Return to Butterfly Island

by Rikki Sharp

  Barely thirty feet from the Kirk, a safety fence with yellow and black warning tape intertwined between the red plastic mesh staggered like a drunk on a Friday night along the cliff edge. As they talked, James McKriven led them slowly towards the sound of the crashing sea and the salty smell.

  “Back in 1997 your aunt made a new will in a fit of depression, leaving the entire Stuart estate and the Grange in trust to the islanders. As far as she was concerned, her nephew had died at sea and you and your mother had vanished to the mainland, never to be seen again.”

  “I remember we moved about a lot after we left the island. Dundee, Glasgow, then slowly further south. Lots of places. Lots of little flats and pokey boarding houses, that’s all I remember.”

  “Well, if your mother had wanted to hide your trail, she did her job well. I understand Beatrice had people looking for you both for some time, before illness and infirmity took her. So, in her despair she made that stupid will. But whilst I was recently conducting a general survey of all property on the island, your aunt and I renewed our old acquaintance. After extensive research, I produced a portfolio of investments that would benefit Beatrice and the island far better than her original will would, and she agreed to the wording of the initial document about six weeks ago.”

  “So that’s it then? The Grange passes over to your company?”

  A vexed look crossed James McKriven’s handsome face just for a moment, then he regained his debonair composure. “Would life were that simple, China. I may call you China, I hope. For between us, without the interference of these inbred residents, I’m sure we can come up with a sound business solution that will benefit all sides.”

  “Let’s hope so.” China was a little wary of this fox. She’d worked with many businessmen just like him in Manchester. But so far, he seemed to be making sense.

  “In the fine print of my company’s contract with your aunt, she insisted in inserting a clause that stated that in the possibility of any living relatives being found before the burial of said Beatrice Victoria Stuart the deciding signature be passed to that descendant. In short, my dear, you.” It was then that McKriven overplayed his hand. The look he gave China was like a fox might give a chicken. Hungry.

  “There is one final twist to this tale, but I’ve my doubts that it’s true. Seemingly two nights before her death, your aunt had a complete change of heart. Calling that wretched landlady of the Inn up to the Grange late at night, she wrote out a new simple will, leaving all her worldly possessions to you by name. Somehow, by divine intervention or otherwise, she had discovered that you were still alive.”

  They were stood near the lip of the cliff at that point, the waves now visible some hundred feet below, smashing against the jagged rocks. James McKriven drew China close to him, his arm around her waist, under the pretence of keeping her safe.

  “There was only an original draft of this fictitious will, which was never seen by her solicitor. It was witnessed by Biddy Baxter and she is the only person who claims it exists. Since that night, no one has seen the damn thing, despite a thorough search. Very thorough, I can assure you. So there you have it. Do you want to look through my business proposal, or shall we all scrabble around some more searching under every rock on the tedious island for this imaginary will? Your choice.”

  “I’ll . . . have a think,” China gasped breathlessly, pulling away from James. As she did so, her foot slipped and several stones clattered away under the safety fence and down into oblivion below. Moving quickly, McKriven caught her by one arm, moving the two of them away from the cliff edge.

  “You do that, my dear. But careful now. This cliff has been slipping away inch by inch every year. We don’t want you having an accident, do we?”

  And there was that predator smile again. It was at that point that China realized that James McKriven was a very charming, very ruthless, man.

  Chapter 8

  When China Stuart and James McKriven walked around the front of the Kirk, she was a little flushed and he looked triumphant.

  “I’ll catch you at the Wake. I’ve a few business calls to make, reception willing. Take care now,” said McKriven.

  Most of the mourners had already set off down the path back to the jetty and the hospitality of The Cuckoo. Still shooting daggers at his rival, Donald was waiting for China by the graveside.

  “What lies has that scunner been telling you?” he blurted out before she could say anything.

  “About missing wills and unsigned contracts. Why didn’t Mrs. Baxter mention this lost will, Donald?”

  “Because she isn’t a vampire like him. Once the Wake was over and we’ve given Bea a grand, island send-off, she was going to sit you down in the morning and explain what had happened. I can presume McKriven hasn’t found the will or else he’d be crowing about it. If he gets his claws on that piece of paper, it will go up in flames!”

  “He’s a bit of a shark, I’ll give you that, but what have you got against progress, Donald? From what I’ve seen, everywhere on this island needs money pumping into it. Maybe selling off some of the land to McKriven will give everyone some much-needed funds!”

  Donald was beginning to come to the boil, she could see that again. The man spent all his working life at sea, and when cornered in an argument, he became a little confused with his words. But this time, China was determined to talk this problem through like adults, without her bursting into tears or him storming off in a huff.

  “He’s a crook! His whole family are crooks! Even at school he used to wave his money about, and—”

  “Ah, maybe this is the problem, McKriven’s money. He’s a flash bugger, I’ll give him that, but you’ve got twice his courage doing your job and three times his good looks!” Before Donald could reach boiling point, China did the only thing she could think of to shut him up. She flung her arms around his neck, standing on her tiptoes, and kissed his face off.

  When the two of them surfaced for air, Donald was absolutely speechless.

  Hooking his arm with both of hers, China towed him towards the path with an impish grin on her face. “Now I’ve got the measure of you, Donald Dart! You start your arm-waving and that vein on your head standing out and that’s what I’ll have to do from now on! Call it physical therapy. So let’s get to this Wake before the wind picks up again and see if we can get to the end of a single conversation!”

  The Wake was already in full swing when the two old friends burst through the door.

  “There she is! What have you been doing with the last of the Stuart’s, Donald, you lucky lad?” cried Handy Andy, sloshing half his pint over several other mourners.

  “He has been a perfect gentleman and escorted me back from the Kirk. A person could get lost on this island,” China came back with, before Donald started to stutter.

  “Aye, I’ve heard that one before,” the handyman chuckled, but turned his attention back to the plate of food he had kidnapped.

  Morgan was in his element, weaving between the full tables getting a tidbit here and a snack there. When a morsel of food wasn’t offered, he’d steal it from someone’s plate when the owner wasn’t looking. China pounced on the animal, roughing up his scruffy ears. He caught her a good few licks to the face in return.

  “There you are, you rogue! Leave me to the mercies of the evil Baron McKriven whilst you’re stuffing your face, as usual!”

  The dog gave her a puzzled look, then an abandoned chicken leg caught his eye and he was off in hot pursuit again.

  “Like I said, Morgan is an eating machine.” Donald laughed.

  As China went to grab an apron and make her way behind the bar, Irene Weise blocked her path. “Not today, China. You are Bea’s guest of honour. Her niece we all thought lost and now returned home.”

  “Are you sure?” China smiled back.

  “Are you?” The school teacher nodded meaningfully towards Donald who was embroiled in conversation with his father.

  “Early days,” was all China would com
mit herself to. Taking an offered whiskey, she suddenly found herself climbing up onto a vacant table so she could be seen. Sticking two fingers into the sides of her mouth, she let off a ferocious whistle to gain everyone’s attention. To help, Morgan barked three times, and the crowded pub silenced to a hush.

  “I guess you know who I am. China Stuart, spirited away aged six. I’ve only been here five minutes . . . but I wish I’d had the sense to visit whilst my aunt was alive and maybe it would have made the search for my past a little easier. But today is Aunt Bea’s day. I want you to sit me down with a drink in my hand and tell me your stories of her life. The good with the bad!” She got a little appreciative laugh for that part. “So please raise your glasses and join me in a toast. To Beatrice Victoria Stuart . . . slàinte and a fond slàn leat. Thank you all and let’s get this party started!”

  There was a whoop with dozens of raised glasses chinked together, and someone started playing an accordion with great gusto. Lifting her off the table, Donald had her snatched away by Handy Andy for the first dance, where China soon found out he could be a little too handy.

  “Aren’t you the linguist?” Donald laughed a little later.

  “The Internet’s a wonderful thing. I hope I said, ‘Good Health and a fond Goodbye’ but who knows?”

  “It was close enough. I could always give you a little private instruction.”

  “I bet you say that to all your . . .” China began to give the common reply, when she caught Irene watching them from behind the bar. “Let’s park that one there, shall we? I need to do a bit of circulating.” She gave him a gentle kiss on the lips and they parted, but as she moved around the crowded room she knew his eyes were on all the time.

  Well, this relationship was starting to go somewhere. How fast or how far they took it was still in the hands of fate.

  Frustratingly, as the celebrations of her aunt’s life went on throughout the day and into the evening, Donald and China seemed to find themselves at opposite sides of the snug. Whenever they managed to make eye contact and nod towards a corner of the room, by the time one of them had weaved their way through the revelers, the other had become embroiled in a new conversation with someone else. For a funeral, this was the wildest affair China had ever attended.

  She did get a moment or two to reflect on the seriousness of the occasion, as during a brief lull whilst some folk had wandered out to the jetty to take in the fresh air and others had escorted the younger children up and down the line of stone cottages where they were spending the night, she found herself stood by the bar next to her aunt’s picture.

  It had been a nice touch, placing a photo of Aunt Bea in her happier youth with a full glass of sherry next to it, as if she were watching the whole proceedings, approvingly or otherwise. Already standing there taking a breather from the kitchen was Mrs. Baxter.

  “I gather you had a word with James earlier, back at the Kirk,” the older woman opened the conversation with.

  “True. He’s a bit of a contradiction, too. Charming one moment and more than a little bit threatening the next.”

  “Always enjoyed playing the part did James. Him and Donald used to scrap like cat and dog when they were in the school up the hill, but there was a connection between the two of them. I wouldn’t go as far as saying it was friendship, but there was an empathy between them.”

  “So James comes from West Uist too?”

  “Born and bred. When my ma and da ran the Inn and I was a size 10—so that goes back a bit—James’s father spent a good portion of his time propping up this bar. I’d like to think it wasn’t just the ale that brought him through the door.” She took a sip of her drink, not looking at China but lost in her reflections. “We always said James would either make a fine businessman or a criminal. I suspect he’s found a way of combining both careers these days.”

  “He mentioned a will, something new that Aunt Bea made a few days before she died?”

  “Aye, for once he’s telling the truth. I sat next to Beatrice, propped up with pillows in that massive bed of hers, as she wrote and dated it with her own hand, then I signed as a witness. But now it’s gone as if it never existed. I know folk are whispering behind my back that maybe I made it up just to stop James, but I didn’t. She wrote a new will leaving everything to you and that’s a fact, so help me God.”

  Biddy Baxter glanced across at China, her hazel-flecked eyes and that homely, friendly face as serious as China had ever seen them.

  “Then all we’ve got to do is find it,” said China.

  Mrs. Baxter nodded and seemed to unwind a touch.

  “Both Douglas and James have been through the house from top to bottom, at separate times of course. We reckon James got hold of a key when he charmed Beatrice with his business ideas. All I could think of was maybe Bea wrote about making the will in her journal, but I haven’t had the heart to go up to the Grange and read it since she passed.”

  “Journal? I think I saw it in her room when Donald took me to the Grange yesterday. She was in her eighties and she kept a diary?”

  “That’s right. On the dressing table will be a large green-covered book. Every year she wrote about the comings and goings of the island people, the changing of the seasons, the storms, and the bright days. One book a year for as long as I can remember. You really need to have them, China my love, no matter what the fate of the Grange. They are a social and natural history of Butterfly Island as seen through her eyes. If you ever want to get to know your aunt again, read those journals.”

  “Butterfly Island. I thought only my dad called West Uist that!” exclaimed China, her eyes misting over for a moment.

  “At this time of the year when the various species of butterflies are ready to hatch, the name tends to be used more than you think. It’s a hard life here on this lump of rock in the middle of the sea . . . but there’s a little bit of the romantic in all of us when the butterflies swarm.”

  She held China’s arm for a second and gave it a squeeze. “Well, I better get back to it. This crowd are like locusts when they get going. I’m glad you believe me about the will. It saddens me that some of my good friends and neighbours think I’m making it up just to cause mischief. You see, not everyone is in love with this island existence like my family and I. Some would like to take James’s money and leave for the mainland to start a new life. So you just take care to whom you confide in. Please take care.” Then she was gone, back into the heat of the kitchen, leaving China to ponder over what she had told her.

  The object of Mrs. Baxter’s concern, James McKriven, had kept a low profile during the Wake. But he had slipped quietly amongst the crowd, shaking a few hands here and buying a round of drinks there. All the while keeping an eye on the city girl, trying to work out what was best to do about her next.

  Another direct approach here would be foolish. Although he had his allies in the crowd, that big lump Donald was keeping a close eye of China, too. Then, he always did have a soft spot for the girl when they were young. No, the approach had to be more businesslike and on a professional level. What little he had been able to find out about China Stuart was she was a 21 century city girl, with all the expectations and aspirations that created. Appeal to her monetary side and he felt he couldn’t go wrong.

  So it was whilst China was engaged in her deep conversation with Biddy Baxter that James made his next move, catching Irene, the school teacher, alone, sneaking a quick cigarette outside the bar.

  “Here’s trouble.” She scowled at him.

  “Don’t be like that, Irene. There was a time before you went out with Donald that we were attracted to each other.”

  “The only thing that you love is money.”

  “True. But it’s time for you to earn your wages. Get close to the city girl, make best friends with this China Stuart and keep me informed what she’s up to at all times.”

  “But I really do like her, you weasel. What have you got to worry about? She’ll be up and gone in a week or two a
nyway. Or is this story about Biddy and the new will true?”

  “Of course it isn’t! The old woman’s making it all up. But I want to hedge my bets with China.” From underneath his coat he produced a slim cardboard folder with his company’s black castle logo on. “When she’s nursing a hangover tomorrow like the rest of these yokels, give her this. She’ll see the sense in signing the agreements her aunt and I drew up.”

  Reluctantly, Irene took the folder from the man, staring at it as if it were a poisoned chalice. “And if I don’t?”

  James McKriven leaned a little closer. “You were the one desperate for a loan this time last year. ‘The school will close!’ you wailed at me. ‘We need to modernize the classroom’. Then there was the new roof you needed for your cottage. We were best friends back then.”

  “I should have never borrowed from you. What a bloody fool I was.” Then James silenced her with a kiss, as China had done with Donald those few hours before. But there was no tenderness in this embrace, no passion. Rather it was his mark, informing her that she was his. He owned her now.

  “Just do as you’re told and the repayments will remain nice and low. Cross me and you’ll be living out in the open fields!” Then, like the pantomime villain he was, James faded back into the crowd, smiling back at Irene all the way.

  Oblivious of McKriven’s threats, China had cornered McGregor the solicitor.

  “Tell me the secret of how you found me, or else I’ll ask you to dance!”

  Douglas McGregor fiddled with his glasses, his mustache bristling, a little embarrassed by the pretty woman from the city. “Total chance really.” He fished inside his tweed jacket for a moment and eventually produces a crumpled newspaper cutting. “Remember this?”