Return to Butterfly Island (9 page)

Chapter 12

“Some things have been easily rectified. We’ve already registered the new company as
Butterfly Island Sanctuary
, using the wildlife angle. James kindly forgot the report he had paid for on the bar when he left, so I’ve had a long useful chat with the Wildlife Society and they are sending people to verify his findings in the next few weeks. That way, we work in tandem with them when we get to the planning stage of things. To be honest, that had always been my intention, anyway. Mr. McKriven has kindly sped that process up for us.”

This council of war included only China, Douglas McGregor the solicitor, Donald, and Mrs. Baxter, locked in the pub kitchen with the curtains drawn.

“Good. I’ve started trying to untangle your financial affairs, China, but, as you can guess, making a mess of something is far quicker than tidying it up,” said McGregor, fiddling nervously with his glasses. “I had a word with your old boss, Mr. Marsh. He’s a very understanding man. Out of his own pocket, he’s willing to fund the provisional part of your plan, seeing as the banks won’t play, but he wants a 20% stake of the new company.”

“That’s pretty fair under the circumstances . . . Donald, what’s wrong?”

Since the emergency meeting was called, Donald had shuffled and paced about, totally distracted. “Sorry, it’s me. I feel so out of my depth with all this business lark. When you two get going, you’re like a different person, China. I know we’ve talked about my temper and all my, what was it? Ah, anger management issues. But in a case like this what I really need to do is find James McKriven and give him a damn good thumping!”

“And I’ll hold your coat, love,” agreed Mrs. Baxter.

“That’s why he appears like Dracula out of the mist when you’re not here. He’s a back-stabber, not a fighter. We resort to those kind of tactics and the law will get dragged into it. I suspect inside one of those many pockets James was alluding to, he’s got at least one mid-ranking policemen on the McKriven payroll.”

Donald, obviously not satisfied with that answer, was about to say something else when the pub door suddenly flew open. Jackie Kolodziejski, with blood over his face and hands.

“There’s been a bad accident up at the Grange. Andy’s got a broken leg at the very least and Daniel’s twisted his ankle,” he said, gasping for breath.

“What happened, man?” Donald grasped his friend’s shoulder, concern etched all over his face.

“It was the scaffolding . . . it just collapsed like a load of drinking straws! I think someone went up there last night and was messing with it.”

By the terrible look on Donald’s face, they all knew who that would be. Things were getting deadly serious.

As Jackie ran back to the school to get Irene, who was the island’s official first-aid contact, Mrs. Baxter rang through to the mainland to summon a real doctor.

“It’s all going wrong. This is my fault. I didn’t treat James as a serious threat,” China said. She felt cold and scared at the thought that Donald could have been up on that roof when the scaffolding fell apart. But when she turned and looked for her man for some comfort, he was suddenly gone.

The chilled wind whipped at her flimsy top as she ran outside and looked frantically around. Frank Bellamy had already come out of his store, as had a few customers, and a scattering of islanders could be seen climbing as fast as they physically could up the hill to the Grange. But there was no sign of her love amongst them.

“Donald! Donald!!” she cried, the wind whipping her words away. Then faintly she heard the sound of a diesel engine coughing itself to life. John Dart was already out at sea, working that morning in the family-owned vessel,
Brunhild
, but there was a familiar figure in the cabin of the
Daisy-Jane
. Donald.

Racing down the cinder path in her flip-flops, China nearly lost her footing more than once. But she was too late. The
Daisy-Jane
was pulling away from the stone jetty into a choppy sea, her blunt nose pointing towards the island of Benbecula. He must have been heading towards Balivanich village where James’s company headquarters lay.

“Donald . . .” she whispered hopelessly towards the storm-tossed boat, as the skies around Butterfly Island began to take on a darker hue. There was only one thing she could do to stop this, no matter what the consequences would be between her and her love. She had to warn James McKriven.

They brought not-so-Handy Andy down on an old shed door torn from one of the Grange’s derelict outbuildings. Irene reckoned the break was pretty clean, but the wire-haired handyman was milking the situation for all it was worth. As they took him into The Cuckoo, he was muttering about industrial injury and massive compensation, just as the rain began to fall in large freezing drops.

“You can cut that out for starters,” Mrs. Baxter snapped, holding a medicinal whiskey just out of the little man’s reach. “You know China will see you right. Should have landed on your fool head and then you’d have been fine!” Finally, she relinquished her grip on the drink, just as Andy’s wife appeared, wailing like a banshee.

Whereas he was small and wiry, she was a Valkyrie of a woman. Some years younger than her husband, she had long, flaxen hair braided in a ponytail and a fine athletic figure.

“
She’s
Mrs. Andy?” China couldn’t help herself.

“Either you’ve got it, or you haven’t,” said the little man, being smothered in his wife’s bosom, then he gave China his usual saucy wink, which told everyone he was on the mend.

“Biddy, a word,” China whispered, tugging at Mrs. Baxter’s sleeve. “Donald’s stormed off to sort James out.”

“Not before time,” Mrs. Baxter sniffed, not being very helpful.

“That as it may be, but the great stupid fool is going to get himself arrested. We’ve got to ring ahead and tell someone. You know his temper when it’s on the boil; he might even kill McKriven before anyone can stop him!”

Her landlady paled slightly at that thought. “You’re right, love. I know the police sergeant in Balivanich. I’ll get him to meet Donald when he docks and nip things in the bud.”

China let out a great shuddering sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t her who had to do the deed.

She was sitting at the bar amidst her notes and her silent laptop when the third island boat, the
Jolly Roger,
docked with the doctor on board.
That had been another one of her pie-in-the-sky plans, a regular boat service from the main islands to West Uist, rather than using who ever was free whenever they felt like it, financed by charging non-islanders a small fee as any other ferry would.
Another part of her marvelous dream. What had she been thinking of coming up here from the city and playing with everyone’s lives as if it were some simple advertising campaign? She was just a simple PA, not some high-flyer executive.

Selling Butterfly Island by the pound.

The tears of frustration and guilt flowed freely, as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. It was all just too hard. Keeping Donald in check was just too hard. Morgan, faithful to the end, nuzzled her hand in sympathy, his lead held in his mouth.

“Good idea, boy,” she sniffed, trying to stop feeling sorry for herself. “Let’s get some fresh air.” Gabbing her coat, she slipped away unnoticed with her canine friend out of the pub, down the cinder track, and onto the path leading back up the hill towards the Grange. Pulling on her new sou’wester hat, recently purchased at Bellamy’s, against the rain, she let Morgan tow her up the path amongst the swaying heather and grasses.

Even though she had prepared herself, the collapsed scaffolding made her gasp, her hand fluttering to her mouth. It was a twisted wreck and the lads had been lucky to get away with a few cuts and bruises and Andy’s broken leg.

She peered up at the stoic grey building, work on the slate roof all but finished. What did she know about property development? And this foolish dream of turning the Grange into a hotel for island visitors that she hadn’t even told anyone, was just that—a dream. Having defended Stuart land and property from change all her life, even Aunt Bea must be turning in her grave.

The back door was open, so China ducked inside, striding over a piece of scaffolding to do so, anything to get out of the rain. Morgan, impervious to the weather, was away foraging in the bushes, so she was completely alone with her self-doubts and misplaced guilt as she wandered back through the ancient house.

The money it would cost to return the place to even being habitable, never mind furniture, en suite bedrooms, and so on. She was a joke. Stupid little girl thinking she could change the world. Building herself a fairytale life out here in the middle of the sea.

She glanced at her freezing cold feet that were wet through and covered in mud. She was still wearing her flip-flops, thanks to her hasty exit from the Inn.

She laughed at that, wiggling her muddy toes. “Can’t even wear the right footwear on this place. You’re not popping out to the shops for a pint of milk now, you stupid woman!”

Sitting down at the foot of the staircase, she tried to curl up in a little ball and disappear.
Had it been such a crime to have a dream?
she wondered blankly.

Then a scrap of colour caught her eye. A fluttering of wings.

Out of the darkness of the old building came a single butterfly, heading straight for her. Whether it was the same one she had seen when she had first looked around the Grange a million years ago, she couldn’t be sure, but it was a Red Admiral all the same. Unerringly, it settled on the stair banister next to her.

“So, Mrs. Butterfly, what do you think I should do? Leave these poor people to live their own lives without my flashy, impossible ideas stirring everything up? Forget trying to tame the mad fisherman? Let him sail free and go where he may?”

The Red Admiral twitched its wings and tiptoed further up the banister. Then a second butterfly dithered passed the end of her nose, making her start. This one, a Large Heather. The beautiful creature settled on her right coat sleeve. The third winged sliver of colour emerging from the darkness was a Peacock, followed by two more Red Admirals. Soon, there were over thirty of the insects attracted by her body warmth. Scattered around her like living confetti.

They gave her hope and renewed strength.

First on her new list was Sort that man of hers out, if he still wanted her, then she’d see about changing the world. Exhausted, she let her head drop into her folded arms and closed her eyes, just for a second. Things would be better if she could just rest for a moment or two.

The butterflies would help her sort out her aching head. Just . . . for . . . a . . .

Chapter 13

The day was bright, the wind warm on her back as she, China Stuart, aged six years and two months, stood on the familiar stone jetty, shading her eyes with one freckled hand. Against the sun stood the figure of her mother, looking taller than in real life. Worrying about getting all of their luggage on board the pitching fishing boat tied up to the stone jetty.

“Why are we taking so much stuff, mammy? It’s only for a couple of weeks, isn’t it?”
She’d had an island accent back then, born on a stormy night with the wind lashing at the windowpanes, it had given the little girl a sense of no fear. She loved the storms that rolled in across the forbidding sea. Ran with the wind and danced in the rain.

“You never know what the weather’s going to be like, my darling,” lied her mother. Her eyes, blue like her daughter’s, were shadowed in pain. Hiding a fear that only she knew about.

A second woman was standing on the pier that day. Wrapped all in black, her hair already prematurely white, Aunt Beatrice had come to see them off on their adventure. Then why were there tears in her eyes?

“Don’t worry, auntie, we’ll be back before you know it,” sing-songed the little girl.

“Aw, pet. My treasure.” Aunt Bea kissed her again. Her hands were trembling, too. Was she ill? “Are you sure about this, Eve? There are medicines you can take . . . I’m sure if you have another visit from Doctor—”

“Medicine’s are no good, Beatrice! China’s dad was right. I just can’t live out here any more. Maybe after a month or two with my feet on dry land . . .?” She left the statement open, passing another case to the silent fisherman who was loading the luggage.

Down the stone jetty came a tousle-haired boy in a bad taste hooped jumper over his shirt and pants that ended just above the knee. He appeared about eight years old, with a mucky face and scabs on each leg from countless tumbles down the hillside. His name was Donald Dart and he looked close to tears.

“You sure you’re coming back?” he asked the little girl for the tenth time that morning.

“Of course we are, silly. Aren’t we mammy?”

Eve Stuart looked away.

Shyly, Donald bent forward and kissed China clumsily on the cheek. She grimaced and wiped her face with her sleeve. Then the blushing boy whispered something in China’s ear. She broke out in a dazzling smile, her eyes alive with delight.

Out of the glare of the sun, a fisherman scooped her up before she could reply to the boy’s heartfelt question.

“Come on, wee girl. It’s high tide and we better be away. Don’t want to leave you behind, do we?” asked the fisherman.

The boat suddenly lurched beneath her feet and they were moving, but China hadn’t answered her friend’s question. He ran along side them until there was no more jetty left to run on. China waved and she waved until her arms were sore, as she shouted across the widening gap between the two of them and the sea began to toss the small boat this way and that.

But the wind carried her answer to Donald Dart’s question away into time . . . nearly thirty years into the future, when China awoke with a start at the foot of the stairs in the abandoned Grange. Around her, the butterflies had vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared.

“I remember . . .” She sighed, her eyes alive with the unwavering spirit of a six-year-old. “I remember what Donald asked me on our final day!”

Then she was out of the house and away down the hill as if the devil himself was snapping at her heels, Morgan appearing from the undergrowth and chased after her, barking fit to burst.
She remembered, after all his time alone. She remembered.
Now all she had to do was find Donald and give him the answer he had been waiting for so long to hear.

“And you”—Donald waved one finger in China Stuart’s face—“You keep away from me! I knew where I was all these years without you! Since you’ve come back, the whole island’s gone mad!”

“Donald!” chided Mrs. Baxter, holding China tight as her nephew ranted and raged. “She’s done nothing but try to help! You’re the bloody fool who hit a policeman when you docked at Balivanich!”

“Well who told them I’d be coming, eh? I just wanted to get my hands around McKriven’s throat for what he’s done and the police were waiting to ambush me!”

“Stop exaggerating, you stupid boy. Sergeant Fitzgerald is sixty if he’s a day, and the only other officer on the island is PC Magelan, and she’s only twenty years of age! That damn temper of yours, just like your mother, Saints preserve her. You’re lucky to get off with a caution! Besides, it was
me
who rang the police.”

Hurt and feeling betrayed, Donald chewed that one over for a second. “Liar. You’re just protecting her, like you used to when we were kids. Always took her side when something went missing or got broke, thanks to her clumsy ways! I’ve had it with the whole lot of you! I’m up to the Grange and tie those sheets back down before this bloody storm starts!” He barged his way out of the pub and was gone into the driving rain outside.

“And you actually fancy that?” asked Biddy, still holding China close, as she stopped trembling.

“Not when he’s breathing fire and insults, I don’t.”

Biddy Baxter shook her head in despair at her nephew’s terrible temper and finally let China go. “Better lock all the windows in this place and get out the pots and pans for when the ceiling starts to leak. This storm is going to be terrible.”

“Will he be alright up the hill on his own?”

“Him? Donald? Let him stew. He owes us both an apology, stupid man!”

Even though it was raining now, the whole island seemed to be cowering in silence as the full might of the storm moved towards them. Lightning played across the sea, its thunder still taking seven or eight seconds to reach West Uist. But then it was six . . . and then it was five.

Doors were being bolted, livestock taken inside, and even the massive Irish Wolfhound had found himself shelter under one of the pub benches in the snug, once the heavens started to crash and bang. Having secured the pub as best they could, Mrs. Baxter placed a bottle of whiskey on the bar between them and two clean glasses.

“Best way to ride out a storm like this. May the good Lord protect the men of the sea on a day like this.” She crossed herself reverently and took her first sip of drink.

China shuddered as the howl of the wind rose an octave. The Inn sign commenced banging against the side of the building and the chairs and benches outside began to move in the gale.

“Damn. Should have brought those in,” fretted Mrs. Baxter. “Last time we had weather like this, they ended up across the way and in the sea!”

This was a side of Butterfly Island that China couldn’t remember. She was suddenly reminded that it existed in the middle of a cruel ocean; just a chunk of rock jutting up from the sea floor.

“Do you go to the Kirk as often as Aunt Bea?” she asked Mrs. Baxter, wanting to talk about anything rather than sit in silence and listen to the storm rage.
Worried where her man was.

“Me? If I did, who would run this place? No, your aunt was a Force of One. She probably went down to that stone church nearly every day of her life . . . and that’s a lot of days. Well, I told you, didn’t I?, that she even managed to get Donald to harness up the pony and buggy and take her down the day before she died? It was as if she was driven by something. Having to make her peace with God one last time.”

An odd idea began to seep into China’s brain. “Then that was after you witnessed her write that missing will?”

“The very next day. As I said, driven.”

A shiver ran through China Stuart’s body as the idea burst into a full-blown revelation.

“Oh, Biddy, I think I know where she hid the will! It’s been staring us in the face all this time!” Before Mrs. Baxter could stop her, China was up and pulling on her waterproofs and Wellington boots.

“What in heaven’s name? Leave the benches outside, love! They were due to be replaced any way!”

“No! It’s the will! Beatrice hide it in the Kirk, and I know exactly where!” Unbolting the front door, she was immediately battered and drenched by the storm, but before Mrs. Baxter could get round the bar to stop her, she was gone.

“For heaven’s sake! Morgan! Go with her, you great useless lump!”

The dog swung his massive head towards the banging front door, the driving rain, and then back to Mrs. Baxter again. Putting his head on his front paws, he shuffled a little further back beneath the pub seat.