by Rikki Sharp
It was a story cut from the Manchester Evening News about a month before, showing the gathered staff of Slater & Marsh Advertising Agency celebrating winning a large European contract. Tucked away at the back was a familiar face with a mass of curly blond hair.
“I’ve had people looking for you for years. You don’t remember me. I was twenty when you left the island, but I’ll never forget the day when that bubbly blond little girl and her sad-looking mother left and never came back. The light went out of your aunt’s life and she saw only the negative side of people from that day on. When I saw this picture, I knew it was you. Three days before she died, I showed it to Beatrice. You should have seen her smile. I have my suspicions about what has kept you hidden away from us. But this picture slipped through, thank God.”
China beamed at him and kissed the solicitor on the end of the nose. “Thanks for never stopping looking.”
“My pleasure, Miss Stuart. My pleasure,” said McGregor, as China was twirled away for yet another dance, and the Wake went on.
Chapter 9
It was late that night when the most hardy of the mourners left The Cuckoo Inn and headed for home, torches flashing erratically in the dark. China had managed a wonderful tipsy smooch with Donald before his father literally dragged him away with a backward cry of, “We’ve got to be up at five this morning to catch the tide!”
Donald left her arms with her heart begging for more of him, as the tiny hairs down the back of her arms stood on end and she hugged herself, watching him go. Probably for the best, she told herself unconvincingly. A drunken fumble was no way to start a proper relationship.
Mrs. Baxter was already in her dressing gown as she shooed her helpers out of the pub and slipped the bolts home on the wide front door.
“I thought no one locked their doors on this island?” China teased.
“After a day like today, if there’s alcohol about, there are a few of our regular patrons who wouldn’t think twice of slipping back in for a night cap once the lights are out!” She chuckled. “We’ll clear up in the morning. Get to bed, girl, before you keel over.” So China did as she was told.
After a brief wrestle with Morgan for command of the bed, she slept a dreamless sleep, only colours and faint sounds filling her head.
She awoke in daylight with a raging thirst, and wandered bleary-eyed downstairs dressed in her Simpson’s nightshirt, to find the pub almost back to its normal self.
“Ah, great, you’re up. Breakfast will be five minutes,” said the ever-cheerful Mrs. Baxter. Then she fired up a massive antique Hoover and drowned out China’s words of protest that she should have got her up to help with the cleaning.
The Hoover did nothing to help China’s sore head, so she hunted out some fresh orange juice from one of the monster fridges in the kitchen and found some paracetamol tablets waiting on the side. Allowing both the liquid and the medication to do their work, she marshaled her thoughts for the day ahead.
As well as talking until her throat was sore about her aunt’s exploits going back to before she was born, China had done a bit of business, too. It seemed to her that whatever happened with the Grange, if those roof repairs weren’t completed in the next week or so, the damage might be irreversible. Especially when one of the local amateur meteorologists told her the island was expecting a massive storm that was coming in across the Atlantic in about three days.
So she had hired Handy Andy, an islander who was an expert roofer by the name of Daniel White, and a carpenter from the main islands over for the Wake, Jackie Kolodzeijski. All three men had promised to meet her at the Grange at 11.00 the next day. Well it was 9.30 now, so China had to get her act together if she was going to start this team moving.
One thing niggled at the back of her head. She hadn’t had time to talk this through with Donald, and now he was out at sea with his father for the rest of the day. He had taken on all the desperate repairs on the Grange himself, and was making a good job of them. But he could only do this part-time and time was running out. She hoped he would see the sense of her emergency plan and not take things the wrong way.
The day was bright, if not a touch cold, as she finally bundled out of the pub, wrapped up warm in jumpers, jeans, and gloves. One place that had caught her eye that she had not yet had time to explore was Bellamy’s General Store. It seemed an oasis of light and fresh paint in the otherwise tired line of cottages that contained the Inn and the shop. Almost pushing her over, Morgan bounded off in search of adventure, or food, or both.
She had met Frank Bellamy, a rather excitable ruddy-faced short man with little hair and sporting wire framed glasses the previous evening. Frank hailed from Kent and had sunk all his savings in the store, hoping to make a country life for himself rather than working in investment banking as he had done for too many years. Only open a year, he was finding making a decent living a struggle. For when money was tight amongst the small population of the island, they just did without.
“I thought I’d have the monopoly, not to charge ridiculous prices but to come away with a bit of a profit, but a boat comes in three times a week that’s a floating shop. Guess who owns the damn thing? James McKriven.” He had told her in the midst of the revelry and dancing. “He undercuts me week on week. Watches what prices I’m doing and slices a few pennies off. We live in an age of free trade, but it’s as though he’d be glad if I went out of business. I provide my friends and neighbours with far more things than he provides. The postal service, for example. That man’s got a plan, China, you mark my words.”
As she slipped on a pair of sunglasses and winced against the brightness of the day, China tottered down the cinder track for her first visit to the general store. The bell tinged cheerfully as she opened the bright red door and a wonder of delights greeted her. Everything from groceries, hardware, and everyday supplies were hung, stacked, and otherwise displayed in every available corner. Frank Bellamy had lovingly taken the classic corner shop of old and customized it for West Uist’s fishermen. But the main reason for her visit stood in pride of place to one side of the main counter; an automated cash machine, in glorious red of course.
“China! How’s my favourite Mancunian this fine morning?” enthused Frank, bustling out of the back of the store and giving her a large hug.
“Fragile, Frank. Little sea birds have got inside my head and are pecking their way out.” She gave Frank an extra squeeze before she let him go, then went to pat the red ATM. “How’s this beauty this morning. Working, I hope?”
Frank laughed. “And here’s me thinking you were just after my body. Yes, the beast is working at the moment. Though the signal cuts out as often as the phones most days. Help yourself.”
So China did, drawing out as much as her allowance would let her, getting cash for her new team of builders. “Brilliant. What’s with this signal thing anyway? My phone couldn’t find a single bar again this morning.”
“Unlike its owner last night,” joked the little man. “It’s that damn aerial, China. It was put up at the beginning of the digital age and now it’s out of date and in the wrong place. There are several sites further round the hill where the satellite company have been dying to build a new one for years, but your dear Aunt Bea wouldn’t give them permission. She was a bit paranoid about rays going through her head and the like.”
“So you’re on the side that wants to cover the hillside with technology and cheap bungalows?”
“Perish the thought. I left the south of England to escape that life. But someone has to do something or this community is in danger of dying out.” He crooked one finger and looked around conspiratorially, beckoning her closer. “Of course you know what’s driving McKriven in his bid to own the island?”
She shook her head to show she didn’t, her unruly curls bouncing everywhere.
“Oil,” he whispered hoarsely, as if the very word would cause the world to crumble. “I’ve got it on good authority from my contacts in the City that two major companies ar
e already surveying in the area. Years ago, the oil trapped beneath the Minch, the Little Minch, and the Sea of the Hebrides was way too expensive to get out. Times have changed and new technology has made it a possibility. I bet McKriven has in mind a massive housing and leisure complex for the island. Somewhere for the workers on the future oil rigs to live. A halfway point between the mainland and the outer oil fields. But the Grange, the whole Stuart clan owning most of the land thing, and the islanders are getting in the way.”
“As conspiracy theories go, that’s right out there, Frank!”
“Trust me. It makes sense of all the scrappy cottages McKriven’s been buying up these last three years, so that the local families can’t afford to live on their own island. All the loans he’s given to other folk that if he called in will ruin them. If I go, if this store goes, they will be reliant on his damn boat and he can name his own prices for consumables.”
“Sounds like a plan,” she had to agree.
“An evil plan, if you ask me. And here’s you like a young nymph appearing from across the sea, probably with the fate of us all in your hands.”
China pulled a thoughtful face. Frank’s wild ideas certainly added up. She really wanted to let him on to her own short-term plans for the Grange, risking her own money, but Mrs. Baxter’s words from the previous night came back to her. Trust no one. Besides, the first person she should be explaining her wild ideas to was Donald, rather than awake that legendary temper of his.
Whistling for Morgan, who had gone scrounging around the back of he cottages, she began the long hike up to the Grange, the fresh air blowing the residue of her hangover away. She reveled in the view, sights like a lone kestrel hovering in the air over the rock-strewn fields below, dotted with the odd farm house or cottage. The trees swaying on the crown of the hill, all but obscuring the Grange, except for its four chimney stacks, which were probably in urgent need of repairing, too.
In her head she hoped she was not making a big mistake with putting money into the ancient building. In her heart it seemed the obvious choice. She loved the place already, the years since her sudden departure from the island melting away. Sooner rather than later she was going to have to ring work and extend her time off. Then would come the big decision, to stay or to go.
That little life-changing event rather depended on a certain Mr. Dart and how their rekindled friendship developed.
She was red-faced and out of breath by the time she reached the path that led through the wild trees and up to the Grange. Nothing had changed about the place since her last visit. The grey building still looked lost and in need of a little love. That, thought China, covers both of us. Her team-supreme was waiting for her, sitting on a collapsed garden wall exchanging ribald jokes and sharing cigarettes.
“That will stunt your growth!” said China, pointing at the cigarettes.
“That’s not what my misses says!” Handy Andy was back in a flash.
“You’re married? Poor woman!” Which brought a guffaw from the two other men. As a group, China Stuart new how to handle men; it was in the one-to-one department that she tended to struggle.
Quickly, she outlined her vision. A quick, professional job to make the Grange water tight again, then time could be spent estimating what other jobs needed doing and how much it was going to cost. Hopefully by then the mysterious will would have materialized, or she’d have to take a serious look at what James McKriven had to offer. After her conversation with conspiracy nut Frank Bellamy, she was going off option two by the minute.
Handing out the cash convinced her three builders that she was serious.
“Young Donald’s done a great job so far, and the scaffolding being in place is a grand start, but there are parts of that old roof just waiting to cave in,” confirmed Handy Andy.
“I’ve seen a couple of outbuildings that are overgrown and are a wreck, Miss Stuart. If we can cannibalize their roof slates, that will save time and a lot of money,” said the tiler, Daniel White.
“Like that line of thinking. And for goodness sakes, fellers, it’s China. Miss Stuart makes me feel about fifty!”
“All I can say is, thanks for the work, M– China,” Jackie Kolodzeijski put in his few words. “It means I can spend more time with my girlfriend on West Uist.”
“That’s good. Let’s hope there will be a lot more work on this project in the future if my idea has legs. Girlfriend, eh? Long distant relationships are hard.”
“Even harder up in the Hebrides. It’s not like I can hop on a bus to come and visit Irene, and I have to earn a living on the bigger islands.”
“Irene the school teacher? I know her, she seems nice.”
Kolodzeijski, a grand Scottish name of the Polish clan, gave her a broad grin. “She is nice, especially to me! Shall we get cracking, boys?”
Leaving the men to start work on the roof, rolling back the flapping sheets of blue plastic Donald had covered the worst of the leaks with, China resumed her exploration of the house with Morgan, who was happy to amble through his old home by her side. This time she went straight to her aunt’s sizable bedroom on the second floor. Sure enough, her memory had been correct. There on the dressing table was the green covered book Mrs. Baxter had mentioned with a slim Parker pen laid neatly next to it. Her aunt’s current yearly journal.
Eagerly she turned the pages this time, admiring the fine copperplate writing of Beatrice in her eighties. There was time to read the rest of the journal later. First she had to check out if her landlady’s theory was right, that Aunt Bea night have written about making the new will two days before she passed away.
The last page sat there, written right to the end. Excitedly China read the final paragraph, soaking up every letter. These were her aunt’s words and her aunt’s life. Could she get any closer than that?
I’m having second thoughts about James’s offer. What made perfect sense a few weeks ago now seems far too altruistic for that rogue. There are some things he is not telling me and I now feel uncomfortable about the whole deal.
Great news! After all these years, Douglas McGregor has found a young woman named China Stuart living in Manchester. There can’t be two women in the world called that, surely. God bless her poor mother for such a wonderful name. I’ve never given up hope of finding the two of them, even these last hard five years. It has been as if someone has been hiding them from me, for how can two people vanish in this, the information age?
Which all makes up my mind that I need to draw up a new
And there the page ended, in mid-sentence. A new what, Aunt Bea? A new will? It’s got to be! China could hardly conceal her excitement as she thumbed through the blank pages after those teasing words. But there was nothing else, not even an inkblot. This didn’t make any sense, as the entry was made three days before her aunt’s death, the day Douglas McGregor had shown Bea that newspaper clipping proving China Stuart was still alive.
On an impulse China ran her finger along the fold between the pages, finding a slight roughness in the glued spine. Someone had torn out at least two pages! Well, if that didn’t prove the existence of the will, nothing would. Deciding to take the journal with her for safekeeping, China had a further look around the place, opening every cupboard in the room. Doors that she thought were just more wardrobe space revealed a marvelous surprise. On tightly packed shelves were row upon row of green-backed journals, all neatly labeled with the year on their spines.
Perspiring with sudden nerves, China ran her finger along the dates. Back and further back, down the years to the time her mother had taken her away from the island and the pair of them had seemingly vanished. Odd memories returned to China as she remembered going to Manchester University and then her first working years. Tax forms always being wrongly addressed or calling her ‘Charlie’ or ‘Cherrie’. Mail always going astray, problems with anything she ever filled out that showed on databases. She had always laughed at it all, calling it the ‘Curse of China’. But what if someone had been manip
ulating things behind the scenes?
She shook her head. Now she was in Frank Bellamy’s zone of conspiracy theories.
But as she reached the year she and her mother vanished, there was a space in the tightly packed volumes. Three consecutive years were missing. Three years packed with all that vital information, hiding the secret of what had made her mother flee Butterfly Island.
China swore again, something that was becoming a bad habit, looking to see if the books had been misfiled. She tried a third time with no luck.
McKriven was the first word to manifest itself. Hiding the will’s existence she could understand, but why would he be so cruel as to steal the records of her childhood? Selecting the few volumes that might cover her birth, along with the current journal, she placed all the books safely in the backpack she’d brought with her for that purpose. Then, with a heavy heart, she went to see how the men were doing. Three steps forward and two back, she thought to herself.
It was then that she heard raised voices from up on the scaffolding and came back to reality with a bump. That voice shouting down the rest belonged to Donald Dart, and he was not sounding very happy.
Chapter 10
Exiting out of the back door of the square house took China into a battlefield. Handy Andy was squaring off against an enraged Donald whilst the other two builders shouted their encouragement from the safety of the scaffolding. The diminutive Andy was taunting a red-faced Donald, swinging practice punches all over the place, whilst Donald seemed to have reached that point where he was so angry he could no longer speak.
Providence lent a hand in the shape of a massive scruffy grey dog, as Morgan suddenly swept passed China and planted two large paws on Handy Andy’s chest. The odd-job man went down like a felled tree and the dog, having stopped the argument to his satisfaction, sat on top of this wire-haired opponent.
