The narrow gravel path crunched under his shoes. The brick piers on each side of the open gateway were cracked and partially covered by ivy. The graveyard stretched up and over a hill with a black pointed picket fence stretching around each side. The fence was adorned by sporadic patches of green ivy with the surrounding sharp spikes like a prison for the dead. Graves and tombstones were a maze of granite and marble separated by patches of lush grass and a few wildflowers. The morning sun provided an intricate patchwork of shadows with the gravel path winding its way through the grave sites up the slope. A stately evergreen yew tree spread its foliage like a loving angel at the top of the hill. It provided shade for most of the grave sites around the pinnacle. The yew tree was common in the English churchyards and was a symbol of the immortality of the soul. Andrew stopped at the entrance and considered how he would go about his search. It was common for Australian visitors to track their ancestors in graveyards around the British Isles and Andrew had done his research. This was his first trip to England and he was determined to connect with his family history. At thirty years old, he had reached the stage where ancestry became interesting. The burial register had confirmed that his great grandfather, on his father’s side, John Spence, was buried in this graveyard. He could find nothing on the burial information of his great grandmother, Bronte Spence. When he had arrived he had tried to find the Vicar of the adjoining church, to get a lead on where exactly to look. Unfortunately, there was no sign of anyone.
Andrew decided to work up the left side of the path and then down the right. The leather satchel slung over his shoulder contained his wallet, water bottle, the important details of his research and notebook. He felt well prepared. This may take hours or he could get lucky. He walked expectantly along the first row of graves. The graves were primarily single headstones nowhere near as grandiose as the monuments and tombs at the top. The common attribute for all was their age. There were no new grave sites - some were over two hundred and fifty years old. The weathering of the stone made some of the inscriptions difficult to read. Andrew ran his fingers over the cold stone of those too cracked or eroded to read as if trying to sense those whose bones lay beneath. He continued... peering with expectation at the inscriptions on each headstone as he passed.
Andrew was making slow progress - wondering how long the search would take when he noticed the lone figure. He was dressed in long grey trousers, long sleeved pale shirt buttoned at the neck, red neck scarf, brown waistcoat, peaked cloth cat, and work boots. Like a character from a Charles Dickens novel, he stood, back turned, on the opposite side of the path from Andrew. He was standing under the shade of the yew tree towards the crest of the hill. Andrew could see that he was stooped over, using a long-handled implement – a hoe, to dig around one of the graves. This was a piece of luck... someone who may know where to look for his great grandfather. Andrew headed directly across the slope, zig-zagging through headstones and monuments up towards the figure. Hearing Andrew approaching, the man turned and waited for Andrew to arrive, using the hoe as a leaning post.
“Hi,” Andrew said, short of breath from the hurried approach.
“Wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for the grave site of my great grandfather,” he asked.
“Well, you’ve come to the right man. I know everyone that’s planted here,” he said with a broad Midlands accent.
Andrew looked at the bearded face of an old man, as weathered as the gravestones. Judging by the dirt on his britches and under his fingernails, he was the church groundsman.
“What name are you looking for lad?” he asked.
“John Henry Spence,” Andrew replied.
“I know that one very well,” he said as he walked off towards the pathway. “It’s up top,” he added not looking back. Andrew followed him up the path and then off to the left under the spreading yew tree. It would have taken hours to find without help. The old man stopped directly in front of two raised ledger monuments. “This is him,”
The monuments had flat coffin covering slabs of stone raised above the surrounding turf. The two graves were surrounded by a short, knee-high rusted iron railing with an upright at each corner. In the shadows of the beautiful tree, Andrew couldn’t imagine a more serene resting place. “Thank you so much, it would have taken me ages to find it,” he said.
“That’s ok,” the old man replied, standing and leaning again on his hoe.
Andrew expected the old man would go back to his chores - he stayed, obviously curious. Andrew crouched, as he removed his notebook and pen from his satchel, to get a better look at the inscription on the first stone slab.
He read out the inscription as he wrote in the notebook. “In loving memory - John Jack Henry Spence - 1838 to 1879,” Andrew stood looking at his notebook. “Jack must have been his nickname,”
“Yes, it was,” the old man said.
Andrew turned to the old man with a puzzled gaze. “Do you know anything about him?”
“I do,” he said. “There is a bit of a story here,” he added.
Andrew smiled at the old man. He was excited by the prospect of finding any information about the ancestors. “Great, I’m eager to hear anything you know. This grave must be great grandmother,” he said moving over to the second slab and bending down.
“No, it’s not her,” the old man said.
Andrew, peering at the inscription read it out loud. “Lily Ryan – 1843 to 1878 – together forever at last. So who is this?” he asked.
“I can tell you the story - the locals know it well,” the old man hesitated, looked behind him, lay down his hoe and sat on a convenient gravestone. Andrew, notebook in hand, squatted in front of him. “Jack Spence was a farm owner’s son. He married young, only nineteen. It was an arranged marriage with one of the other land owner’s daughters. They had a son - Henry. The three of them lived on the farm with Jack’s mum and dad. The problem was that Jack had feelings for another - the maid who worked at the farm. Her name was Lily Ryan.”
Andrew’s eyes widened, “Lily is buried here...what happened to my great grandmother, Bronte?”
“Now that is a mystery... as it was back then. Bronte and the baby boy Henry just disappeared from the farm one summer’s day. They were not seen again, and everyone was of the mind that Jack had murdered them. So as to be with his true love...Lily.”
“And did he – murder them?” Andrew asked.
“Well, Jack professed his innocence, insisting that they had left of their own free will. No evidence was found to prove otherwise,” the old man said.
Andrew was scribbling furiously in his notebook. He looked up, “How did Lily get to be buried here with John...Jack Spence, did he marry her?”
“Oh no, he was already married to Bronte. Lily left the farm to avoid any gossip about her involvement with Jack. Sadly Lily drowned in the River Trent not far from here. The circumstances of her death were judged to have shown it was accidental. She was laid to rest here in this graveyard,” the old man looked wistfully at Lily’s monument.
Andrew stared intently at his notebook. “Lily was buried here in 1878 and Jack Spence...only one year later in 1879.”
“Jack was distraught at the death of Lily. You see that long branch?” the old man asked, pointing up at a long horizontal solid branch of the yew tree. “Jack hanged himself from that branch. He couldn’t bear to be without his beloved Lily.”
“Oh God - that’s tragic.” Andrew was stunned.
“But they are together forever now.” The old man said as his eyes glistened with the welling tears. He stood up, straightened his scarf, composed himself and looked directly at Andrew. “I have always known Jack didn’t murder his wife and son, but you’ve confirmed it.”
Andrew looked puzzled. “How did I do that?’ he asked.
“Because you’re here,” he said. “Jack had one son, Henry. He must be your grandfather and the line continued. Bronte must have left the country with baby Henry.”
“Yes, of course,” Andrew replied with a smile.
“I’ll be off now. Got work to do,” the old man turned and shuffled away.
“Thank you so much for your help,” Andrew called out to the retreating old man.
Andrew was delighted. This was more than he could have hoped for. He stood looking at his notes for a few seconds. He wanted him to stay longer but the old man seemed eager to get away. Andrew made his way back down the path to the front entrance. He noticed the Vicar at the front of the church and decided he should inform him that he had been searching in his Graveyard.
“Hello!” he called as he walked towards the Vicar.
The Vicar, who was sweeping the church entrance paving, looked up. “Hello!”
“I’ve just been in your graveyard looking for my ancestors,” Andrew said.
“Hope you had some success,” the Vicar replied.
“Yes, I was looking for my great grandfather, John Spence. Your groundsman helped me. He knew a lot about the story with Lily Ryan. What a tragic tale.” Andrew said.
The Vicar looked at him blankly. “We haven’t had a sexton – groundsman here for many years. I don’t know who you may have been talking too.”
“But you would know the story of John or Jack Spence hanging himself from the tree in the graveyard?” he asked with a concerned look.
“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve been here fifteen years and I’ve not heard of it,” the Vicar replied. “It may have been before my time.”
Andrew was bewildered. He turned to look back at the church graveyard. He was sure he could see a figure standing in the shadows under the yew tree.