Short Story: Jimmy: Man of Destiny

Timaru Herald, Volume CXL, Issue 20261, 9 November 1935, Page 9

Short Story: Jimmy: Man of Destiny

IT was in No 9 Coalport Rows that he was born in the opening years of the present century and his name was James Tiggett. The Rows, as they are known locally, are situated half a mile east of Aldgate Pump, and while you have probably never been there, I can assure you that' at one time they were quite well known —to the police, at any rate. It was during the christening festivities of this last addition to the Tiggett family (which were being conducted, as usual, in The Baker’s Arms at the top of the street), that Gypsy Jane made her startling prognostication. True, she was still swarthy complexioned and her matted grey locks might once have been raven tresses, but it was even at that time difficult to visualise this beldame travelling the leafy lanes of the countryside behind a gaily-painted caravan. It was in fact open to question whether she was of true Romany stock at all. Nevertheless she had a long-established reputation in the neighbourhood as the possessor of second sight, and for the price of half a quartern of “unsweetened”—in those far-off halcyon days before the world was made Safe for Democracy, a mere fourpence—she would gaze with those red-rimmed, rheumy eyes into the future with astonishing clarity. The pronouncements of this repellent creature, moreover, were to Mrs Tiggett what the Koran is to the true believer. Had she not foretold with remarkable accuracy the sudden, if long-overdue, demise of Mr Tiggett a few months previously. Tiggett pere had been a member of the Whitechapel gang known to the world as the “Bessarabians,” who were practising the gentle art of racketeering before the word was coined, and while A 1 Capone was still an olive skinned bad one in a Neapolitan farmhouse.

His violent end had been brought about as the result of an argument with a member of a rival faction, known as the Odessians, as to the respective merits of the razor and the broken bottle as a weapon of offence. His opponent had championed the broken bottle, asserting that, used scientifically, it was unquestionably the better of the two. So successfully did he prove his contention that Mr Tiggett was removed permanently from the bosom of his family at the expense of the parish, to the great satisfaction of the police and, indeed, of Mrs Tiggett herself. Now Gypsy Jane had predicted all this (rumour had it to the very day!), and not unnaturally on the arrival of young James some months later, she was invited to the christening of the fatherless babe, where friends and re-

terprise Italy may well be disabled from playing that part in European affairs which Signor Mussolini has envisaged for her, and at tne same time a blow to the League must weaken the whole basis of the present settlement in Europe. These thoughts must all be in the mind of Signor Mussolini. Despite all that has occurred, not until Geneva has been consulted can it be taken for granted that the dream of African conquest has swept aside all other considerations.”—“Daily Telegraph” (London). The Sanctions of the Covenant “There is, of course, no earthly possibility of applying the strict letter of the Covenant as it stands,” says Mr J. L. Garvin, in the “Observer,” dealing with this very vital issue. “It would turn the whole world into a witch’s cauldron. The Covenant was framed when America was a member of the League,” and Mr Garvin goes on to assert that “the original idea was to provide, with the support of the United States, powers of action so real and overwhelming as to make the resistance of any single nation impossible, and to ensure that the League should triumph either by the tremendous weight of peaceful pressure, or, at least, by brief operations against an isolated offender, without risk of convulsing civilisation by another universal conflict. When America went out, the Covenant became in serious cases largely inexecutable. It is still more so now when Japan and Germany have withdrawn in turn. Our own Government has been full of good and high intentions. This, unfortunately, does not change the fact that the whole method of threatening Italy with British action in the name of the League has helped to make peace impossible and may give the last quietus to the League.”

lations hoped she might part the veil of the future for an instant once again. It was that evening, as we have said, in the Baker’s Arms, that the old sybil uttered her momentous prophecy. “That there brat,” announced Gypsy Jane to her eager audience, “is a man o’ Destiny, that’s wot. I can see ’is funeral as plain as if it was ’appenin’ ’ere now. The streets is all lined with people, there’s a luvly ’earse with them black fevvers on the ’orses ’eads and . . . and ’e’ll be buried in Westminster Abbey! ” Gypsy Jane, Mrs Tiggett and the other ladies present grew maudlin at the staggering thought of such a funeral, and for quite a week afterwards the baby was the talk of Coalport Rows. Mrs Tiggett, doubtless mindful of her great responsibility survived her unhappy spouse by some 30 years. Indeed, it was not until long after England had become a land fit for heroes and gin, had been replaced in popularity at the Baker’s Arms by red Lisbon “Biddy" at sixpence a pint, that after an unusually festive evening the old lady breathed her last. But during those 30 long years she had never forgotten for one minute the prophecy of old Gypsy Jane, and from the moment that the infant James had shown any signs of understanding what was said to him she had carefully inculcated the idea that he was a Man of Destiny. The Nation would mourn at his funeral. He would be laid to rest in Westminster Abbey. As to how this brilliant apotheosis was to be achieved never troubled her, and since young James disappointingly showed no especial bent, his early years followed the course of the countless other young ruffians who comprised the rising generation in the neighbourhood of Coalport Rows. Yet old Gypsy Jane had not spoken mere idle words as you shall hear.

Confronted at last with the choice of a career, young Tiggett was justifiably nonplussed. The police had long

By BERNARD NELSON.

since broken up the Whitechapel gangs,/so that it was impossible for him to emulate his late father, Tiggett, senr. Therefore, ever conscious of the great destiny that was surely his, James Tiggett decided to start in business for himself. To this enjl he apprenticed himself to a certain Joseph Levinsky, occasionally publicised in the police-court gossip columns as Gentleman Joe. He was, in point of fact, a pickpocket. Not

mind you, an’ ordinary sneak-thief “dip,” but a pick-pocket par excellence, since, being of agreeable appearance with a nice taste in clothes, he was able to work in a section of society of necessity quite out of the reach of his minor confreres.

With something of the Tiggett aptitude for anti-social activity, young James proved a diligent and successful pupil, whose skill bade fair to rival even that of the maestro himself. In less than no time he had equipped

himself with a cultured accent and all the technical niceties which would enable him to operate for himself, with a confidence bom of the knowledge that fame and fortune must surely come at last. In addition to filching the wallets of unsuspecting citizens, James Tiggett had also interested himself in utilising for purposes of profit such incriminating letters, photographs and other documents as he found therein.

It was not long before he decided that the moment had come for him to leave his master and seek fortune as a freelance. .< Their parting was touching enough, taking place, as it did, not in the Baker’s Arms, but in the grill room of a fashionable West End hotel. “Jimmy my boy,” announced Gentleman Joe, as he called for his bill, “I shall be really sorry to let you go.” (This was true enough). “But a final word of advice. Don’t waste time in the open air. Leave that to the little chaps. Get inside. Go in for the big stuff and don’t work too often.”

James nodded. “Thanks, old man,” he said. “Let me know any time I can help you.” And with that confident air which spells success in all businesses, he had risen from the table and walked out in the great world—alone. And so, by the time he had passed his thirtieth birthday, you could regard young Mr Tiggett as a successful, hardworking and—for a pickpocket—prosperous man. At about this date, however, the unwelcome persistence of the police in harbouring unkindly thoughts concerning his activities (instead, as he so often complained, of attending to their duties stemming the rising tide of death on the roads), persuaded him that, if only for his health’s sake, he must winter abroad.

After due consideration, his choice fell upon the South of France as most likely to provide the richest field for his undoubted talents, since it must not be supposed that James contemplated spending his holiday in idleness. As he puffed luxuriantly at his after-

dinner cigar in the restaurant car of the south-bound express, goodlooking, well-groomed, with polished manners, few would have suspected his real metier: least of all the apoplecticlooking elderly gentleman seated opposite, who had paid his bill from a bulging notecase after inspecting his gold repeater. It occured to James Tigget as he sat there languidly watching, that that watch and wallet would more than pay the expenses of a protracted stay on the Riviera, and indeed leave a comfortable margin of profit for a flutter at the tables. Accustomed as he was to act swiftly on his decisions, he summoned the steward, paid his own bill and hurried down the corridors of the speeding train to oyer take his fellow-diner before he reached his compartment. As he was about to pass, the violent lurching of the coach seemed to throw him heavily against the elderly gentleman and—it was done? Watch and wallet reposed safely in James Tiggett’s pocket after as pretty a “jostle" as he had ever executed.

With a courteous apology, he hastened along to his compartment in the front of the train to collect his belongings, so that he could leave the train at Marseilles, where it was due to a very few minutes. His ticket, of course, showed his destination as Monte Carlo, since he had hardly anticipated any operations during the actual journey. But in view of his rich and skilful coup he decided that discretion demanded his embarkation before the loss was discovered and hue and cry be raised.

It was just as he reached for his hat on the rack above him that it happened. The grinding of the brakes, the deafening crash, the splintering of woodwork, the screams, pain, then — blackness . . .

It seemed evident afterwards that .the occupants of James’s coach had all mercifully died instantaneously, since as soon as the fire was extinguished and the rescuers searched among the twisted metal and smouldering wood it was quite difficult to find anything distinguishable as human.

The poor, scorched and blackened remains were reverently placed in the signal cabin to await identification. Here and there a bunch of keys, a few scraps of burnt paper, a tie pin remained as the only clue to the identity of their luckless owners.

The inspecting official paused at last before the glinting gold of a large repeater watch and the scorched leather of a well-filled wallet. He raised his eyebrows significantly as he caught sight of the name engraved on the metal, the gilded initials still discernible on the wallet. “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, turning to his subordinate. “What a terrible end! Regarde, Maurice.” He pointed to the pitiful cinders which lay beside the articles. “Victor Folworthy, so-well-known English soldier-poet. Quel malheur!” He rushed off to reveal his discovery to someone more important. And thus it came about that the prophecy in the Baker’s Arms was fulfilled. Wires hummed across the world as a nation mourned at the magnificent shrine containing all that was left of the urchin of Coalport Rows. The hearse with its black-plumed horses was all that Mrs Tiggett had imagined. It was a fitting end to a Man of Destiny.

Contributory Pensions There is no doubt that many of the poorer section of the community, as age advances, look apprehensively to the future. This is recognised in the report, which states that the case for the establishment of a compulsory contributory national insurance scheme is based on the view that it is in the social interest that all citizens should be protected against the risk of destitution in old age and the hazards of sickness, invalidity, orphanhood and widowhood, and that as far as possible provision should be made in such a way as to avoid any suggestion of charity or patronage. It is quite true that the majority of the wage-earners are unable to make reasonable provision for their old age. The report necessarily is only exploratory, and provides the groundwork on which a Iheme may in the future be built up. In one form or another these have been dealt with by other countries, and the ground partially covered. No doubt in days to come, when New Zealand’s finances are more elastic, something will be done here on the lines of the committee’s suggestions. Dunedin “Star.”