Return to Butterfly Island

by Rikki Sharp

  That thought rather stopped her in her tracks. As things stood, she had taken a week’s holiday to come to Butterfly Island and sort out her aunt’s estate. She had another week and a half left to use if necessary, but then that was it. Back to Manchester, her cozy flat in a reclaimed city-centre factory, her high-flying job and her money-mad friends. Yet here she was, seriously considering an alternative. Staying.

  “Let’s find you a big stick to chase, Morgan,” she said to the dog, who obviously understood every word she said, as he went ballistic and began leaping around the heather strewn hillside. Anything to take her mind off things.

  But the gentle wind blew the smell of the sea through her and the idea wouldn’t go away. To stay. To have a real home rather than an identical box in a city full of strangers. A smile crept across her face at the mere thought of that idea and it wouldn’t go away.

  On the adjacent hill to the woods that camouflaged the Grange, someone was watching China Stuart as she played with the massive Irish Wolfhound beneath the clear blue skies. Someone with a pair of rather expensive, high-powered binoculars.

  James McKriven was not an unhandsome man. In his late thirties he had kept off the drink, unlike his infamous father, and had quietly turned the family firm, Na h-Eileanan Siar Property Developers into a modern, highly profitable company. Life in the Outer Hebrides was not impervious to change. The Credit Crunch and increasingly tough EEC fishing regulations meant that houses and land were constantly coming on the open market as local families struggled to make a living. Whenever that happened, James was usually first in the queue to snap them up at a bargain basement price.

  Dark-haired, dark-eyed, and dressed in a thick Shetland wool coat of deepest green, the business man lowered his binoculars and watched the distant woman and her dog frolicking with the naked eye.

  “Well, those trespasser posters were a waste of time,” he said to the elements, and a small round-shaped man wearing large spectacles who was shivering next to him. The two spies were half-protected from the wind by a thicket of gorse bushes and last year’s brittle brown ferns. “Anyone would think she owns the place,” he added, poker-faced.

  “Well, she does, doesn’t she?” squeaked the nervous crony by his side.

  McKriven cast his eyes to the heavens. “That was a joke, Martin. Just because I was born on this lump of rock doesn’t mean I can’t crack a few funnies every now and again!”

  Martin Japes, James’s limp-wristed right-hand man, laughed on cue. The businessman shook his head softly in despair. “You just can’t get the staff these days. Pack up and let’s get back to the boat. We’ll let Miss Stuart get through the funeral tomorrow and then we’ll really put the thumbscrews on her. How Beatrice’s solicitor found her heir, I have no idea. I thought we were home and dry with this one.” He stood and watched for a few minutes more as Martin Japes scurried about collecting surveying equipment and a batch of familiar looking posters. “Rather fetching though, our Miss Stuart. Maybe there’s more than one way to skin this cat.”

  It was half past twelve by the time China and Morgan returned to the heart of the island, hunger bringing them home to that cluster of cottages and buildings hugging the jetty. Of the three fishing boats owned by the islanders, only one was moored at that time, a small trawler with the lively name of the Daisy-Jane. In the bright midday sun, China managed to take in details of the wharf front that she had missed the previous evening.

  The two massive boathouses off to one side of the jetty were a complete eyesore, rather ruining the picture postcard view of the hamlet-by-the-sea. Great rusted sheets of corrugated iron, repaired many times, over metal and timber frames long past their sell-by dates. Around them came all the clutter of an old boatyard. Nestled amongst the higgledy-piggledy stone-built cottages with their gently smoking chimneys was the island’s main shop. Its window frames and the front door glistening a bright red, it bore the legend, ‘Bellamy’s General Store’ hand painted in brash colours.

  The bairns were playing out again as it was dinnertime around the island. China played tug-o-war with Morgan with half a tree branch as they wandered lazily back to the Inn. This time the children didn’t run away. One little girl with bright red hair actually gave the stranger a shy wave before her playmates grabbed hold of her and the pack of them scampered back to what must have been an elementary school, set further up the hillside.

  Leaning next to the pub was one of the prettiest cottages China had ever seen. Sadly, its windows were boarded up, a familiar sign of the times. The dreamer inside of her wondered vaguely how much a property like that might cost.

  As China pushed her way through the pub door, becoming entangled with Morgan as usual, there was a bowl of steaming hot stew and a chunk of crusty bread already waiting for her at the bar. The place was empty except for Mrs. Baxter, her usual customers obviously taking advantage of the good weather and getting some work done.

  “How do you do that?” China asked, hanging up her coat and scarf, looking forward to her much-anticipated dinner.

  Mrs. Baxter smiled as she polished the bar’s glasses and restocked the shelves. “I saw you through the scullery window coming off the hill. I’ve always got something tasty on the boil in my kitchen. Doesn’t take a second to serve it out!”

  “There’s me thinking you were some sort of culinary sorceress.” Then China took her first mouthful of the mutton stew and closed her eyes. “Correction. You are a sorceress. This is gorgeous!”

  “I can give you the recipe if you like.”

  “Oh. I’m more your average can-opener and microwave sort of cook. If it involves chopping, measuring, and mixing, I’ve never really got the hang of all that.”

  “After the Wake, if you’ve the time, I can give you a few basic tips.” There was a hidden question in that offer. Biddy Baxter was the eyes and ears of the island and she was digging a little to see how long their guest was planning on staying.

  Going silent for a while as she ate her stew, China picked up the unspoken enquiry. But it was one she didn’t have an answer for herself, not at the moment.

  “Wake . . . I never thought . . . Is all this costing you money, or should I be paying for that?”

  Mrs. Baxter coloured up slightly, looking a little aggrieved. “Heaven’s no, Miss Stuart! Beatrice left a tidy nest egg put aside for her funeral. Me and her picked the buffet menu these five years ago when she first took to her bed.”

  “Took to her . . . I never realized she had been poorly for such a long while. Were you and her good friends?”

  “Mmm. Can’t say Beatrice Stuart had what you might call friends. Acquaintances were about as far as she went. Enemies, she notched up by the dozen. A bit of a sharp tongue on her, had Bea. But she did love that great stupid dog of hers, and I believe she had a soft spot for my nephew, Donald.” There was that twinkle in her eye again when she mentioned Donald’s name.

  “I should have told you this earlier today, but if you want to see your aunt before tomorrow, she’s laid at rest in the Ice House about half a mile from here. It’s a traditional place for the deceased to be lain out on the island, the name tells you why. Nesbit & Sons from the mainland have done her proud.”

  “Don’t think me disrespectful, but I’d rather not,” China said, swallowing hard. “I’ve some lovely memories of Aunt Bea from when I was a child. I’d rather leave them at that.”

  “I understand,” said Mrs. Baxter softly, still polishing her glasses and sliding them precisely into their places on the bar shelves.

  “I should really ring McGregor’s, the solicitor, and get an update on what’s going on. The Grange is in a terrible state. Hopefully my aunt left some money that can go towards restoring the building.” China tried to change the subject slightly before an awkward silence settled between the two of them. She had seen her mother’s body before that funeral, and immediately wished she hadn’t. For some people the experience is a chance to say a private goodbye, for others it marred the memories
of that person when they were alive.

  Mrs. Baxter perked up again. “That’ll be Douglas McGregor? He’ll be in on the last boat this evening to pay his respects to Bea the ‘morrow, so you can have a word with him then. Don’t hold your breath waiting for him to show you a pot of money, though. The Stuart coffers have been bare for many years. Your granddad, Michael, gambled most of the family fortune away.”

  She glanced at Morgan who was chasing China’s licked-clean bowl around the floor where she had placed it for him. “You Stuarts have always had a love for the dogs. Some of the ones your grandfather put bets on are probably still running!”

  Chuckling at Mrs. Baxter’s wry sense of humour, China caught sight of herself in one of the pub mirrors.

  “Look at that hair.” She sighed in horror. “Is there any hot—”

  “Water? The boiler’s full of it, my dear. Help yourself.”

  Leaving Morgan to make a nuisance of himself sniffing around the kitchen door, China finally got that bath she had been longing for since she had set foot on the island. Mrs. Baxter’s words about the pipes rang true, as whilst she was filling the massive four-legged tub with gallons of steaming hot water, they whistled a cheerful tune.

  It seemed as if everything on Butterfly Island had seen better days. From the Grange down to the boatsheds, the cottage next door and the various buildings on the wharf side, everything needed a large dose of TLC. Tons of Lovely Cash. As she lay there covered in suds, daydreaming about what she could make of the Grange if she won the lottery or something, it was as if the responsibilities of her ancestors for the welfare of West Uist and its people were seeping into her.

  She was the last of the Uist Stuarts. That was suddenly a heavy burden to bear, which up until 24 hours ago she had never given a second thought to.

  As the water began to go cold and the afternoon wore on, she finally had to leave the safety of the tub and dry herself. Wrapped in a towel, she rummaged in one of her cases and extracted her trusty hair dryer. Well, at least I don’t have to use a plug adaptor like you do when you go abroad, she thought absentmindedly as she hit the ‘on’ switch.

  There was an almighty bang and a blue flash arced from the wall socket to the plug on China’s hair dryer. All the lights went out and the flex came away from the plug, smoke pouring from its charred end.

  With a loud shriek, China shot out of her room, down the two flights of twisty, uneven stairs with the smoldering hairdryer still in her hand. That was how she found herself standing in just a very short towel, hair all over the place before various assembled islanders; the solicitor, Douglas McGregor, Mrs. Baxter, and, most mortifying of all, the Reverend Montgomery Fisher who had come to discuss the following day’s funeral service.

  “Hi,” was all she could think to say. “I think I’ve—”

  “Blown something up?” Biddy Baxter finished for her, trying her best not to laugh.

  Chapter 5

  “I am such a walking disaster.” China cringed half an hour later, as she sat, still with a towel wrapped around her wet hair, but at least fully dressed.

  “I should have warned you, the electrics in this place were installed by Noah. No problem to fix, though. Andy has been patching and repairing them for the last thirty years,” said Mrs. Baxter sympathetically.

  Andy turned out to be a tiny, wiry fifty-something Scot with a bush of white hair and skin like tanned leather. Handy Andy certainly lived up to his legend, as he seemed to be a man who could turn his hand to anything. In an isolated community, he was the kind of man everyone needed.

  Picking up a freshly poured bottle of Clan Ale and one of Mrs. Baxter’s special three-tiered doorstop sandwiches, Andy nodded and winked at everyone, especially China, then ascended the stairs to do battle with the ancient wiring. Morgan, one eye on the sandwich and the other on Andy, quietly followed the man.

  Whilst they sat in candlelight, even though it was mid-afternoon, China had a short conversation with all the people who had come to see her.

  Her aunt’s solicitor, Mr. McGregor, confirmed what Mrs. Baxter had insinuated. After a thorough investigation, he had found Aunt Bea had only left her burial funds behind. In fact, she owed about seven hundred pounds to various shops and local tradesmen, which he tried to gently break to China that she was now responsible for.

  On the subject of the sale of land to the McKriven company, a document did seem to exist in the hands of James McKriven’s solicitors, drawn up a few weeks before Beatrice’s death that had handed the whole of the Grange estate to the development company. Money had not exchanged hands due to her untimely death, and Mr. McGregor felt sure the old lady hadn’t signed the document without him as a witness.

  “She might have been old, but when money was being discussed she was as sharp as a tack!” The solicitor smiled beneath his bristling old-style mustache.

  The Reverend Fisher, fueled by Mrs. Baxter’s best whiskey, outlined a simple service outside the ancient Kirk high on the rugged cliffs overlooking Stuart Bay, weather permitting. “The whole island will be there, as is tradition when a Stuart passes,” he explained, his pinched cheeks beginning to glow after the third whiskey. “Usually we get about a dozen people every Sunday, which is why I live on North Uist and the Kirk is usually empty during the week.”

  “Do I owe you anything for this?” China asked, worried about the mounting debts in her aunt’s name.

  “No, no, child. This was all part of the money she put away with Biddy’s help. Everything about the Service and the Wake has been paid for. Give her her due; Beatrice Stuart was a stalwart churchgoer. Even in her later years she was sitting in the Stuart’s pew, front and centre. She even kept her old family bible there. It’s still there, undisturbed in front of her seat.”

  “Well, at least I don’t owe you anything,” China replied, a little relieved.

  “Though donations to the Kirk restoration fund are always welcome,” said the Reverend smiling, never one to miss a chance to rattle the plate. “There have been some substantial movements in the building’s foundations in recent years due to its proximity to the cliff.”

  Just then the pub lights went on, rather ruining the Reverend Fisher’s sales pitch, and a ragged cheer went up from the customers who had been sat in the dark. As Handy Andy reappeared, Morgan watched him closely with a suspicious glare, then scribbled a bill out for Mrs. Baxter on a page from a cheap notebook.

  “Took a new bit of cable right back to that junction box I put in last winter. Bit of plastering will take a while to dry, but it’s as good as new . . . well, better! When will you let me loose on the rest of this place, Biddy? I seem to be rewiring it one socket at a time!”

  “I’ll let you know,” fussed Mrs. Baxter, fishing in her large handbag for her purse.

  “Hear that grunting? That’ll be those pigs flying around Bellamy’s General Store again,” the handyman replied sarcastically.

  “Here, let me. It was my fault,” China butted in.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it!” Mrs. Baxter began.

  “How much?” China kidnapped the bill. Then she pulled a face. “Do you do plastic?”

  “I’ll do a cheque signed on the side of a cow as long as it doesn’t bounce, hen,” said Andy, with another suggestive wink. “Then again, me and the Stuarts have a patchy past when it comes to paying bills. Cash would do nicely!”

  So, despite Mrs. Baxter’s continuing protests, China counted out eighty-five pounds into Andy’s crinkly hand.

  “Now that’s the way I like to do business, Miss Stuart!” Then he was off like the wind, mammoth toolbox in hand.

  Morgan gave one of his quiet woofs, as if to see the man off, and stared hard at the pub door as it closed behind him.

  “You really shouldn’t have done that,” Mrs. Baxter said, highly embarrassed.

  “Call it a new tradition; a Stuart paying some bills. So is it safe to dry my hair now, please?”

  From the distant corners of Butterfly Island, folk who wa
nted to attend Beatrice Stuart’s funeral the next day were already gathering at The Cuckoo Inn, as the sun began its vibrant descent into the sea. Traditionally, no one locked their doors on West Uist. The island didn’t even possess a policeman of its own, relying on a visiting officer twice a week from Benbecula in the tourist season.

  It was an ancient tradition that if a man were too far from his own house on a stormy night, that he was quite welcome to walk in unannounced at his distant neighbors, be fed, and provided with a bed or a couch for the night. So it wasn’t uncommon for a person to come downstairs in the morning to find an unexpected guest or guests cooking breakfast. This was just the way of the islands.

  Tonight, Mrs. Baxter was expecting to be making up at least a dozen beds on the pub benches for the extra visitors.

  Already China noticed that when she was in earshot the islanders switched from Gaelic to English out of respect. She suspected the ever-resourceful Mrs. Baxter of having a word, but maybe being there for one whole day, she was now being regarded as a local.

  As the pub continued to fill, China made herself useful by carrying trays of food backwards and forwards and being introduced to families from far and wide. Mrs. Baxter had called in favors from the local women, with several helping her in the kitchen and a rather sassy lady named Irene serving behind the bar. Morgan had stretched himself out like a slightly pungent hearth rug in front of the roaring log fire and was refusing to move. For even at this time of the year the nights could be still cold. China was being shown how to work the hand pumps behind the bar when Donald and his father came in.

  “New staff, Biddy? Things must be looking up!” laughed Skipper Dart.

  China grinned and held up a full pint of bubbles. “She’s on trial, and at this rate, I wouldn’t employ her!” she joked about herself.

  “Two pints of Heavy, easy on the top,” said Donald.