A Country Rivalry

by Sasha Morgan

  Sebastian’s eyes homed in on the grey-white picture before him. It was a strange sensation, looking into your brain. The consultant’s finger pointed towards a small, white blur to the upper right side of his brain, the size of a fifty-pence piece.

  ‘As you can see, there is a slight sign of inflammation here, and,’ he then flicked the screen to another picture, ‘one here, at the base of your neck.’

  ‘I see,’ whimpered Sebastian, not really understanding at all.

  ‘This inflammation has caused scarring, or legions, known as sclerosis.’ Sebastian’s eyes widened, recognising the term immediately. Multiple sclerosis. Oh my God. Seeing his alarmed face, the consultant nodded his head understandingly.

  ‘Sebastian, you do have multiple sclerosis, but it is not the end of the world. Believe me.’

  ‘But… nobody in the family has it,’ he replied faintly, swallowing down the panic.

  ‘It isn’t hereditary.’ The consultant pointed again to the screen, ‘You have just a very slight sign of inflammation. I’m used to seeing scans with half the brain inflamed.’ The doctor was trying to sound as reassuring as possible. Sebastian looked up at him, and the consultant’s words gave him a little more confidence.

  ‘Will I… will I end up in a wheelchair?’ he gulped.

  ‘You have primary progressive MS. Your symptoms are likely to progress very gradually. In some cases, MS sufferers’ symptoms don’t increase at all.’

  ‘But… but I thought it was a compressed nerve, in my back, that’s what I’d been told in the past,’ insisted Sebastian, somewhat accusingly.

  The consultant nodded, completely understanding how he must be feeling right now.

  ‘My advice is this,’ he said, and Sebastian’s head shot up, willing to take any advice offered. ‘Carry on as normal. You could have gone for years believing you had a compressed nerve. Unfortunately, you met me.’

  ‘How have I got this? What’s caused it?’

  ‘In truth, we don’t fully know. There are various theories. Have you ever been involved in an accident? Bumped your head?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Stress or emotional trauma are other considerations.’

  Well, he’d had plenty of that.

  ‘How long have I had it?’

  ‘The proteins in your brain fluid taken from the lumbar puncture tell us that you’ve had this quite a long time. I’d say about seven or eight years.’

  Sebastian was dumbstruck. He’d been living his life with this for approximately eight years! It beggared belief.

  Again, the neurologist attempted to calm him. ‘Sebastian, I know this is a lot to take in, but there is plenty of support out there. You’re not alone. You will remain in my clinic and I’ll see you every six months, if necessary. Remember, you’ve had MS a long time, so you’re actually doing remarkably well.’

  He was right. This wasn’t going to define him. With a steady breath, Sebastian stood up, shook the consultant’s hand and made his way home.

  43

  For the last time on this project, the television crew sat patiently waiting for their producer to arrive. This time, however, there was a light, jubilant atmosphere of a congratulatory kind, as opposed to the tense, nervous ambience from the very first meeting. The final meeting was one that consisted only of last checks, thanks and farewells, so they didn’t have anything to worry about. These meetings were notoriously upbeat and with it falling at Christmas-time, there was an extra joyful lift.

  Until, that is, Marcus came in, looking moody as always. It had an immediate effect on the rest of them. Viola sat up straight. She was particularly wary, not knowing yet if the deleted footage had been noticed. Judging by Libby’s usual pleasant demeanour, she suspected not. Marcus, however, looked a little temperamental, but then again, that was nothing new.

  ‘So,’ Marcus threw his clipboard down on the table, ‘let’s take stock.’ He looked straight at Viola. ‘I’ll need all the research, notes, contacts and details sending to me.’

  ‘You have most of it already, but I’ll make sure you get everything,’ she responded.

  He then turned to Len. ‘All the rushes gone to Libby?’

  ‘Yes, Libby has it all.’

  Libby confirmed, ‘I’ve reordered all the visual and audio material collected on each shoot to tell the best story. I’ve also assembled scenes for you to view.’

  ‘Good. We’ll start work on the rough cut after Christmas. I aim to get the first cut finished by early February.’

  Libby’s eyebrow rose. This was asking a lot, but wasn’t unachievable. Marcus’ talents lay in the selection and sequence of each scene, from its proportions, structures, rhythms and emphasis. From that would evolve the fine cut, paying attention to the details of each and every shot. Once that was agreed between Libby and Marcus, the sound designer, music composer and title designer would join them. Sound effects and music would be created and added to the final cut. Once everyone was happy with the final cut, an exact copy would be made.

  It was a long and comprehensive process, one that would normally give Marcus a buzz, but a niggling doubt was holding him back this time. What had started as pure revenge was now morphing into something that could change everything. The words of that clairvoyant taunted him once more: Your revenge will not be sweet. Choosing to ignore his reservations, he carried on. ‘Right, we’re done here then.’ He glanced round the table. ‘Thanks, and have a great Christmas.’ Turning to Libby again, he finished, ‘We’ll meet at the studio early January.’ With that he marched out of the dining room and walked straight into Dermot.

  ‘Can I have a word, Marcus?’ Dermot looked serious. Jeysus, he hadn’t seen him sneak into Finula’s bedroom, had he?

  ‘Er… yes.’

  ‘This way.’ Dermot led him over to a nearby alcove. ‘Let me come straight to the point. The thing is, Marcus, I’d like you to stay here, with us, for Christmas.’

  ‘Oh… right.’ Marcus was touched. In truth, he had hoped Finula would join him in Shropshire, but realising she would never leave her dad, he was grateful for the invitation. The last thing he needed was a Christmas all alone. ‘Well, that’s very kind Dermot. I’d love to stay.’

  A look of relief crossed Dermot’s face. ‘Good, that’s settled then.’

  44

  It was a cold start to the day. The bright sun was slowly clearing the fog hovering over Treweham village. Dylan straightened his tie and pulled out the navy woollen jacket hanging in the wardrobe. Flora was busy rootling under the bed.

  ‘They must be here somewhere,’ she said in exasperation as her hands felt for any sign of the newly purchased suede boots.

  Since arranging to go to the Tingle Creek Chase with Gary and Tracy, she’d been deciding which outfit to wear. The dress code for Sandown Park was smart, but not too showy. In the end, Flora had opted for a chocolate-brown dress, matching brown suede boots and a dusky pink pashmina. The effect was simple, classy and fit the bill perfectly. Dylan watched her through the mirror on the wardrobe. Hell, she was pretty, in a totally natural, unspoilt way. Her good nature meant she was just as nice inside as out. She caught him looking at her, as she eventually managed to find the boots and sat on the edge of the bed tugging them on.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ she asked.

  ‘You.’ Dylan turned to face her. Flora stood up.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he replied, pulling her into his arms. ‘Looking forward to the races?’

  ‘Yes, course I am. It’ll be fun with Gary and Tracy.’

  ‘It will.’

  Originally, Tobias and Megan had been invited to join them as well, but they’d declined. Or rather Tobias had answered for them both, not wanting Megan standing in the cold at six months pregnant. Finula and Marcus had also been invited, but with The Templar so busy at the moment, Finula didn’t want to take any more time off. So, it was just the four of them. Secretly Dylan was pleased: it would give him a better c
hance to speak to Gary alone. There was something he was eager to run past him.

  *

  Tracy Belcher sat waiting by the lounge window, looking out for Dylan and Flora to arrive. She, too, was pleased that it was just the four of them today. Tracy had always felt somewhat intimidated by Lord Cavendish-Blake and since that interviewer had commented on them overpaying for the Gate House, her unease had grown. She begrudged being taken advantage of.

  Gary, on the other hand, had never let it bother him. He could take or leave Tobias Cavendish-Blake and he was more than happy with where he lived, even if he had paid slightly over the odds for it. So what? They could afford it, and it was a damn sight better than where they’d been. Not that he didn’t miss Lancashire – he often did – but not the so-called ‘mates’ that, in his eyes, had ripped them off even more. At least with Tobias it hadn’t been personal. With his friends in Preston, it had been, and it still stung that as soon as he had mentioned moving away they’d all practically dropped him. Apparently, him going (and taking his lottery winnings with him) was all it took to completely disown him. Even Finchy, his best mate, had never got in contact, which he could have done quite easily, as Gary had purposely kept the same mobile phone number. But no, not a word. It was as if he had never existed. That was why he had made such an effort to settle in the Cotswolds. Gary was a larger-than-life character, but there were reasons behind his full-on bonhomie. He wanted friends and he craved the same camaraderie he thought he’d had back home.

  ‘They’re here!’ called Tracy, jumping up from the chair with excitement. She’d been unsure of what to wear, so had looked up the dress code online. Still feeling a touch self-conscious in her short tweed skirt and matching jacket (especially as Gary had laughingly called her Miss Marple) she answered the front door.

  ‘Hi, ready to go?’ beamed Flora. ‘Hey, loving the outfit.’

  ‘I’m not sure. Do you think it’s the right thing?’ Tracy chewed her bottom lip anxiously.

  ‘Of course! You look great, really,’ assured Flora.

  There was no such reservation with Gary, as he ushered them all to the car, where Dylan sat waiting behind the wheel.

  Dylan couldn’t help but smile to himself, watching Gary in his dark suit and bright pink tie, bellowing with laughter at something Tracy had said. Once again, he was glad it was just the four of them.

  They all enjoyed the trip, chatting together amicably about the prospect of the races. Dylan tried his best to keep a straight face when he’d noticed Gary studying a map for Tingle Creek village.

  ‘Tingle Creek Chase is named after a horse that had a particularly good record racing at Sandown Park,’ he explained.

  ‘Oh, right. I thought it was the name of the village it’s in,’ said Gary, not at all embarrassed or offended by the correction.

  Dylan smiled. ‘No, it’s in Esher.’

  As Dylan pulled into the racecourse car park, Flora’s anticipation rose. She loved the races and seeing horses perform at their best. Her thoughts turned to Phoenix; she knew he was every bit as capable as the horses here. She imagined him taking part, lining up with all the other thoroughbreds, ready to chase and glide through the air over the fences.

  Dylan had booked them into one of the Imperial Boxes, to experience the thrill of the races, situated above the winning post. This would provide the perfect environment to entertain them all. The box had an ideal view of the live racing action with direct access to a private balcony. There was also a champagne reception, buffet and complimentary bar. Dylan had pulled out all the stops. Today was about impressing Gary and Tracy, and ultimately getting them on board. He had a plan, and it required their co-operation.

  *

  The lavish spread had had the desired effect and Gary and Tracy had been gripped by the whole experience. Gary proved to have a winning streak and Tracy forgot any inhibitions she may have had in the excitement of it all. Flora chatted easily with her and the two had gelled well. Seeing them huddled together, deep in conversation, Dylan made his move.

  ‘Having a good time?’ he grinned at Gary.

  ‘Bloody brilliant, mate. I think I’m a natural,’ he bellowed, patting his inside jacket pocket, which was bulging with all his winnings.

  ‘Still thinking about learning to ride a horse?’ ribbed Dylan with a smirk.

  ‘Nah, but it’s good watching ’em race.’

  Dylan paused; now was the time. ‘Ever thought about owning one?’

  Gary turned to him. ‘What, a horse, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Maybe in a syndicate, or partnership?’

  ‘Why? Do you fancy it?’

  Dylan nodded. ‘I’d like to buy a horse for Flora, one we’re training at the moment. It’s got great potential; could end up somewhere like here.’ He pointed towards the race track. Gary’s face lit up. Sensing he’d grabbed his attention, Dylan continued, ‘I’d want a partnership, joint owners.’

  ‘Why not just buy it yourself?’

  ‘Basically, the current owner is a nasty piece of work. If he knew I wanted the horse, it could make things difficult. If an outsider who he didn’t know bought it, then he wouldn’t bat an eye… and believe me, he wants rid.’

  ‘Why? If it’s got potential?’

  ‘Because it’s not the potential he wants, or can even see. He’s not a horse lover, just a businessman.’

  Gary warmed to the idea of part-owning a horse. He pictured himself in the winner’s enclosure, basking in all the glory. Dylan could see he’d caught his imagination.

  ‘This could be a regular thing for us.’ He nodded towards the girls chatting animatedly. Tracy was giggling into her champagne flute and it was the happiest Gary had seen her in a long time.

  Gary put out his hand. ‘Let’s do it,’ he said with gusto.

  Dylan shook it firmly. ‘You’ve got a deal.’

  45

  It was time for the television crew to say goodbye to Treweham. Len had made arrangements to return, as he planned to film the Straw Man Festival. He half thought Marcus would be around too, judging by the way he was with Finula. It was the only time he’d witnessed Marcus fully relaxed and he was pleased for him.

  Libby was eager to get back home. She, too, was looking forward to Christmas with her family, but was under no illusion how hard she would have to work, once the festivities were over. Marcus was a notorious slave driver, expecting all the team to show as much dedication as he did. Whilst she enjoyed working with Marcus, she sometimes found him too intense and longed for him to lighten up a little. Libby also noted the difference in Marcus when he was chatting easily with Dermot, and especially Finula. The chemistry between them was evident for all to see and she wished Marcus every happiness; he deserved it.

  Viola had been unusually withdrawn for a few days now. She was anxious to leave Treweham, but for very different reasons. Not particularly relishing the prospect of a Christmas with her parents, she had booked to go away – far from anybody she knew. For the second time in her life, she felt an overwhelming urge to flee and start again. But, realistically, could she do that? After all the attempts she’d made to reinvent herself, Vera had returned, with a vengeance, bringing with her the suspended sentence and that all-consuming threat of imprisonment. The very thought made Viola numb. A cold, blind panic spread through her when considering the consequences of her actions. Yet it wasn’t enough to make her stop. If there had been some way of snaring Tobias Cavendish-Blake, Viola would have gone for it, without a doubt. It was paradoxical that the very subject of her obsession had also been her downfall. Hating Tobias, yet still finding him dangerously attractive, was an odd mix of emotions, yet so typical of the complex character Viola was. Any observer looking objectively would instantly recognise she clearly needed some kind of help; that her twisted mind needed straightening out. Perhaps more alarming would be discovering what had initially triggered Viola’s violence. Why did she go to the lengths she did without any empathy? What drove her to be so fixated? In fact,
if she was honest, Viola sometimes frightened herself, and she was petrified of the repercussions from deleting Tobias’ interview. It was about to kick off, big time, and she wanted to be out of the way when it did. So, it was time to regroup. Time to take stock.

  She had chosen to hide away on a tiny island off the coast of Scotland. It would be just her, the roaring sea and the old crofter’s cottage. Apparently, the only neighbours would be the monks from the monastery on the island. The irony wasn’t lost on Viola. Perhaps she could learn something from their simple existence and contemplate a more honest outlook on life.

  Jamie was reluctant to leave The Templar, for leaving Treweham meant leaving Sebastian. He had developed real feelings for him, not the schoolboy crush he’d initially had, but genuine affection for a person he was getting to know more and more. He hoped Sebastian felt the same. Jamie had been supportive of Sebastian, which had meant a lot to him. But was that it? Was Jamie only going to be a good friend, offering moral support at a time when he most needed it? Or, could he possibly mean more? Jamie understood Sebastian had been hurt in the past, but wasn’t everyone at some stage in their lives? And now he had been diagnosed with MS; surely he, Jamie, being the only person to know this meant something. There were so many questions he wanted answers to, but didn’t want to seem pushy or needy and frighten Sebastian off. Then again, he deserved some clarity on the relationship.

  With a heavy heart, Jamie packed his case and made his way downstairs. Libby and Len were checking out and Viola had gone first thing that morning. After saying his goodbyes, he wheeled his hefty case through the doors and into the car park. He opened his car boot and was nearly knocked into it by a force from behind.

  ‘What the…?’ A black Labrador jumped up at him.

  ‘Zac! Here, boy!’ Sebastian called, laughing at Jamie, who had been practically pushed into the back of his car. Turning round, Jamie saw Sebastian making his way towards him. His heart hammered, seeing him in his Barbour jacket, jeans and Wellington boots, very much the country squire. ‘Sorry about that.’ He took hold of Zac’s collar and put his lead on. Smiling up at him he asked, ‘So, you’re off then?’