Jack and Liam took up pole position outside a coffee shop to sup their lattes and people watch. The passing footfall was a bumper crop. A warm summer’s afternoon had delivered coaches of North Folk and charabancs of tourists to Norwich’s cobbled streets. Dutch lowlanders in sensible shoes mingled with happy snapping Koreans, local gentry in waxed jackets weaved through the hipsters in vintage garb, busy bees in smart suits hurried past, glued to their smartphones, and a jester-hatted Big Issue seller competed with a line of smiley charity workers collecting direct debits for the cause. In the middle of the rainbow crowd, two men with well-fed midriffs and trendy whiskers paused to take in a busker crooning for his supper. They grinned as the Frank Sinatra tribute segued from New York, New York into a local interpretation of My Kind of Town (‘Naaridge is’), and when the final chords faded to nothing, they tossed some coins into a trilby perched on a Fender amp and vanished into the throng holding hands. Like everyone else in this surprising city, they were doing it their way.
Jack ran his fingers along the tourist map with its colourful cartoon drawings. The tapestry of streets was weaved with familiar names of old London Town like Charing Cross, Blackfriars Bridge, Bishopsgate, Spitalfields, Haymarket, and Pudding Lane, threaded with roads of goats, cattle, dogs and a rampant horse, and stitched with more holy places than a mitred man could shake his crook at. Clearly, this was not London. What the boys from the Old Smoke heard was an altogether different soundscape, just distant enough to escape the orbit of the great metropolis and the relentless surge of Estuary English. Somehow, Norwich had preserved a unique linguistic heritage, a melodic sweep of bouncing vowels and dropped consonants pickled down the centuries.
The inquisitive strangers downed their coffees to roam the streets. Their meandering took them to the Assembly House, a gorgeous pile of Georgian elegance, and the perfect stage for Regency debutantes in bonnets and Empire Line frocks to chase Mr Darcy around the courtyard fountain. Next door, the architectural show continued with the Theatre Royal, its stylish Art Deco lines disguising 250 years of treading the boards. A quick circuit of the front-of-house posters revealed an eclectic tradition of new and old, highbrow and kitchen sink, top hats and tutus, laughter and tears.
Back down the hill and along Gentlemen’s Walk, they passed neat rows of multi-coloured market stalls lined up like beach huts marooned at low tide. With the vast City Hall as an imposing backdrop, they skirted the old Guildhall and disappeared down a maze of lanes and alleyways, a treasure trove of independents – shops, pubs and cafés. Norwich had bucked the national trend of sameness. Maybe the city’s relative seclusion had bubble-wrapped it from the commercial onslaught of identikit chains, or perhaps wise burghers had done their civic duty and protected the endangered. Whether by accident or design, it was a window shopper’s dream. “The most complete medieval city in Britain,” boasted the guidebook, and as they pounded the streets, up Saint This, down Saint That, along the lazy winding river that embraced the city like a feather-leaved boa, Norwich oozed the ages from every brick, paving stone and stained glass window. The city, it seemed, was triple dipped in history.
Finally, Jack and Liam came to rest on the far side of a handsome stone bridge and sat under the shade of a sprawling tree outside the Playhouse, the Theatre Royal’s little sister. A teaset in pastel shades hung in the canopy, wafting in the breeze. The walk-weary, creaky Londoners ended their day by sinking a bottle of Merlot in the Playhouse beer garden. Close to the newly elevated University of the Arts, the bustling bar was the watering hole of choice for young fashionistas and their arty mentors. Jack and Liam took their seats at the epicentre of the animated crowd to imbibe an ambience that overflowed with exuberance and optimism.
They were devoted eavesdroppers.
“I’m gutted,” said the thin waif with the scruffy beard and precision hairdo.
“Oh?” said his companion, refreshing his coral blue lipstick. “What’s up?”
“It’s Katy. She’s dumped me.”
“Oh, her. No surprise. She’s been slagging you off all over college.”
“But I really like her.”
“Oh get over it. You’re not the only one with problems, you know.”
The startled waif put down his mug of Earl Grey and stared into the eyes of his best friend.
“What’s the matter, mate?”
“It’s a bit embarrassing…everyone’s saying I only like men in uniforms, like it’s a fetish or something.”
“Well do you?”
“No! And anyway, Ben’s not in the army anymore.”
“Dishonourable discharge, wasn’t it?”
“No, it was not!”
“Well, that’s what I heard.”
“You heard wrong. He left on health grounds. He got run over by a truck.”
“Anyway, Katy told me that Ben’s the jealous type.”
“Of course he’s jealous. Look at me. I’m gorgeous.”
“I’m so excited!” shrieked the young art student who over-pronounced her T’s. “The Arttts Council has asked me to design the logo for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. It’s a massive honour!” she announced to her friends without drawing breath, flapping her hands about like a tic-tac man. “I’ve Googled every Shakespeare production going back for ever. Believe me, my logo will be a one–off original. And completely authentic. I shall use colours the Bard himself would recognise. I’ve picked up a colour chart from Homebase. What do you think of thatttt?”
“I should take a holiday,” said the pipe-smoking lecturer in a comfy cardigan. “It’s been years.”
“Well, you can afford it,” replied his diminutive companion, a middle-aged woman with white hair tucked into a neat bun, and horn-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. “What’s the problem?”
“I never seem to summon up enough energy. I like it here.”
“The Playhouse?”
“Norwich. It’s all I want. Does that make me sad?”
“I’m not sure, darling. Maybe you should live a little.”
“Oh?”
“Stay in Norwich, by all means. But…”
“But what?”
“Maybe you should consider remarrying. It’s been twenty years since Jean died.”
“Marry? Who the hell would marry me? An old codger in pipe and slippers with a weakness for dusty churches.”
She leaned over the wooden bench table and clasped the wrist of her lifelong friend.
“Marry me, Bob. In one of your dusty old churches if you must. Before it’s too late.”
And that’s how it happened. One heady afternoon in the garden of the Playhouse Theatre, Jack and Liam found somewhere new to lay their hats. An offbeat, theatrical, cosmopolitan, romantic, open-minded and open-hearted place set beneath the true -blue skies of Norfolk. Norwich, a surprising city. A place to live and a place to start living.
