Thank you to everyone who has signed up to receive the History Islands newsletter. If you enjoy it, please share with your friends and family. This week I will be telling the story of one of Jersey’s must illustrious benefactors, T.B. Davis. This is just a short overview of his life; you can discover his full story in Jersey: Secrets of the Sea.
~ Regards, Paul Darroch
Long ago, in the days of Queen Victoria, a poor boy decided to climb a wall. It was a Sunday morning in 1879, and the service at St Luke’s Church in Jersey was grinding to a close. One of the choirboys, a penniless lad called Tom Davis, had a daring adventure in mind.
As soon as the hymns ended, he slipped over the nearby wall of the great house, Plaisance, that lay just behind the church. He was dead set on stealing a harvest of plump chestnuts from its lush gardens. His risky escapade was almost a success, but just as he turned to shinny back up the wall, he heard a bellowing voice behind him. “Boy - stop right there!”.
The fearsome Jurat, who owned the house, dragged Tom away like a disobedient dog. He locked him in his cellar for the rest of the day and forced him to clean his boots, one by one. Tom seethed with resentment, but his spirit was unbroken. When he was finally set free, the little urchin turned towards the great master and looked him straight in the eye. He boldly declared: “One day I will be a rich man. One day I will buy all this from under you. I will tear your house down – stone by stone, brick by brick”. Then he turned tail and ran.
Tom Davis would keep on running. With no money or prospects at home, he left Jersey at the age of just fourteen. Seawater was in his blood, so he joined a steamer, working himself to the bone for seven shillings a week. After one terrible storm in the North Sea, he was cast adrift, alone on an open boat. The slow days passed, without hope of rescue, and he was presumed dead. St Luke’s Church in Jersey prepared to hold a solemn memorial service. Then at the last moment a telegram arrived. On the Sunday morning arranged for his funeral, the smiling lad walked straight up to the altar. The lost son had come home.
He had been rescued from the jaws of death by a passing Norwegian ship, the Urda, which had miraculously spotted the lone boy in a tiny boat. The ship’s name meant ‘Fate’ or ‘Destiny’; she was named after one of the Norns, mythical beings who were said to determine the future.
Tom’s brush with death changed everything. He was now resolved to claim the world, and prise it open like an oyster. In Africa, he would build his fortune. He established himself as a master wharfinger, controlling the pinch-points at the ports, taking a fat cut of everything that passed through the docks. His business thrived and expanded along with the new century. The continent became his goldmine, and Tom Davis grew wealthy beyond compare.
Then the Great War swallowed up Europe. His younger son Howard enthusiastically volunteered for the Army, joining the Highland Light Infantry despite his father’s entreaties to serve in the Navy instead. Howard was shipped out to the Western Front, and in 1916, he was killed on the Somme. T.B. Davis was now a wealthy tycoon, an acclaimed yachtsman, and a good friend of King George, and yet his heart was irreparably broken. He had gained the whole world, but he had been unable to save his dearly beloved son.
Back in Jersey, the grieving father settled on a suitable memorial. Plaisance still stood, but the old Jurat was long dead, and his ageing daughter was only too happy to sell her family home. So, T.B. Davis bought the house, and he systematically reduced it to rubble. Stone by stone, brick by brick: his childhood prophecy fulfilled.
The gardens beyond the wall were now remodelled and thrown open to the world. Newly christened as Howard Davis Park, they were completed in September 1939, as the shadow of war fell upon Europe once again. Only the old billiard hall was left standing, as a shrine, a Hall of Remembrance for his son and all those who had fallen.
The beautiful gardens flourish to this day, with strong palms and smooth lawns, and a lost son’s name on the iron gate, remembered forever.
(c) Paul Darroch 2021
