Return to Butterfly Island (3 page)

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 wanted 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.

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.