Adventures | The Parallel Four

In Chapter Thirty-Five of The Parallel Four, the spirit of service, sport, and family collide in one unforgettable story. The clubhouse bursts with post-match pride as Vinka and Marlin make history in Hitchin’s first women’s rugby team, cheered on by generations in club blazers and ties. The next morning brings bacon, bruises, and pride, with a newspaper headline hailing Vinka as “The Queen of Kicks.”

But the adventure doesn’t stop at home. With the children growing fast and the call of the open road too strong to ignore, the gang fire up their classic motorbikes and head for France—destination Claude’s vineyard in Bordeaux. Old friendships are rekindled, secrets unearthed, and the story loops back to Berlin, the 1970s, and the roots of their lifelong bond.

Expect a rich mix of rugby culture, British Army tradition, travel nostalgia, veteran life, and pure camaraderie—told with humour, heart, and honesty.

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Thirty Five

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 Thirty Five.

The clubhouse was packed to the rafters, buzzing with post-match energy and the sort of euphoria only rugby can generate. Steam still clung to the windows, the stereo was pumping Queen’s Don’t Stop Me Now, and the air was thick with garlic bread, deep heat, and well-earned glory.

Everyone, was in their club blazer and tie.

That was the rule. No matter how bruised, battered, or covered in grass stains you were twenty minutes ago, you buttoned up like gentlemen. Even the girls, newly initiated, had joined the ranks. Vinka had paired hers with dark jeans and a knowing smirk, and Marlin wore hers like a parade jacket, sleeves rolled just once, collar turned slightly up, effortlessly cool. Their ties were club colours, slightly loosened, still wet at the tips from the shower steam, but proud all the same.

Johan, Tim and I had changed too, grey slacks, crisp white shirts, regimental posture. We leaned near the bar, three old warhorses pretending not to beam like proud dads at a school prize-giving. Petra was standing with us observing the chaos.

“You know,” Johan said, sipping his pint, “I think Marlin’s blazer fits her better than mine ever fit me.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, watching Vinka hold court at a table of laughing supporters. “Probably because she earned it today.”

Olaf, Greta, Erik, Lars, Harry, Ingrid and Silvi were all sat at a large table enjoying the atmosphere and lunch, they had all come over special to watch the girls and mighty impress they were as well.

At the far side of the room, the kids had claimed their usual spot, the corner booth beneath the framed photo of the 1978 first XV. They too wore club blazers, slightly big on the boys, perfectly tailored on the girls. Four fourteen-year-olds, surrounded by chip baskets and half-empty glasses of lemonade, trying their absolute hardest not to smile too wide. Sigrid was sat with them in her school blazer just to fit in.

Otto leaned back with mock indifference, one arm draped over the booth, but his foot was tapping under the table with barely contained excitement. Nils was flicking through a match programme, circling Vinka’s name with a biro like it was a scouting report.

Vera had removed her tie, fashion, obviously but wore the blazer like a badge of honour. Olivia still had both on, collar buttoned, eyes bright, cheeks flushed.

They were proud. They didn’t say it. But they didn’t have to.

I slid over with a plate of onion rings and nudged a Coke in Nils’s direction.

“All right, lads. Ladies. You lot make a pretty sharp-looking back row.”

Otto smirked. “You have to wear the blazer, or they won’t let you order chips.”

“Or breathe,” Vera added, deadpan.

“Or live,” Olivia chimed in, raising her glass. “To the mothers. Bloody legends.”

Sigrid said she was very impressed with auntie Vinka and Marlin, mum said she used to play with them when she was young. She did and she made Tim look average, well all of us if truth be known, they all laughed.

Nils actually lifted his drink in a toast, momentarily forgetting his cool, before catching himself and muttering, “Yeah. Not bad for old birds.”

Back near the fireplace, a round of cheers went up again. Marlin had just been handed a pint by one of the old boys, one of the proper old boys, who nodded slowly and said, “Best match I’ve seen since ’83.”

Vinka was surrounded by a trio of younger players asking for kicking tips and scribbling notes on beer mats. She glanced over at me, caught my eye, and gave a wink that said, Still got it.

“Right,” Johan said, tugging his blazer straight and nudging me with his elbow. “Shall we pretend we’re not the proudest sods in the room?”

I nodded, pulling my tie loose just enough to breathe. “Aye. Pint first?”

“Obviously.”

We made our way to the bar, just as the club chairman banged a spoon against a pint glass.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and proud offspring, a toast! To the new generation, who’ve not only played the game, but honoured the traditions! To the blazers, the boots, and the bloody brilliant rugby!”

The room raised glasses. The kids raised theirs too. Blazers, ties, muddy knees, full hearts.

Yeah. This was how it should be.

Sunday morning tiptoed in gently, like it knew the house was sore from celebrating.

Downstairs, the kettle hissed, the toaster ticked, and bacon sizzled away in the pan like a gentle applause. The smell had drifted upstairs and coaxed both twins and Sigrid who was bunking with Vera out of bed earlier than expected. A small miracle in itself.

Tim and Petra were in the spare room and joined us in the kitchen. Tim told me he had been selected as a Colour Sergeant Instructor at Sandhurst for the next two years, said he was sorry to leave the Recce platoon but this was a great honour.

I asked about Sigrid and school, Petra said she would stay at the Duke of York school in Kent, she had been there since she was eleven and loved it, she was getting a great education, it didn't seem right having her move schools every couple of years.

Vinka was already at the table, wrapped in one of my old club rugby shirts and an oversized pair of jogging bottoms. Her left knee was bandaged, a few bruises peeked out along her arm, but she looked every bit the conquering heroin. The club blazer hung on the back of her chair, her muddy boots drying by the Aga.

The broadsheet lay open in front of her, headline boldly declaring:

“Heale Seals the Day, Vinka Stars in Historic Women’s Debut.”

She smiled to herself, sipping tea.

Nils wandered in first, wearing his own club tie loosened around his neck, hair still pointing in three directions. He tried to act casual, but his eyes immediately found the paper.

“That’s you,” he mumbled, nodding at the photo, Vinka mid-kick, arms outstretched, the ball sailing true. “Front page of the sport section.”

“I know,” she said, voice soft, a little bashful.

He slouched into the seat across from her and picked up the paper.

“Nice form. Kicking leg straight… shoulders square. I mean, for a girl.”

She threw a slice of toast at him. He ducked, grinning.

Vera followed close behind, freshly showered and wrapped in her dressing gown, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Sigrid will be down in a minute, “Are there bacon sarnies?” she asked.

“Always,” I said from the stove. “Two with brown sauce, right?”

She paused in the doorway, then gave me a rare full smile. “Cheers, Dad.”

She shuffled over to the table and flopped down next to Vinka, peering over her shoulder at the article.

“Woman of the Match went to debut fly-half Vinka Heale, whose pinpoint conversions and commanding play set the tone for Hitchin’s new era of women’s rugby…”

Vera leaned in. “They called you the Queen of Kicks.”

“I’m not putting that on a mug,” Vinka said, but her smile gave her away.

“You should,” Nils said. “Get a whole set made.”

“Don’t encourage her,” I called over. “She’s already asked me to call her ‘Your Grace’ in public.”

Vinka sipped her tea with mock elegance. “Only on Tuesdays.”

I brought over two plates piled with bacon sandwiches and slid them in front of the kids, then sat beside Vinka with my own. Tim and Petra squeezed in at the table. A Sunday morning feast, grease, pride, and just enough salt to sting the corner of your mouth if you’d taken a knock the day before.

The seven of us sat for a moment, chewing in quiet rhythm. The radio crackled softly in the background, playing some gentle acoustic tune. No rush. No shouting. Just the calm after the storm.

Nils finally broke the silence. “You were brilliant, Mum.”

Vera nodded. “Actually… yeah. Properly brilliant.”

Vinka looked at them both, her eyes a little glassy. “Thanks, my darlings. That means more than the write-up.”

I reached across and gave her hand a squeeze.

For a moment, we all just sat there, the seven of us, the paper open, crumbs on the table, bruises blooming and bacon disappearing, basking in that simple, beautiful thing:

Pride.

Sunday morning we shepherded the lot off to rugby practice — Nils, Vera, Otto, Olivia and Sigrid bounding ahead like they owned the goalposts, Sigrid had brought her own rugby kit ready for some fun. She’d come home from Duke of York for the weekend — Tim and Petra’s girl, six months younger than the others — but you’d never know it; she kept up with every drill as if she’d trained with them all term., she had the look of Petra about her and every bit as talented. We parents — Stephen, me, Marlin, Johan, Petra and Tim — trailed after with thermoses, scarves and that ridiculous, fierce pride that makes you clap at everything. The sideline was a cheerful chaos of whistles, shouted coaching, and the odd gasp when a tackle went spectacularly wrong, but mostly it was laughter. 

Afterwards we all moved into the clubhouse together, where Ingrid, Harry, Grandpa Olaf, Grandma Greta, Papa Erik, Mama Anna, Silvi and Lars were already at a long table, waiting with sandwiches, hot stew and a pot of tea (and a pint for those who fancied it). By the time plates were cleared and the children were washed and dozing in their seats, the room hummed with that warm, noisy family contentment that hangs around you like the last light of a good day.

Next day the Swedish contingent left us and returned home after a great few days, Tim and Petra took Sigrid back to school in Kent before returning to work and sorting out their next move to Sandhurst.

By the mid-90s, the four of us had gone full throttle into our inner grease-monkey phase. Marlin, Johan, Vinka, and yours truly were hopelessly besotted with our ever-growing collection of motorbikes. What started as a casual “bit of tinkering” in the garage had revved itself into a full-blown obsession, the kind involving oil-stained hands, the comforting rattle of a socket set, and endless cups of tea gone cold while we argued over who’d nicked the 13mm spanner this time. As the kids grew older and started needing us slightly less and rolling their eyes slightly more, we discovered a delicious bit of freedom. That meant one thing: the occasional gallop into the wild on two wheels. Our kind of wild meant canvas tents, sleeping bags, and campfires that produced sausages so smoky you could taste them for a week.

We were still very much a team, the four of us in the TA, keeping a hand in without letting it rule our lives. Marlin and I balanced it with our translation work, steady but never overwhelming, while Stephen and Johan thrived on the structure of drill nights and weekends away. Add to that our race weekends, sailing, and the ski expeditions, and yes, life was full on. But somehow, we always found the space for what mattered most: the children, and those little escapes on the motorbikes, camping under the stars with the smell of woodsmoke in our hair. That was our life, busy, balanced, and bound together.

One fine spring morning, Johan casually lobbed an idea across the breakfast table that landed with the weight of a dropped engine block: “Why don’t we take the bikes to France, pay old Claude a visit, see if he’s still knocking around his vineyard and whether that stash of weapons is still gathering cobwebs in his barn?” You could’ve heard a spark plug drop. Marlin and I looked at each other, shrugged, and said, “Sounds like a laugh.” Ingrid, bless her, offered to hold the fort and keep the kids fed, clothed, and more or less alive, she’s a saint, that one. Within the hour, a ferry crossing from Portsmouth to St Malo was hastily booked, panniers were mentally packed, and our little jaunt had been christened: Operation Bordeaux Blast.

Rolling onto the overnight ferry, the symphony of our British bikes, the deep, throaty rumble of Norton, Triumph, and BSA engines, echoed gloriously through the steel belly of the ship. Heads turned, jaws dropped, and one poor bloke in a baseball cap nearly walked straight into a bollard, hypnotised by Vinka’s gleaming Thunderbird. There’s just something about that classic thump-thump-thump that stirs the soul and, as we soon discovered, sets off a few car alarms for good measure.

Once the deck crew had finished fussing over our pride and joys and strapped them down like precious cargo, we found our cabins, dumped our kit, and made a beeline for the bar. Two pints in, Johan was already holding court, spinning the legendary tale of how he once out-ran a gendarme on a borrowed moped back in ’82 the truth of which, I suspect, had taken on a life of its own. We managed to turn in before midnight, like the responsible adults we now pretended to be… though the knees were creakier, the hairlines higher, and the dreams still full of open roads.

After a predictably sleepless night in those tiny ferry bunks, I think Johan’s knees were sticking out into the corridor and a breakfast that somehow made toast taste like damp cardboard, we finally rolled off the ferry into golden morning light. Oh, det var härligt, the air was fresh, the sky blue, and the road south called to us like an old friend. Our route was gloriously twisty, the kind that makes you grin under your helmet like a complete loon. Royan was our target, where we’d catch the little ferry across to Verdon, then ride on to Pauillac and, with luck, find Claude, hopefully still alive, still turning grapes into wine, and not still hiding a barn full of rusting assault rifles.

About halfway down, we pulled into a Routier south of Nantes, one of those proper truck-stop cafés where the steak frites are always perfect and the wine comes in tumblers. Yes, we had a sip, but we are very responsible, you know. Dessert was something we couldn’t pronounce, so of course we ordered two each and devoured them like starving wolves. Spirits were high, the bikes were purring like happy cats, and Claude’s vineyard was now only a few hours away.

We rolled into the Royan ferry terminal with a solid half hour to spare which, in biker time, counts as arriving the day before. After a bit of Gallic shrugging from the crew and some rope-wrangling that looked more like interpretive dance, we were waved aboard. The short hop across was smooth, and before long we were rumbling off at Verdon with just under an hour’s ride ahead.

The French countryside blurred past in streaks of green vineyards, sleepy stone villages, and the odd startled goose flapping indignantly out of our path. Every mile seemed to pull something from the memory bank the warm air, the smell of dust and grapes, the sun hitting the road just so. As we finally swung into the familiar gravel drive of Claude’s château, there was a collective holding of breath. Some of it was anticipation… and some of it was because Vinka’s Triumph had just backfired loud enough to wake the dead and very nearly set Johan’s left boot ablaze.

With engines off and helmets dangling from our hands, we were greeted by a lone figure standing framed in the doorway. Time had sketched a few more lines into his weathered face, but there was no mistaking him, Claude. That same twinkle still danced in his eyes, like no amount of years or wine barrels could dim it.

I yanked off my helmet and called out, “Claude!” the way you might greet a long-lost cousin returning from a ten-year fishing trip with a tale to tell. His jaw dropped, his arms spread wide, and he bellowed, “Mon Dieu! It is you!” in a voice that carried across the courtyard. Then he charged forward and wrapped me in the sort of hug that could pop ribs, lift a man clean off his feet, and make you forget you’d just ridden 300 miles on a seat the size of a chopping board..

Claude’s rib-cracking hug still had me slightly winded when his eyes darted past my shoulder and there they were, Vinka and Marlin, pulling off their helmets and shaking out their hair like something from a shampoo advert with a petrolhead twist.

“Mesdames!” Claude gasped, his grin stretching wide. “So these are the angels you spoke of! Mon dieu, the boys’ words did not do you justice.”

Vinka laughed and kissed him on both cheeks, her Swedish lilt mingling with quick French, while Marlin followed with the same warmth. Claude greeted her with an old-world flourish, eyes twinkling as though he’d been waiting years to meet the girls the lads had once described with such pride. Johan got his firm handshake. Then Edith swept out, arms wide, and pulled each of the boys into one of her famous bear hugs, the kind that squeezed the breath out of you but left your heart lighter. Turning to the girls, she softened, cupping their hands in hers and saying, “Bienvenue, mes chéries—you are home now.” The look in her eyes left no doubt that she meant it.

Claude clapped his hands together with a burst of energy.

“You will stay,” he declared, as though the matter was sealed by his word alone. “Non, non, not the hotel, not camping here! Edith will cook, I will open the best bottles, and we will talk until the moon grows tired.”

That was that. Helmets were tucked under arms, bikes left to cool in the courtyard, and we were shepherded inside like long-lost family. The château was exactly as we remembered — same creaky floorboards, same velvet curtains, same mysterious perfume of garlic, woodsmoke, and old books.

Within minutes, glasses were filled with Claude’s finest red, and Edith—still the very picture of a French matriarch—was already in the kitchen, clattering pans and muttering happily to herself. Claude raised his own glass high, eyes glistening as he looked from one face to the next. “To friendship, to family, and to the joy of meeting again and anew. Santé!”

The next morning, bleary-eyed but fortified with Edith’s strong coffee, Claude beckoned us outside with the air of a man about to reveal buried treasure. He led us across the courtyard to the old barn, its great wooden doors groaning open like they hadn’t been disturbed in years.

Inside, sunlight streamed through the dust motes as he weaved between ancient wine barrels and a half-dismantled grape press. Then, with a conspiratorial grin, he pulled back a dusty tarp and there it was. The cache of weapons we’d seen stashed all those years ago, still neatly packed, still wrapped in their original grease paper, like a time capsule of organised mischief.

“No one ever came for them,” Claude said with a shrug, as if it were perfectly ordinary to keep military-grade firepower a few feet from your grape press. We assured him we’d sort proper collection once we were back in Blighty after all, explaining that to a French postman might raise more than a few eyebrows.

Claude’s son, Henri, turned up at the château not long after we’d settled in tall, sharply dressed, with the easy elegance of a man who’d been raised among vineyards and vintage claret. He greeted us with a warm handshake and a smile that could probably charm the cork out of a bottle. “Enchanté!” he said, though to our surprise, he already knew exactly who we were.

As it turned out, when Henri had come back from that infamous school trip all those years ago, he’d been regaled with the entire families tales of two heroic, slightly unhinged Brits and an unexplained weapons cache hidden in the barn. For years, he admitted, he’d half-thought we were some sort of elaborate bedtime story, a mix of spy yarn and rural legend. Meeting us now, he seemed genuinely delighted we were real… and perhaps a little astonished that we were exactly as Claude had described: part James Bond, part Dad’s Army.

Over a long, lazy lunch, Edith’s unbeatable boeuf bourguignon paired with a dangerously refillable carafe, Henri leaned in, resting his elbows on the table like a man about to drop something interesting.

“Have you ever been to Berlin?” he asked.

The chatter stopped dead. Every military instinct in the room flicked to alert.

“Why do you ask?” I replied, cautious, fork paused mid-air.

Henri smiled. “Well… after university I was conscripted into the French Army and posted to Berlin in the late ’70s. I swear I saw you all in the French PX once. You were… arguing over bottles of wine.”

That cracked us. We burst out laughing. I clicked my fingers and pointed at him. “You were the one who told us the Médoc was the better vintage!”

Henri’s eyes went wide. “That was you?!”

Suddenly, it was less lunch and more a spy-thriller reunion, only instead of code words, it was grape varietals. I glanced over to the sideboard and there it was: a framed photo of Henri in school uniform. Everything fell into place.

“Yep,” I grinned. “You’re our wine consultant from Berlin.”

Glasses clinked, more laughter rolled round the table, and we all agreed the world isn’t just small, it’s downright ridiculous sometimes.

Later, as we wandered through neat rows of vines heavy with promise, Henri told us how Claude had spent decades fending off offers from the Rothschilds, yes, those Rothschilds — who’d tried more than once to buy the place. The quality of Claude’s grapes, Henri explained, was simply too good to ignore.

But Claude had been resolute. “You don’t sell your soul… or your soil,” he’d once told a very persistent buyer. Henri had clearly inherited that stubborn streak, and by the sound of it, so had his two sons, Thomas and Pierre. Barely out of school, they were already stomping grapes, helping with the harvest, and learning to judge a good year from the colour of a single leaf.

Their passion for the craft was infectious. Somewhere between the neat symmetry of the vines, the sun on our backs, and the smell of ripening fruit, we caught the bug ourselves. By the time we reached the far edge of the vineyard, we were half-seriously talking about weekend wine-making workshops… and founding the world’s first Biker’s Vineyard Club.

That’s when Henri popped the question, not that question, but one nearly as tempting:

“Would you four like to help with the grape harvest in September? We’ll pay you in bottles, not euros.”

No one even blinked. The promise of fine Médoc and a few days of rustic French adventure was all the incentive we needed.

Two months later, there we were back in boots and overalls, this time with the kids in tow. On the way down, we told them the full story, about the posh dinners we’d held for their 11-plus results, the exam-night celebrations, and how we’d always made a bit of a ceremony out of opening a special bottle from “Claude’s vineyard.” They’d grown up seeing the labels, hearing the tales, and watching us savour each glass. Now, they were finally here to see it for themselves.

They took to the work like naturals, darting between the rows with baskets, giggling at the sticky purple juice running down their arms. We snipped bunches of grapes beneath the warm autumn sun, laughed with Claude, sipped wine with Edith, and waged gleeful grape fights with Thomas and Pierre, the children joining in until we were all speckled with juice and looking like we’d lost a battle with a giant blackberry.

It became a tradition. Whenever operations, deployments, and the occasional bout of military mayhem allowed, we’d return for harvest, kids and all. Over the years, Claude and his family became part of ours. To this day, I’m convinced there’s nothing quite as therapeutic as crushing grapes, drinking wine, and laughing with good friends, while the next generation runs wild among the vines of an old French vineyard.