My lone search

It was a cold December day when I walked from the bus stop towards the church where my mother and father were married. St. Nicholas’s church was about five minutes’ walk from the bus stop and I had to walk briskly to keep warm. I’d made the journey from New Zealand back to England in search of my family history, particularly about my mother who had died when I was a baby, and who I had never known.

It took me some time to find the vicar who was on his way out of the vicarage to visit a parishioner. He was very helpful however, as he opened up two safes and left me to it. The Banns, Marriages and Death Registers kept me busy for some time as I was really keen to find my mother’s signature in the Marriage register. Seeing it, I thought, would help to give me a clearer image of the mother I never knew.

I found it, and I treasured the opportunity to see it. It was more than enough to see that, and to have walked up the path and into the church, down the aisle to the front, where I imagined my Mum and Dad holding hands, and gazing into each other’s eyes. They would have been hearing the words I heard then in my head:

“Whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder”

…and no man did. Instead, death came and took her away, and separated them forever.

It was years later before I quietly asked my father when were alone one day: ‘Dad, what was my mother really like?’

I’d asked him a couple of times before but he could get no further than saying wistfully, and with emotion, ‘She was a lovely, warm-hearted woman, Den; we were soul-mates…’ and he could get no further as his eyes filled up…

I stopped asking after that, as I could see that it distressed him so. But it distressed me too for I longed to know more of the mother who had loved me; the mother I never knew. That day in December though I’d gained a little more for my mind’s picture. I’d been in that church, seen their signatures together, stood where they stood, and some years later I was able to get a copy of their Marriage Certificate.

As I left the church, the vicarage was closed and I had nowhere to leave the keys entrusted me by the vicar. I would loved for him to have been there to chat with me about the history that linked me to his church. I walked back across the main road to a school, which was probably the church school and found two or three people in the staffroom. After introducing myself, I gave them the keys and then because I was so very cold I requested a cup of coffee. They were very happy to oblige, offered me a seat and some biscuits too, and were keen to ask me about New Zealand and hear about the reason for my journey.

It was almost 1.30 p.m. as I left to walk back to the bus stop. The grey skies and the penetrating cold, combined with the fact that I was on my own made it easier to leave. St Nicholas Church records, otherwise I may have stayed there forever, connected slightly to my mother.

And I offer my thanks to the vicar for the willingness to assist me and to entrust his valuable records and keys to me. He had helped me in the search for my own identity, for which I am most grateful.

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)