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Disgusted, I sat on the coach, traveling from London to York. The day was hot. I was hot. And the window wouldn’t open. The only points of interest, if you could call them that, were nuclear power stations, strategically positioned like old-time forts to guard the flat, uninteresting fields. Where was the beautiful English countryside I loved so much? Had I known it would be like this, I would have taken the train and considerably shortened my journey. I tried to settle back and sort things out in my mind.

The search for my paternal grandparents’ graves had proved futile. I knew approximately when they died, and I had searched the record books of cemeteries for miles around the suburb of London where they had lived. In accordance with my father’s wishes at his death, we had his body cremated and scattered his ashes, but I was certain his parents had been buried. Auntie Syb, my mother’s sister, now in her eighties, made some suggestions, but all ended in blind alleys. She really didn’t remember. Less than two weeks remained before I had to return to the States, and I still hadn’t found them.

Daddy’s parents and the family before them had lived in or around York. I knew this from reading the entries in the family bible. Many had been buried in a place called “—Poppleton.” Try as I would, I couldn't read the first part of the name. Perhaps I'll find something with Poppleton on it once we arrive, I thought, though it seemed ever less likely.

The coach came to a stop in a market town. The sun shone down on gray stone buildings set round a gray cobbled square. People got off and people got on. I settled myself in the hot, uncomfortable seat and wished I were there already; I almost wished I wasn’t making the trip at all. Then the coach came into York. I sat up straight and looked at the buildings: more gray stone, but this time strangely familiar. The bus made a wide sweep round an incline and as the buildings and streets of the city came fully into view, the feeling of familiarity, now mingled with a strange joy grew stronger. I was home–home in this place I’d never even seen pictures of before.

The passengers alighted and went their several ways. Almost lightheaded, I walked into the tourist bureau next to the bus stop and made arrangements for bed and breakfast for two nights. I asked about a taxi, but the man behind the counter said it was only a five minutes walk. So I lugged my overnight bag on a fifteen-minute hike uphill to the house and was greeted at the door by a very pleasant man who ushered me up more stairs than I care to remember. I tried not to let him know I was out of breath. He didn’t seem to have any trouble at all. Still panting, I settled into an attic room, hoping I wouldn’t hit my head on the sloping ceiling. The walls were painted pink. Pink and green frilly bedspreads covered the two beds and matching curtains hung at a small window. I looked down at stately oaks in a park across the street.

I unpacked my bag and arranged my clothes neatly in a chest of drawers. After showering in what must have once been a closet, I went back down stairs. No wonder I had been puffing on the way up: my room was on the fourth floor.

I walked back into town and found a pub that was serving dinner. Later, after a glass of cider, steak and kidney pudding served with carrots and cabbage, then bread and butter pudding and a cup of very good coffee, I strolled back to the B&B.

The next morning I consumed an excellent English breakfast, then wandered around the town, looking in shop windows, marveling at the buildings, some with upper storeys jutting way out over the narrow street. I made my way to the library, a big building in the center of York and found the reference desk. Before I could say anything, an angular woman of perhaps fifty snapped, “It’s Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” I questioned. I knew it was Wednesday. What did that have to do with anything?

“We close early on Wednesdays. We’re closing in five minutes.”

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I pleaded. The librarian looked steadily at me, unsmiling. I felt I was back in school, once again caught doing something wrong.

“My great-great-great grandfather was Lord Mayor of York three times,” I added desperately. The angular lady beckoned to me. I followed her into a room, the walls of which were covered with glass fronted cases.

“What was his name?” she asked.

“Isaac Spencer,” I told her.

She moved over to one of the cases, unlocked it, and withdrew a medium-sized but very old-looking book. She scanned the pages, then, looking up, proclaimed, "Twice."

"Twice." I echoed.

“Lord Mayor twice, Sheriff, and Alderman.” She seemed impressed. She handed me the book. Tingling with excitement, I scanned the hand-written page.

“Could I possibly make a copy of it?” I asked, doubting somehow she would let me.

“The copier is over there.” She waved her hand towards the door.

“Thanks. I’ll give it right back to you.” Holding the book very carefully, I walked out of the room and found the copier in the hallway. I rummaged in my purse for the appropriate coins and made a copy of the page. When I removed the book from the copier I looked at the facing page, then made a copy of that, too. It had other Spencers on it, dating back many hundreds of years. Someday I would try to find out if they really were my ancestors, but for now I would concentrate on the Lord Mayor. I returned the book to the waiting librarian.

“Thank you ever so much,” I said, genuinely grateful. “I appreciate you staying late for me.”

“There is a book in print that lists all the Lord Mayors in it. You can probably find it in one of the shops.” She turned and started walking away, obviously dismissing me.

“Thanks again,” I said as I left the library, carefully holding my precious copies.

Outside, I headed back to the shops. I found the book about the Lord Mayors, and asked for a bag big enough to hold my copies without having to fold them. In a little restaurant I ordered a tossed salad and settled back to read the book. Organized in chronological order, it was easy to find my great-great-great grandfather’s name, but it said little about him. Was he good, was he bad, was he just another lord mayor? Dates were listed, but with no clue as to where he was buried. I was hoping he had done something outstanding. If he had, it wasn’t there. The information was so sparse. Nice as it was having the book with his name listed twice, I felt somehow disappointed.

After lunch I wandered back towards the bus station. There were several buses there, including one with the name Nether Poppleton displayed. That had to be its full name. I paid the driver for a ticket and sat in the front seat opposite him.

The ride was pleasant. After we left York we traveled through country lanes lined with hedgerows and six-bar gates that provided an occasional glimpse of fields. Suddenly I had an irrepressible urge to get off the bus. I didn’t know where we were, but I knew I had to get off. We were approaching a request stop. I stood up and pulled the cord to ring a bell. The driver stopped the bus.

"Is this near Nether Poppleton?" I asked the driver.

"The village is next stop. Do you want to stay on?" He smiled kindly at me, probably knowing from my accent I wasn't a local, didn't really belong.

"No. I'll walk. Thank you." I stepped down from the bus.

Across the road was a footpath that ran beside a meadow. I don’t know why, but I crossed the road and walked along the path. I crossed another road and followed a lane between two fields. A donkey came up to a gate and I scratched his nose, wishing I had something to offer him.

The lane ended at another road. Across the road was a farmhouse and farm buildings and–I could hardly believe it–a church. I opened the gate to the churchyard and started looking at gravestones. I knew they'd be there, but none had the name Spencer on them. Perhaps I was in the wrong place. Maybe this wasn’t Nether Poppleton's church at all. Had I got off the bus in the wrong spot? Why did I get off the bus before it reached the village? Perhaps the right church was in the village, not out here in the country. Doubts flooded my mind. What was I, some sort of witch or seer? But the more I berated myself, the more I knew this was the place.

I went into the church. It was small and very old. Figures of noble people buried in the church knelt or reclined in niches in the walls. Sunlight shone through biblical scenes on stained glass windows. Once again I was at home; I really knew this place. Surely I must have worshipped here before. But of course I hadn’t. I knelt at the altar and thanked God for bringing me here, then walked round the church checking inscriptions on various stones. None bore the name Spencer. I signed the guest book and reluctantly left the church.

One more walk round the churchyard and I would head back to York.

And then I saw it: a large, impressive black marble slab leaning against the moss-encrusted bricks of the churchyard wall. I walked over, knowing I had found them.

Hardly able to breathe, my hand trembling, I wiped away tears from my cheeks as I gazed at the stone. I read the names: four generations of Spencers, dating from the Lord Mayor’s father in the 1700’s to the wife and infant son of my great-great grandfather.

Here were my ancestors. Here was I, well over a century after the last one had been laid to rest. I wasn't just a person on my own anymore; I was a member of a family. I belonged.

* * *

©2006 Mary Spencer Kerslake
Counting a “Spanish dancing girl” among her otherwise decidedly British ancestors, Mary Kerslake grew up in England, just outside of London. After surviving a childhood punctuated by WWII air raids and young adulthood stints as literature student and music teacher, she immigrated to the United States with her husband and three children in 1965. She is a technical writer, teacher and emergency medical technician, and has written numerous articles for educational and emergency services trade publications.