Return to Butterfly Island

by Rikki Sharp

  With a polite nod, China obliged and with a few whispered tips from Irene managed to pour two decent beers.

  “Not bad,” John Dart said, holding his glass up to the light as the rich beer settled from swirls of cloudiness to a clear amber pint. “Pay the lass,” he instructed his son, then went to join his cronies at one of the crowded tables in the snug.

  “Thank you, sir.” China took Donald’s money, wrestled with the old till for a moment or so, but managed to give him his correct change.

  “Are you not having one yourself?” asked Donald, those gentle grey eyes melting her yet again.

  “Well, am I? Where are we up to, Donald? Am I just a bit of stuck-up city talent that you’ve got a bet on with your mates that you can bed me before I go back to Manchester, or are we something else?”

  Donald took a deep drink before he answered. “I’m not sure myself, China. Don’t get me wrong . . . I’d never have a bet like that about you, or any woman for that matter. It’s just we don’t get to practice the social graces too often up here in the Hebrides. It’s a hard life for hard people, but a good one. So I’ll ask you just how long are you planning on staying, before I waste my time getting to know you all over again?”

  It was at that point that China realized most of the other conversations around them had gone quiet. Chewing her bottom lip in confusion, she looked from one weather-beaten face to another, trying to find an answer from somewhere.

  “I don’t know,” she suddenly blurted out, dropping the beer towel she had been wearing and running for the stairs. A second later, Morgan was on his feet and, with a glance in Donald’s direction, padded after his new mistress.

  “Don’t bother to send that application off for a guidance councilor, son.” His father broke the silence then everyone began to talk at once.

  Alone in her room, now smelling of slightly damp plaster, but at least having a double plug socket that worked, China was determined not to cry. What was this with the tears all the time? Back in Manchester she had stood nose-to-nose with truculent bosses or bolshie workmates and given as good as she got. Something about the sea air had turned her into a proper girl.

  Morgan put his great untidy head on her lap and gazed up at her with those sympathetic brown eyes, so she scratched his ears and calmed down. Picking up her phone from the dresser, she was surprised to find it registering three bars. Hitting fast dial, she rang Anthony’s number, her usual shoulder to cry on.

  “Who’s this again? Have you rung this number by mistake?” came the familiar voice.

  “Stop being such a diva, Anthony. Can you talk?”

  “It’s Friday night, love. I’m on my third cocktail already. Tell your agony Anthony everything.”

  So it all came tumbling out, about her sudden feelings of responsibility for the Grange, the island, and her confusion over Donald. Plus, she had the funeral to face the next day, too.

  “Donald Dart sounds like some of the pains I’ve gone out with,” advised Anthony, always known for wearing his heart on his sleeve. “All bluster and prickly on the outside and a little squishy puppy on the inside. You’ve crashed in from the planet Venus, love. Disturbed his macho island boy life and he doesn’t know what the hell to do with you. Well, I’m sure I know what he’d like to do with you, but—”

  “Anthony! We’re not all like you!”

  “Fair enough. He’s not an angry man without reason. You need to get him to talk, open up. Find out what’s going on in that tartan heart of his. Best of luck, girlfriend. You’re going to need it!”

  “Thanks for the amateur psychology. Say hi to everyone for me.”

  “By that little phrase, I won’t even bother to ask you when you’re coming home. If you’re coming home. And after you promised me as well!”

  “That’s the core of the problem, Anthony. I have to decide where home is. Bye.”

  She hit the red phone symbol with her thumb and sat for a moment in deep contemplation. As usual, Anthony had sorted her head out for her.

  “Come on, Morgan,” she said, fluffing up her mass of curls that had dried by themselves and touching up her lipstick. “Let’s see if that big lunk and I can have a conversation for more than ten minutes without one of us storming off.”

  The dog bounced about, picking up her improved mood, likely hoping there would be some food involved in whatever she did next.

  Chapter 6

  The pub was full when China made her next entrance. There were a few glances in her direction, but thankfully not the attention she had expected. Slipping quietly behind the bar with Irene again, she busied herself with pulling pints and taking money, until the rush had died down.

  Donald sat with his father and a few friends. Either he hadn’t noticed that China had returned or he was ignoring her on purpose. Whilst China helped bring in some of the glasses and the finished plates of food, Irene poured the pair of them a clear pint of Highland Lager.

  “Staff break,” announced the pretty, rosy-faced woman with a shock of dark hair streaked with just a few silver hairs. Taking their beer to the corridor leading from the kitchen, the two women clinked glasses and had a well-earned drink.

  “What do you do back in Manchester?” Irene asked.

  “I sometimes wonder.” China shrugged, licking the foam off her upper lip. “I’m a PA for an advertising firm. Basically I organize stuff. You?”

  “I’m West Uist’s one and only teacher, halfway up the hill there. I nurture them from three years old to sixteen. If anyone wants to take sixth form subjects, they have to commute daily to Benbecula or work on-line, when that stupid mast of ours is working!”

  China’s attention wandered, as she glanced across to where Donald was sitting.

  “He’s got you intrigued, hasn’t he?” Irene’s question brought her out of her trance.

  “That obvious? I’ve just never come across a man of such contradicting moods. I’ve only been here five minutes and he’s got me jumping through emotional hoops.”

  “That’s our Donald. I’ll have to pass on commenting. We were engaged to be married three years back. He broke it off for no apparent reason. We’re friends again now, but it’s a small island and he’s been out with most of the eligible girls around.”

  China pulled an embarrassed face. “Oh, I should have thought. Sorry.”

  “What have you got to be sorry about? We lasses on West Uist have a theory about Donald; that he’s waiting for the right woman to come along. Or that he’s actually already met her and now won’t settle for second best.” She finished her Lager with a flourish. “You don’t get a prize for being second best in this life, so I’ve been merrily getting on with mine.”

  Her head buzzing with confusion about this contrary man, China busied herself cleaning glasses, trying not to look over at where Donald was sitting. Then he went and made her jump with surprise as he suddenly materialized next to her.

  “My fault about before. Da says I’m a little too blunt at times.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “We’re away. You get some sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try. I’m beginning to understand that the Stuarts used to be a big deal on this island. All I can tell you about how long I’m staying is, my boss back in Manchester willing, I’ll be here until I’ve sorted out what’s happening with the Grange. I suppose I’m going to have to see this villain of yours—McKriven, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s him. You’ll have a chance tomorrow. He’ll be at the funeral as charming as you like. Keep your purse close to you and don’t sign anything he gives you, that’s all I can advise.”

  China watched Donald leave with his slightly tipsy father in tow. As he held the door open, she got a flash of that rare smile, as those weathered laughter lines highlighted his grey eyes. Like the little girl had done with her earlier that afternoon, she gave him a shy wave goodbye.

  When the door swung shut behind him, she turned and nearly bumped into the
school teacher, Irene. “Don’t mind me, China. As I said, we’re just good friends now. I’m going out with someone on Benbecula now anyway. Not as exciting as Donald, certainly not as volcanic, but he does me. You want to take on Mission Impossible, be my guest!”

  The bar was officially closed, as much as it ever was. People were beginning to settle down for the night on their makeshift beds and China helped clean up before she said goodnight to Mrs. Baxter, Irene, and the rest of the volunteers, then headed upstairs for her own room. Everything was whirling around in her head as she pulled the quilt tight under her chin, wondering if she was getting used to Morgan’s distinctive smell or he was fretting less.

  Tomorrow was a big day. As she fell asleep, she hoped she’d do her aunt and the family she had never known proud. The wind was rising again as she found herself drifting off, to dream of holes in the roof, warnings from stern school teachers, and Donald’s laughing grey eyes.

  Chapter 7

  The morning was upon her in a moment, as Mrs. Baxter woke China at 6.00 a.m. and the Inn slowly came alive. For a few hours the snug might have been the back stage area of a play, as those who had stayed the night changed with a minimum amount of fuss into their funeral best that they had brought with them, and even more people began to call in to say their condolences to the last of the Uist Stuarts.

  Dressed simply in a little black number she’d bought for the occasion, China shook hands, exchanged embraces, and received and gave a hundred kisses. As the moving tide of people came and went, she was grateful that Irene had taken a shine to her, and was constantly whispering names of who was related to whom. Or, again, it might have been the indomitable Mrs. Baxter orchestrating things from behind the stage curtain.

  Mrs. Baxter had been up since four, starting the preparations in the kitchen for the Wake. Amidst the mourners all in their Sunday best, people were delivering trays full of pastries, a mountain of bread, and various cooked and uncooked meats plus all the trimmings. China was sure her poverty stricken Aunt hadn’t paid for all of this, but she decided asking Mrs. Baxter about money again would have been taken as an insult.

  Strangely, she felt calm in the eye of the storm. It was almost a detached sensation, as if she were still sitting upstairs in her room with Morgan cutting the circulation off in her legs with his immense weight, watching herself move through it all. If she had been asked to sum up the emotion she was feeling at that exact moment, she would have come back with, ‘Loved’.

  By tenuous ties she was related to most of these people who had gathered from all over the island and beyond. A great, supportive family that she never realized she’d had. It made her heart beat a little stronger at every touch, as if the funeral guests each transfused a little of their energy and strength into her. Getting her through this sad day.

  When the time came for her to walk around the hill to where the Kirk stood, that tiny stone built church too small to hold even a quarter of the mourners, she found Donald appearing at her side in a neat if not old-fashioned dark suit and tie, linking arms with her on the right hand side, and Mrs. Baxter doing the same on her left. The sun was sparking off a relatively calm sea as a mild breeze stirred her mass of blond hair, the usually fickle curls tied back with a black ribbon and behaving themselves.

  Over a hundred strong, the crowd of mourners was waiting outside the Kirk in relative silence. Even the children had been given a spit and polish then squeezed into their best clothes. Irene had charge of Morgan on a new black lead and he was sitting patiently waiting for all the people he loved.

  More pleasantries were exchanged with the people who hadn’t had time to call in The Cuckoo earlier on. Then, carried on the breeze, came the sound of gentle hoof beats. As one, the crowd turned and looked down the stony track to see a pair of black horses resplendent in polished harness and tall black plumes on their heads pulling a black hearse, in which laid the plain coffin of Aunt Beatrice. Leading them with his top had tucked under his arm, dressed in Victorian funeral garb, was the serious-faced undertaker, presumably Nesbit or one of his sons.

  Donald left her side on a nod from Mr. Nesbit, as did three other younger men of the island. With practiced grace, they shouldered Beatrice Stuart’s coffin and walked solemnly towards the Kirk’s open door. In the mouth of the church, they balanced the coffin on a stand, where Reverend Fisher draped the simple wooden box with a rich red-based tartan cloth, emblazoned in the centre with the Stuart emblem. An offshoot of the House of Stuart, the Stuarts of Uist' shield contained a red Lion Rampant on a blue background above a green Rowan tree, which grew profusely around the island.

  With a brief smile to the gathered crowd, the Reverend stood behind the draped coffin with one hand touching the shield. “Gathered family and friends,” he began. “We are gathered here today in the sight of God to commit the soul of our sister, Beatrice Victoria Stuart, into his arms, and place her earthly body into the ground . . .”

  The service went by in a blur. More than once, China sought out Donald’s hand and he gave it a squeeze of reassurance. Having watched the tiny coffin being lowered into the grave, she found the mass of the assembled mourners a little too much, and escaped into the cool solitude of the stone Kirk.

  The church, or kirk as it was locally known, had stood on the edge of the cliffs since the 14 century, when China’s ancestors first settled on the rocky island, stranded between the Inner and the Outer Hebrides. Out here on the tongue of land it had withstood the battering of the elements, much as the Grange up on the hill had, since the day it was built. Never having had electricity, there was a cold atmosphere inside its small knave. Only six rows of dark wooden pews lined the two sides of the church, with a nondescript altar at the front.

  As if guided by invisible hands, China walked to the front row, where a faded carved Stuart shield was inlaid into the left-hand shelf. On the bench was an old, faded maroon cushion, still indented as if the visitor had only just got up and left the Kirk. Before the cushion, sitting on the heavy oak shelf was a small, black-covered bible. Daring to sit on her aunt’s cushion, China reached forward and touched the leather-bound book, not wanting to disturb it on the shelf. It was as if the past was suddenly linked with the present. Coming from a generation that had all but abandoned the Church, China had no pretensions that she was religious. But as she touched her aunt’s bible, a shiver went down her arm, just for a second.

  “I used to bring her here every Sunday, as regular as clockwork, and most days of the week, too,” said Douglas, slipping into the bare wooden bench next to her. “She would lecture me on why I never stayed for the service all the way down in the horse and buggy, then moan all the way back about Reverend Fisher’s posh Edinburgh accent and how the day’s sermon had been rubbish,” said Donald, sitting down beside her.

  “I just remember the stories she used to spin to me as a child. She seemed to be a lot happier person in my memory.”

  “Thirty years ago she was. Living in that windswept house up on the hill blew the life out of her. In her last years nothing seemed to give her any pleasure. My Aunt Biddy used to take her meals up the path every day and they were always too hot, too cold, too salty, or too large a portion. People stopped visiting her because she usually sent them home with a flea in their ear about something and nothing. Then McKriven started to visit her over the last few months . . . filling her head with nonsense.”

  “Like what?”

  “Money-making schemes to save the Grange. Investments, I suppose, she told no one, not even her solicitor. That’s when the thief tried to trick her into signing the Grange away, I suppose. But without seeing this document, we have no idea how legal it is.”

  “Oh, it’s totally legal, I can assure you,” came a sarcastic voice from the back of the church.

  Both of them turned around to see the immaculately dressed James McKriven standing in the open doorway, looking around the ancient Kirk as if there was a bad smell under his nose.

  “Good grief. It’s been
a while since I was in here. The place looks even more decrepit with the passing years.” He advanced on China, one gloved hand outstretched, a charming smile on his roguish face.

  “Apologies that we haven’t met sooner, my dear. James McKriven, at your service. And I honestly mean that. During your short stay on this little island, please do not hesitate in contacting me for any reason, any reason at all.”

  As China accepted the man’s hand, she felt Donald tensing up beside her. Oh, please, don’t kick off in here of all places, she thought grimly. But Donald Dart was trying his best to keep his temper.

  “The vulture has landed, I see. Couldn’t you wait until we see the poor woman off, McKriven?” He stood up in a fluster, fists clenched. The object of his rage hardly seemed phased.

  “You forget, I was born on the island too, Donald. It’s my duty to see a Stuart into the grave.”

  “Well I hope they counted the rings on her fingers if you went anywhere near the coffin!”

  The two enemies squared off against each other, with China caught in the middle.

  “I may be the atheist tourist here, but can out take the macho posturing outside, gentlemen? Your timing sucks!”

  Both men seemed to hold themselves in check. It was Donald that muttered something about seeing how his father was, exiting swiftly pulling at his shirt collar and loosening his tie as he went, his face like thunder.

  “Always had a short fuse, our Donald,” James preened, taking China’s arm. “Let’s walk a while and I’ll let you catch up with the story so far concerning the Grange.”

  They exited via a small side door that took them into the older part of the graveyard that surrounded the Kirk on three sides. Amidst twisted Yew trees, the ancient grave stones were leaning at all angles, some of them completely flat, all covered in dark green lichen and moss. There was an odd calm behind the shelter of the church, broken only by the crashing of the waves somewhere over the lip of the cliff.