Return to Butterfly Island

RETURN TO BUTTERFLY ISLAND

RIKKI SHARP

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

RETURN TO BUTTERFLY ISLAND

Copyright©2013

RIKKI SHARP

Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-
233-9

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Dedicated to Carole.

Thanks to those summer days

of my childhood

that inspired this tale.

Chapter 1

As the tiny fishing boat braved the wild sea swell, China Stuart wondered if she had made the right decision to venture out into the middle of nowhere. Bundled up in borrowed jumpers and oilskins three sizes too large, her hair plastered in wet strands across her face, she clung to the ship’s rail, refusing to shelter in the tiny cabin. Trying not to be seasick—again.

It was that first view of the island she was waiting for.
An image that had hidden in the edge of her dreams for as long as she could remember.

To most people, it was just a lump of weathered rock sticking out of the ocean, just another dot on the map amongst the Outer Hebrides. But to China, it was where she had been born. Having left with her mother when she was only six after her father had been lost at sea, she had constantly dreamed of the wide-open skies and the rugged, rock-strewn fields. Finally, she would see if the truth matched her childhood fantasies.

After almost thirty years away she was finally coming home, but not for the best of reasons. China’s last living relative had passed away in her sleep three days previously. Her solicitor had explained that as Aunt Bee had requested to be buried on the island, the ancient family house and various stretches of land around it could be disposed of comfortably from Manchester. But China had been suddenly struck with a stubborn compulsion. She felt honour-bound to sort the Stuart estate out in person.

But as she fought to keep what was left of her lunch down, she was now having serious doubts about the whole adventure.

“You’re going where?” Anthony, her best friend in the world and a co-worker at Slater and Marsh, a top-end advertising agency in Manchester city center, had asked.

China pointed at the map she had just purchased especially for the occasion. Eleven miles by six in size, its true name was West Uist, but she remembered it by the name her father always used—Butterfly Island. At that time, he had been the romantic in the family.

“It doesn’t even have any proper roads!” exclaimed Anthony.

“No need for them. No cars.”

“You have lost the plot, girlfriend.” He pouted.

She’d laughed and ruffled his too-perfect hair.

“Imagine that stiff Atlantic breeze in your hair . . . drying out that peach-like skin . . .”

“Stop it! I won’t sleep tonight. But you are coming back, aren’t you? Who else will put up with my hissy fits in this place?”

“Of course I’m coming back. This is just something I need to do. Put a few old ghosts to rest.”

Ghosts to rest . . . Wasn’t that the truth?
Even as a teenager China had felt there was a wall between herself and her mother because of the sudden way they had left the island. They had never talked about those years, as if that idyllic life on West Uist with her father had never happened. Then, ten years previously, her mother had died suddenly of a heart problem, leaving so much unsaid. What answers she would find amongst the windswept rocks and heather, she had absolutely no idea.

Finally she saw it . . . a line of blue and grey rock between the scudding clouds and the rolling ocean. Butterfly Island—indigenous population of exactly 75. If you didn’t farm or fish, you took care of those who did.

She smiled, the salty water dripping off the end of her freezing little nose.
Well here comes population number 76.
Cancel those previous self-doubts. This had been the right way to say goodbye to her aunt and to exhume a family past muddled in mystery.

“I must be absolutely barking,” China whispered to herself, as she finally set foot on dry land after the hour and a half sea journey. The crude stone jetty they were now moored to joined a cinder track that swept passed a cluster of weatherworn cottages and several massive corrugated iron boathouses. The largest of these ancient cottages was a pub of sorts, with the odd name of The Cuckoo Inn.

“Let’s get you into the Inn before this weather breaks, lass,” said John Dart, the Skipper of the fishing boat that had collected her from one of the major islands, Benbecula. Where, as North and South Uist were connected to Benbecula by raised stone causeways, West Uist could be only reached by sea or, on special occasions, helicopter, stuck as it was all by itself between the Inner and Outer Hebrides.

“Inn? I’ll be staying at the Grange, won’t I? Aunt Bee’s place?” she asked.

“Ah. Well,” muttered the Skipper. “Wait until you see the state of the place. Beatrice had rather let things slide of recent years.”

So, like it or not, China was towed in the Skipper’s wake towards the stone-built whitewashed pub. As they passed three scruffy-looking children, the bairns stared with wide-open eyes at the stranger, never saying a word. Then, as one, the tykes turned and ran through a sudden squall of rain, Wellington boots splashing China as they raced past.

“Hey!” she shouted after the children, as if she wasn’t wet enough already.

“Never mind them,” the Skipper cried from the porch of
The Cuckoo
. “Storm’s up!”

And down came the rain.

Welcome home
, China thought as she raced for the shelter of The Cuckoo Inn.
Just what I’m going to discover here about my past, who knows?

Chapter 2

Like a drowned rat, China stumbled into the ancient tap room, her usually well-groomed explosion of dark blond curls sticking out at all angles from under a borrowed woolen hat. Sneezing three times, she stood on the checkered linoleum floor in an expanding puddle, suddenly realizing everyone in the pub was looking at her.

“Hi,” was all she could get out.

It was a silent interrogation. Old whiskery men in heavy coats, younger fishermen in oilskins and sou’westers, and the comfortably built landlady from behind the bar all stared back at her.

Skipper John cleared his throat. “This is China Stuart, Beatrice’s niece from Manchester. Here to pay her last respects and see to the Grange.”

The silence was suddenly broken. Murmurs of understanding and even one or two good-intentioned nods came from the islanders, as they returned to their ale and dominos. But the quiet conversations that resumed were noticeably in Gaelic. To the islanders it was their first language, but to China it seemed as if they were rudely shutting her out.

One man stood out from the rest; probably a couple of years older than China. He had sandy hair with a week-old beard, and he actually managed a smile. There were deep laugh lines around his soft grey eyes and he was tanned by many years working at sea.

Something tugged at her childhood memories.
Running through the course grass hand-in-hand with a young boy and a cloud of coloured wings rising up into the air before them.

“This is my boy, Donald,” said the Skipper. “You might remember him from years ago.”

“She won’t, Pa. But I remember her. Wee China Stuart, hiding behind her mammy’s skirts!”

China felt herself redden. “Pardon?” she asked.

Donald Dart just laughed.

The Skipper scowled at his son. “Back in the day, you two used to play with each other all the time, up at the Grange. Sometimes my brainless boy can put on the thick Gaelic accent for the tourists. A little respect, Donald. She’s a Stuart, after all!”

“
Was
a Stuart, thirty years ago. She left, remember?” And with that unexpected outburst, Donald finished his beer and stamped out into the torrential rain.

“Not one of my family’s biggest fans then, your son?” asked China, trying to wrestle her hair into some sort of order.

“On the contrary. He was awful fond of Beatrice, even though she could be a bit tetchy in her later years. Donald used to do a few odd jobs for her, trying to keep that old pile o’ stones from falling down.”

Thanking the Skipper for the ride to the island, China let the landlady, Mrs. Baxter, lead her up to a tiny bedroom on the second floor.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, Miss Stuart. There’s hot water in the tank now, and I’ve left sandwiches by the bed. Oh, and there was a pile of mail Donald brought down from the Grange . . . some of it was addressed to you.”

China thanked Mrs. Baxter, dying to get out of the clinging wet clothes. Exhausted, she closed the bedroom door and turned the key in the lock, feeling totally out of her comfort zone.
All these strange people with their nearly incomprehensible accents. Was this what she had wanted to return to?
Still, she had come here with a dual purpose, to see off her aunt in proper Stuart style and to try to find her roots, so she had better get used to things pretty quickly. It was as soon as she shrugged off the oilskins that she suddenly realised she was not alone in the room.

Someone was watching her.

Laying on the single bed was the scruffiest dog she had ever seen. An Irish Wolfhound the size of a small pony, he was just finishing off a full plate of sandwiches. The dog looked at her and she looked at the dog as he licked the last of her meal from his whiskers.

Blinking rapidly in surprise, China swore quite fluently, then waved one finger at the beast and yelled, “
Bad
dog!”

Five minutes later, having improvised by using her belt as a lead, she dragged the bedraggled spiky-haired mutt down the twisted staircase and back into the pub.

“I’m sorry. This, whatever his name is, was in my room,” she explained to Mrs. Baxter.

“Aye, that’ll be right. This is Morgan. He belongs to you.”

China gasped for a few moments like a fish out of water. “Me?” she eventually squeaked.

“He was Beatrice’s dog. We’ve been looking after him since she passed, so now he’s yours.”

Morgan panted and watched her through tangled grey fur, then casually slipped his lead and padded back upstairs to the bedroom.

“Oh,” was all China could get out.
The only pet she had had as a child was a goldfish, Blinky.
He had lasted two weeks
. Trying to retain a little dignity, she stuck her nose in the air and followed the dog back upstairs.

Morgan, although the friendliest animal in creation, did what dogs do best, smelt terribly. Using up most of the precious hot water, China gave him a long bath. Enjoying the unusual experience, Morgan soaked her through again by way of thanks with a wild watery shake that began with his floppy ears and finally quivered out of the tip of his tail.

Recovering from that experience, after drying herself down, China spent five minutes flipping through the letters Mrs. Baxter had left in her room. Most were junk mail, but there was one in particular that appeared very official, and when she read its contents it confused her greatly. Washing herself with what was left of the lukewarm water, hunger gnawed at her empty stomach.

“Bad dog.” She scowled at Morgan. He grinned at her in his doggie way and wagged his tail.
Obviously used to being called that
, she thought glumly. Putting on a warm Aran jumper and jeans, having a half-hearted attempt at brushing her curly hair into some sort of order, China tiptoed down the rickety stairs to find the pub almost completely in darkness.

“Hello?” she called out softly, seeing a solitary figure hunched at the bar.

“Hello, yourself,” replied a familiar voice. In the faint golden lights from above the bar, Donald Dart smiled at her, a glass of malt whisky warming in his hands. “We’re sort of closed. Sorry about earlier. You caught me by surprise. I never thought you’d come back just for the funeral.”

She joined him at the bar, slipping onto the worn barstool next to him. In the soft light he seemed a little less windswept, but just as interesting. Trying not to salivate, she eyed up his supper, a generous slice of game pie and a thick cheese sandwich on home-baked bread.

“That’s me, all impulsive and wild.” She laughed, hoping her jocular tone didn’t sound too false.
Why was she nervous around Donald? They had been kids when she had first known him. It annoyed her that she remembered so little about that time.

Donald nodded and slipped casually behind the bar. Topping up his own drink from the optic, he poured a second glass and slid it across the polished mahogany towards her.

“On the house. Biddy won’t mind. She’s my da’s sister. We’re nearly all related on the island. If you’re hungry, help yourself. I’ve had my fill.”

Without being asked twice, China wolfed down the sandwich first then attacked the pie. As she ate, the great loping form of Morgan suddenly appeared at her side, tongue lolling out, wistfully eying the chunk of pie in her hands.

“He’s sticking to you like glue.” Donald chuckled. When he smiled, all that angst and anger seemed to wash away, those grey eyes full of energy and memories.

China suddenly felt comfortable in his presence. Safe. Unthreatened.

“He’s just after the food. He already polished off my supper.”

“That’s what Morgan does best. Food up at the Grange was a wee bit scarce most days, so he’s turned into a bit of a scrounger.”

China wrinkled her nose. “A smelly one at that.” She fumbled in her jeans pocket for a creased envelope. “This was waiting for me, along with the Hound of the Baskervilles here. What do you make of it?”

As he reached to take the letter, their fingers brushed against each other. China suddenly found herself becoming slightly flushed and was glad of the low lighting. She put the odd sensation down to the strong whiskey, but it didn’t stop her from staring at Donald. This just
so
wasn’t like her.

Reading the contents of the letter quickly, a touch of the old angry Donald surfaced for an instant, as he screwed the A4 sheet of paper into a ball and lobbed it into the darkness of the pub snug.

“Damn parasite! This keeps happening all across the local islands when anyone elderly is ill or dies.”

China glanced at the fancy stamp on the envelope. “James McKriven:
Na h-Eileanan Siar
Property Developers. Sound’s posh.”

“It means, ‘Western Isles’ in Gaelic. Not that McKriven speaks the tongue. Him and his bloody family have been plundering the islands long as there have been people on them.”

By this time, Morgan had retrieved the scrunched-up letter and dropped it, only slightly damp, into China’s hand. Flattening it out on the bar top she read it again, a worried frown creasing her brow.

“But it says here my aunt has given first option to this company. That their claim to the Grange and the surrounding acreage supersedes mine.”

“We’ll have to see about that. I’m sure McKriven is just chancing his arm. You’ll need Bea’s solicitor, Douglas McGregor, to look into it tomorrow. You appear all done in.”

She was. The excitement and the stress of the long journey to Butterfly Island had finally taken its toll and China suddenly found she was warm, comfortable, and couldn’t keep her eyes open. Helping her up the first few stairs to her tiny room, with Morgan leading the way, Donald reluctantly let her go.

“See you in the morning,” he whispered. Then she turned on the stair, leaned down, and kissed him softly on the cheek. It was the fisherman’s turn to blush.

“Thanks for the pie,” she said as she vanished up the twisting staircase.

“Thanks for coming back,” he replied. But she had already shut the door to her room behind her.

Enclosed in a compact space with the massive dog once again, the bath seemed to have made his natural odour worse. As the weather was still too wild outside to open a window, China spent the night with her head under the bed covers to avoid the smell of damp dog. Morgan curled up on one of her suitcases, delving it in with his immense weight, and began to snore softly.

China slept fitfully to start with, plagued by ancient dreams. In her sleep, half-recalled memories started to come back, not all of them pleasant ones. But there was always the tousle-haired Donald, holding her hand, looking after her.

Pulling the massive quilt tighter, China Stuart settled into a deeper sleep with a smile on her face as the wind howled around The Cuckoo like something possessed. Yet she found the storm strangely soothing. In her dreams, she wondered what the new day would bring.