It was Twelfth Night, the Christmas season drawing to a close, a new year lay ahead. As the grandfather clock ticked toward midnight, he was aware that the time had come to leave his earthly parish. People did not believe him when he spoke of ghosts; but, in the dark, deep stillness of winter, spirits were abroad. Over the years, he had listened quietly, not only to the living, but to the dead, communing with the previous, long-gone residents, their conversations and shadows swirling and dancing about him. Now, contemplating his own mortality, the voices grew more audible, the figures more distinct. 

Closing his eyes, the man reflected on times past. For many years he had ministered within the small parish of St Julian. He dwelt in an ancient structure that ranged along King Street, opposite the church, a building he shared with butcher, baker and publican. Together they had served the body, mind and spirit of friends and neighbours. Rites of passage had been marked by blessing, celebration and mourning in the church, followed with food from butcher and baker shared in the pub; church and pub, both public houses.

The door of his sitting room opened onto the street, its stained-glass cross proclaiming his presence. Here, he had sat and listened to the footfall of passers-by. He heard once again the companionable murmur of regulars in the Old Barge Room next-door, sometimes there was raucous laughter, occasionally, as in any home, angry voices. Those friendly sounds, together with the domestic noises from the rooms above, had provided a homely backdrop to his reveries, they were his family. Now, the windows of the Old Barge and its neighbours were shuttered, the doors barred, the old man the sole living resident. Nineteen-seventy-four offered little hope, this seemed the dying gasp of the parish of St Julian, they would expire together. 

King Street had been known for its churches, breweries and public houses. Over the centuries, the pubs, grand friaries, important churches and noble houses had come and gone. Once, this was a place with purpose; but pubs and churches need people, a mixed economy of prayer, bread and ale to propagate and sustain everyday life. As he sat watching the pendulum of his clock and his life swing to and fro, ever more slowly, the priest was cast adrift with his thoughts in the Old Barge. As he meditated in the place that was his home, and in which he was about to die, he was neither alarmed nor unhappy. 

In his mind’s eye, the old man rose from the chair and revisited the familiar, deserted rooms. Below street level, amid flints and Saxon post-holes, ancient memories stirred, the ghosts of times past recognised a kindred spirit. Up worn steps, through stone doorways and oaken beams they rose to welcome him. Here was a quiet man who knew that there were more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt by the sceptic. He was at ease with them and they with him. He met the spirits of the place as they recomposed themselves in the silence and stillness, together they moved through the layers of history.

The priest mingled with fur-clad marshmen who greeted him with tales of good fishing and wildfowl. Saxon traders told him of arrogant Normans. There were soldiers and sailors, he met saints and sinners. At this place, beside the river, below the escarpment, a settlement grew, generation by generation. The river became busy with boats, goods and people. A humble hut became a house, a great hall. Robert Toppes, a man of vision, erected an impressive building for the merchants and exotic cargoes from across the North Sea. 

Trading patterns changed, the building outlived its usefulness and its importance declined. The community found itself on the fringe of events, The great people of City, Church and State went about their business elsewhere. History passed the Street by; The Reformation, Kett’s Rebellion and the Civil War came and went. The grand trading hall was subdivided, becoming successively more crowded and dilapidated. Tenements and tenants crowded into and around the old building. Livestock, being driven from the South Gate to the marketplace below the castle, provided a little excitement. 

Despite the best efforts of the residents, through the years plaster decayed, beams shifted, grime attached itself to surfaces, fixtures and fittings. The building’s decline mirrored the fortunes of the community. St Julian’s parish had never been wealthy or favoured by the urban elite. Robert Toppes himself,  had lived and worshipped in the Parish of St. Peter Mancroft, not St. Julian’s. The church deteriorated, with parts of it collapsing in the Nineteenth century. 

During WW2, houses were destroyed, the Old Barge narrowly escaping destruction, St Julian’s received a direct hit. The church was rebuilt, but homes were demolished. Robert Toppes’ Hall continued to provide sanctuary and sustenance to the friendly little community that struggled on amid urban squalor and brutal industrial development. Then, time and demands for new, modern homes with different standards of sanitation, determined that the whole area would be redeveloped. When the nearby livestock market closed, it seemed that the end was nigh.

From his new vantage point in time and space, the parish priest saw his old self, comfortable and safe in his shabby well-loved home. There he had shared those last difficult years with his neighbours until the fire in his hearth was extinguished. Now, he and other spectres of times past, watched as new life surged through the hall, unexpectedly. Up among the rafters, the dragon opened a yellow eye. Fascinated historians and  wondering archaeologists streamed excitedly through the building, discovering what all those who had gone before already knew, this was a special place. Voices were raised in joy and amazement as the dragon’s hiding place was revealed.

 ‘Regeneration! Hallelujah!’ The old priest said, quietly; and smiled. 

Addendum

St Julian’s Vicarage was in 117/119, Fr Seear’s sitting room is now the Writers’ Room.

‘He always said it was haunted – who knows? …Fr Sear (sic) was living in Dragon Hall at the time of his death.’ — Mary Secker (King Street Community Voices)

Although referred to as Fr Sear, his name was spelt with two e’s: Seear.

His death was announced in the Eastern Daily Press with an invitation to Vespers of the Dead and Watch on Wednesday 9^th January, with a Requiem Mass at St Peter Parmentergate on the 10^th, followed by Cremation at St Faith’s.

A tribute in the Eastern Daily Press spoke of his being widely known, and of his deep and sympathetic understanding of people. Prior to coming to Norwich, he served in London throughout WWII, in Clapham and Lambeth.

Author’s note

I was attracted to this project because I am interested in history, people and buildings. Story Makers  promised to provide a range of opportunities to be creative while exploring and recording the people that lived at Dragon Hall, the things that happened here and the role that the building has had in Norwich’s past, present and future. People with specialist skills informed and led the sessions, but it was a safe space within which people of varying gifts felt able to express themselves.

Being part of a group can provide energy and support, but that can be dependent on the composition of the group, together with the expertise and confidence of those leading a project. Members of the group and the staff gave inspiration, support and encouragement.

I found it to be a really diverse group people, of varying age, background and experience. Together we learned about the space, the stories and lives that have been part of its history. There were suggestions concerning research opportunities, and introductions to new ways of seeking information.

I felt able to propose ideas and explore different ways of expressing them. I have been particularly concerned with placing Dragon Hall in its historical and social context, the hub of a close-knit community through the centuries. My particular genre is story-telling and creative non-fiction and it has been wonderful to contribute to the project and become a small part of the history of Dragon Hall.

Although I have known and explored Norwich for over forty years, I discovered new and interesting aspects of King Street. The stories of its people, pubs and churches are fascinating and intriguing.

Stepping into Dragon Hall is made possible by Arts Council England, National Lottery Heritage Fund, Norwich Freemen’s Charity and Wolfson Foundation.