The Adventures of Wee Jim: Book 1 Mum's Heart Was Roasted

By Jim Currie

The origin of the old Scottish expression "Heart was roasted" has long since been lost of the annals of time. However, let me assure everyone that we (and Wee) Scotts are not - and as far as I know - never have been cannibals. The famous Scotts actor Sir Billy Conolly is an expert in use of such permission. So those who wants to know more can ask him.
The expression simply means that I was not, by any measurement, well-behave child. In fact, I was a positive horror.
Having said that, I assure you that you will not find three sixes tattooed on my scalp. Although it has been suggested that I was the original model for the children's comic 'Dennis the Menace.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781665598989

Jim Currie

Jim Currie was born in Bo'ness a small town just west of Edinburgh, Scotland. He has been married to the love of his life, Doreen, for almost sixty-five years. Together, they have three children and four grandchildren. Now retired to Sarnia, Ontario, Canada, they enjoy walking, exercising, reading, listening to music and visiting with friends.

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© 2022 Jim Currie. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/30/2022

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9897-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6655-9898-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

PART ONE: MUM’S HEART WAS ROASTED

Foreword

Chapter 1: In a Nut-shell

Chapter 2: A Brief Family History. The Curries

Chapter 3: The Buchanans

Chapter 4: Alpha

Chapter 5: Memories

Chapter 6: I am ‘Called -up’(Drafted)

Chapter 7: Neither a Borrower nor a Lender Be

Chapter 8: What’s in a Name?

Chapter 9: The Matter of Faith

Chapter 10: A Sad Bit

Chapter 11: A Summer Holiday

Chapter 12: Little Sir Echo

Chapter 13: Abracadabra!

Chapter 14: And So to School

Chapter 15: Another Sad Bit

Chapter 16: Wee Jim’s War

Chapter 17: Fun & Games

Chapter 18: A Bit of a Turnover

Chapter 19: The Memorable Year of 1945

Chapter 20: Westminster Turns-coats

Chapter 21: A Roaming Candle?

Chapter 22: I sample a life of Crime

Chapter 23: Cauld Winter Was Howlin’

Chapter 24: Count-Down to Secondary School

Chapter 25: Abbington

Chapter 26: Grammar Boy

Chapter 27: Moving On

Chapter 28: The Terrible Teens

Chapter 29: A fishy Tale

Chapter 30: Nautical College

Chapter 31: Dinner Dates?

Chapter 32: Sailing Orders

Part One

MUM’S HEART WAS ROASTED

FOREWORD

The fine looking young lad on the front cover of this book is the author of the following work, and is the sole owner of the covers and everything written between them. He sat for years wearing his forefingers to the bone writing the bloody thing. Therefore, if anyone is insane enough to want to copy part or all of it, they have to get his permission to do so. If he decides to let anyone indulge in their insanity, then he expects them to copy it right…all right? Failure to observe this simple direction will result in a lawsuit for a mahousive amount of money.

In case anyone wonders why I bother to write this all down - the reason is simple. It is because- I awoke this morning and the world challenged me. This made me realised that I’m getting old.

Consequently, this little book, and the books to follow, is dedicated to all the mornings when I awoke and challenged the world.

However, apart from the foregoing; I have another reason for writing this.

A while ago, I met a gentleman - a really gentle man. I have no idea what he was like before I met him. Maybe he was a scoundrel...an ogre...a self-opinionated pain in the backside or even worse. I don’t care and I really don’t want to know.

I have since met him on several occasions and know him as he is now...someone who’s really pleasant and always smiling - a man who would be hurt if you didn’t stop to say hello. A man who keeps his council and nods sagely at seemingly the right times. In fact, he seems like any other ordinary man who engages in polite conversation and hides his indoor self behind the usual outdoor shell.

Unfortunately, I have learned that my friend is in the process of losing the luxury of having either an indoor self or outdoor shell because just recently, he was afflicted by Alzheimer’s disease, or as one wag described it… Auld Timer’s Disease.

Instead of doom and gloom, I prefer to think that my friend has begun to reveal his true colours; not just to me but to his family and to all of those whose lives he touches. Despite this harrowing situation, I am told that in adversity, he seems almost to have blossomed.

I know this is only the early stage of the illness and his personality will continue to change but it has made me acutely aware of one of the main symptoms of this dreadful disease...loss of memory.

Most of us suffer brief losses of memory from time to time. Indeed, the older we get, the longer becomes the period of loss and shorter, the period between such losses.

Because of what happened and is still happening to my friend and my own (selectively) failing memory, I have decided to share my life with you.

I can almost hear your gasping protest of dismay at this bit of intelligence. Worry not, friend. If you are at this moment, feeling sorry for yourself, be of good cheer and read-on. After reading what is to follow, I can assure you that you’ll never feel that way again.

Chapter 1

IN A NUT-SHELL

W HAT’S IT ALL ABOUT; I hear you ask? In a word - ME

It starts when I was born, and that was some time before the onset of the Second World War. That’s WW2 for Americans and those of you who are too lazy to give the event its proper name.

My Mum had most likely been feeling the affects of me for nine months before that wondrous occasion. To avoid confusion I should make it clear that I mean the moment when the world first had the pleasure of my company- not the beginning of the Second World War. However, being the saint that she was, she never complained.

I spent most of my pre-adult days before, during and after that Second World War.

My first introduction to the world of work was as a Fishmonger’s Boy. Thereafter, I joined the Merchant Navy and travelled the world. These were the days when going abroad for vacations was a luxury reserved for the upper classes and overpaid film stars. Incidentally, I use the word vacations for the benefit of those readers who never went on a holiday.

My family were not rich, but they did take me on a foreign holiday. That was in the 1930s...we went to Whitley Bay in England.

I got myself married at the tender age of twenty-two.

By the time I was 24, I was Second Officer on the biggest ship in the British Merchant Navy and the third biggest ship in the world.

During a brief spell ashore, my wife presented me with a fine son who we named Alastair, John. For the first time I became a family man and had another mouth to feed.

After Alastair was born, I did not want to go back to sea so I earned my living in a multitude of various ways. These included working as a Salesman, selling among other things, car tyres, garage equipment, sausages and vacuum cleaners.

Then I got work in an import office, arranging the importation of grain cargoes. I even went into partnership with my Bother-in-law. We ran a small but successful Shop-fitting, Joinery and Building Company.

My income from the aforementioned activities was pathetic to say the least and the hours were over-long. Eventually the missing sound of jingling pennies in my pocket and a modicum of common sense, caused me to return to sea to continue my marine adventures.

By the tender age of twenty-six, I had obtained A Master Mariner’s certificate and although I say it myself; I was doing rather well. However, my son was growing up without a father and I missed my wee family. So once again, I decided to come ashore and attempt to take-up a new career in commerce. I suppose you could say that I had had enough of typhoon and decided to convert to Tycoon.

Before the salt water had dried out of my sea-boot socks, my wee daughter Fiona Joan was born. I now had two children and a wife to support so I needed well-paid shore employment…fast! Otherwise, I would need to dust-off the sextant and go back to sea once more.

I was lucky. I applied for, and was accepted as, a Reactor Supervisor with a world-famous chemical manufacturer. After six months, I gave that up and became employed as a Marine Consultant with an Isle of Man Company. That job lasted three years. After that, I was employed as a Liquefied Petroleum Gas specialist by an internationally known Gas Manufacturing Company. During my time with them, I was formally trained in business, gas physics and gas engineering (now there’s a concoction for you!). I even became a student of Marketing.

That was in the days before the Open University. It was beginning to look like I was destined to become a perpetual student.

Unfortunately, for my long-suffering wife, this relatively settled-down state of affairs came to an abrupt end. In the late nineteen sixties- early nineteen seventies, oil was discovered under the North Sea and I just had to get myself involved - so I did. I was headhunted by an American company and became, among many other things, an Offshore Marine Surveyor, Tow Master and Marine Accident Investigator. Thus began another round of adventures or should I say misadventures.

That last escapade lasted for over twenty-four years during which I became Manager for the U.K. and Middle East. In this role, I was able to continue to travel the world.

In the middle nineteen nineties, fate once again dictated I should change course and have a look at other ways of earning a living.

In time-honoured fashion, I did the least obvious and embarked on a career with horses. Not the sea kind as you might imagine but those great, mahousive buggers that you sit-on and which crap everywhere and anywhere as the notion takes them. That job lasted for all of two years, both of which produced adventures of a particular kind.

Finally, I was employed as Harbour Master of Tabert, a charming little west of Scotland fishing port. This was when I met the man who made me stop to think and then start writing this. I would still be there yet but for another misadventure. Not of my own making, I hasten to add.

Hang-on wee minute! -Whoa-there! I’ve nearly got to the end before the beginning. So, if you’re sitting comfortably, let’s go back to the beginning.

Chapter 2

A BRIEF FAMILY

HISTORY. THE CURRIES

A T THIS POINT, I’ D LIKE to take a little break from my story and give you a sketchy outline of my ancestors. I’ll include a wee bit of my Mum’s lot - the Buchanans and the Murdochs

Please bear with me…I’ll try not to bore you for too much longer.

The Currie family had their roots on the Island of Islay in Scotland.

Way back in history, an ancestor of mine fled the wrath of the then Irish monarch and made his way to that island of Islay. You’ll find it on a map of the Scottish Inner Hebrides. It’s the one at the bottom. If, like me, you have a weird imagination, you’ll see that it’s the one shaped vaguely like the Jamaican Olympic Champion, Usain Bolt in his world famous pointing-pose.

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The McDonalds who ran the place gave my ancient ancestor shelter; this was before they branched out into the fast food market.

My ancestor was pretty good with words. Not so much the spoken word as it is with me, but the written word. He was also a bit of a singer and poet…a bit of a smart-cookie as our American cousins might describe him.

At that time and up until the birth of my own Grandpa, everyone spoke Gaelic. In those days, the family name was McMhurrich, pronounced McVurrich. However, the Scottish Lowlanders and the English were not clever and very hard of hearing. Then as now, they were not very good linguists. Eventually, they gave up trying to pronounce the family name properly and settled for what we have now…Currie.

The early Curries bred like rabbits all the way down to my Great-Great Grandpa Donald. He committed a cardinal sin…he interbred with a relative named Elizabeth Currie. They produced my Great Grandpa John.

GG John was married twice and both his wives were born on the island. Between them, his wives; Janet Roberson and Mary McMahone, presented him with seven strapping sons who they named John, Malcolm, David, Alexander, Duncan, Donald and James. The last named had the honour of becoming my Grandpa.

In anticipation of the obvious question, the answer is: no. The famous Holywood musical Seven Brides for Seven Brothers was not based on them. Despite being a seventh son, my Grandpa did not have any mystic powers. However, we did have a fey member in the form of my Dad’s sister Aunt Jenny who it was said, could tell you every card in the hands of all the players in a poker game by the end of the first deal. In fact, my Mum told me that a man who owned a Gambling Club in Glasgow visited my Grandpa at home and offered to employ Aunt Nan at a then incredible salary.

Needless to say, Grandpa, being the God fearing man that he was (as well as being a twisted auld bugger) turned the man down…however, back to the history bit.

When he married for the first time, Great Grandpa John moved with his new wife to a farm north of the city of city of Glasgow -near Kirkintilloch. By a huge coincidence, - he worked beside my wife’s great grandpa who had moved there from away up north in Sutherland.

After his wife died and after he remarried, he found it hard to settle down and the family moved from farm to farm.

During his wanderings, he worked on a Currie relative’s farm on the island of Bute. That was where my own Grandpa Currie was born.

Bute is a large island situated in the broad Firth (estuary) of the River Clyde. Incidentally, the name Firth comes from the Icelandic word Frith. I have no idea when they changed it but it’s just as well that they did. It’s bad enough trying to explain to a non-Scot that the name of the estuary of Scotland’s other great river, the River Forth, is the Firth of Fourth. Just think of the tongue-tying problems the name Frith of Fourth would have caused.

Eventually, GG John and his brood settled in a house in Prussia Street in the Renfrewshire town of Paisley where he set up a Coal Carting Business. My Grandpa still lived there when I was a boy but by then, the name had been changed to Johnston Street. It bears that name to this day.

My Grandpa’s oldest brother John junior emigrated to New Zealand and started a branch of the Clan there. Malcom lived his entire life just north of Glasgow and bred Clydesdale horses but I have no idea what happened to the three ‘D’s; Duncan, Donald and David. I understand that they too, settled in Paisley.

However, the Currie family was not one that could have been described as a ‘loving’, one. Huffy?…Absolutely!…Twisted?…That would be another resounding YES! But loving?…ah-ere, no.

My father’s Currie uncles were never part of the general conversation and I don’t remember ever exchanging family visits with them. They might as well have been dead or on the moon as far as we were concerned.

Grandpa’s oldest brother Alexander was the one who never married. He died at Prussia Street just before my Grandpa got married. Besides being very considerate and dying at a convenient time, Grand Uncle Alexander must have been an extremely strong man; because on his death certificate his occupation is listed as Iron Planer. It’s hard enough to plane wood - how much more strength was needed to plane iron?

The coal business died a death just after the end of the First World War and Grandpa changed his occupation to textile dying. When first I heard that my Grandpa Currie was a dyer, I thought it was something to do with the undertaking business.

However, there was a Currie’s Coal business flourishing in Paisley during the Second World War. Every week their horse and cart would visit our area. We even received our coal from them. More than likely, they were