Brian Cox, 76, actor, shares memories of Brown Constable Street, Dundee

I call where I grew up a house, when actually it was seven of us in a twobedroom flat – my father, Chic, my mother Mary Ann, and in descending age order, my siblings Bette, May, Irene, Charlie and me. 

The house was four storeys and I remember during the Queen’s coronation, the neighbours would take it in turns watching it on the TV for five minutes at a time. We weren’t rich, but we had a sense of community. 

My parents had the small bedroom, my three sisters the other bedroom and my brother Charlie and I slept in the alcove in the living room. 

The coal bunker in the living room became my first stage. My father loved to put on a party, especially at Hogmanay. 

I remember I’d be woken up at 1am to do a turn and I’d be in my pyjamas standing on the bunker, doing Al Jolson songs. It was ridiculous, a three-year-old singing Jolson, but when all these people came together, a real sense of grace came into the room and I wanted to be part of it. 

My dad had a grocer’s shop which was a hub of the community. He’d start the day at 5am, work till 10pm and in any spare time he’d do something for someone such as help an old couple paint their house. 

When I was eight I remember coming home from school and when I walked up the stairs to the first landing, there was our neighbour, an old lady called Mrs Robbie who dressed in Edwardian black and wore a scarf to cover the goitre on her neck. 

As I came up the stairs she was crying, ‘Oh, Brian. I’m so sorry, Brian.’ Our front door was open and when I walked in, I remember the table was covered with food. 

My mother was there, in an armchair, and she looked at me and said, ‘Your dad’s gone.’ He was 51. 

I was devastated by his death [from pancreatic cancer]. There were 200 people at the funeral but they didn’t want me to attend. 

Brian pictured with his father Charles McArdle Cox, who died in 1950 when Brain was only aged eight 

I was sent to my cousin Rose, who put me in front of the TV. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that ever since then, television has been a great comfort to me. 

My father’s death affected us all in different ways. My mum felt guilty because she thought she hadn’t supported him enough, which wasn’t true. 

I came home one day from school to find her in the scullery. I could smell gas and the oven door was open and she had her head inside. 

She tried to cover it up by saying, ‘I think the gas is on’, and it wasn’t till years later I realised it was a suicide attempt. 

She had a series of nervous breakdowns and was in the hospital for nervous diseases. She had electroshock therapy, and because it caused her short-term memory to go, she forgot me for a while. 

But although she was doolally a lot of the time, she was funny and made me laugh. She couldn’t really work and a few times I’d have to go to the chip shop on a Thursday night to ask for the batter bits from the chip pan to last us until her widow’s pension arrived on Friday. 

That Damoclean sword of poverty still hangs over me – the feeling it could all go in a second. 

My schooling was a disaster, but my sense of self-preservation was strong and when a teacher told me about an opening at Dundee Repertory Theatre, I went and got the job. 

I was 14 and that, really, was the start of it all. From then on, everything in life sort of went better.

• Putting The Rabbit In The Hat: My Autobiography by Brian Cox is out now in paperback (Quercus, £12.99).