head home and take a beating with a full belly. At least now it won’t feel as bad.
The final money-spinner for me as a nine year old is Operation Spondoolies. If I’m unsuccessful with foraging for bottles or if last night’s rain has washed away the snow, I have an alternative method of collecting cash. Dundee is full of red, Tardis-like telephone boxes as hardly anyone can afford a house phone, so armed only with a cardboard box I set off on a mission to stuff and block every hole that the money is returned from with bits of card.
Late in the evening I go back round and collect the loot that was stuck inside by reaching my skinny fingers up inside. Some nights I can make up to ten quid. I exchange all the coins for a ten pound note at the shop and hide it in my sock before I go home – I don’t want Dad, to find it, do I?
I wonder if my real family are actually called Trotter, not Mitchell. We do have similar homes and décor, after all.
Chapter Eleven
Inside an Igloo with a Drunk Bear
O ne night during the school summer holidays while I’m still living at St Fillans Road, Dad and his brother, Uncle Danny, are having a bevy in the house after the pubs have closed and the babysitter has gone home and I’m tucked up in bed.
Danny’s a really nice guy and I always get on well on with him – he’s a very funny man. But Dad and Danny hate each other and fight all the time. I think they fight over what Dad is doing to me. One night I hear Danny shout, ‘You fucking animal,’ and it’s definitely about me.
But I love it when Dad has parties and has people around because I won’t get touched. Instead he always ends up fighting with people in the house. I’m fine though because me and Bonnie are safe. We just sleep through it.
They’ve been drinking all night and finally I hear the front door close about eight in the morning and thensilence. I get up to investigate but there’s no one there, not even Dad. I switch on the TV and go in the kitchen to get some toast and milk for breakfast, and open a can of corned beef for Bonnie and put it in her bowl. Then I go into the living room to watch cartoons until 8.30. The house is peaceful and everything is calm, then like a whirlwind Dad and Danny come crashing up the hall and into the living room where I’m sitting. They’re both covered in blood.
‘If the polis come, we’ve been sleepin’. Yi tell them we’ve been here all night.’
‘OK, Dad.’ I run and get a quilt from the bedroom to throw over them.
Two minutes later, four policemen come crashing through the front door. I’m now standing at the living-room door with my hands on each part of the frame.
‘What are you doing, mister?’ I ask the police.
‘Where’s yir dad and his mate?’
‘They’re in there sleeping. They’ve been here all night having a party.’
They push me out of the way and walk into the lounge as I hang on the tallest one’s leg trying to protect my patch. They walk over to the couch and pull the quilt back. Dad and Uncle Danny are both covered in blood, pretending they’re asleep. ‘Jock, you can stop pretending. We seen you run away from the car and come up here, and you’re gonna need a few stitches for that head.’
Uncle Danny is still pretending he’s out cold and Dad’s saying, ‘What, eh, what’s going on? I’ve just woke up.’
I can see the coppers laughing at the fact that they’re still trying to say it wasn’t them. They had taken the car to go and get some fags from the garage but they were that drunk that on the way back they drove it into a lamppost at the bottom of St Fillans Road and nearly smashed someone’s house wall down. They didn’t even have seat belts on. I just wish that Dad had been going faster and Uncle Danny had had his belt on.
They are taken away by the police and social services come up to look after me, but one of the neighbours says they’ll look after me until Dad gets back out later in the day.
This happens a
The final money-spinner for me as a nine year old is Operation Spondoolies. If I’m unsuccessful with foraging for bottles or if last night’s rain has washed away the snow, I have an alternative method of collecting cash. Dundee is full of red, Tardis-like telephone boxes as hardly anyone can afford a house phone, so armed only with a cardboard box I set off on a mission to stuff and block every hole that the money is returned from with bits of card.
Late in the evening I go back round and collect the loot that was stuck inside by reaching my skinny fingers up inside. Some nights I can make up to ten quid. I exchange all the coins for a ten pound note at the shop and hide it in my sock before I go home – I don’t want Dad, to find it, do I?
I wonder if my real family are actually called Trotter, not Mitchell. We do have similar homes and décor, after all.
Chapter Eleven
Inside an Igloo with a Drunk Bear
O ne night during the school summer holidays while I’m still living at St Fillans Road, Dad and his brother, Uncle Danny, are having a bevy in the house after the pubs have closed and the babysitter has gone home and I’m tucked up in bed.
Danny’s a really nice guy and I always get on well on with him – he’s a very funny man. But Dad and Danny hate each other and fight all the time. I think they fight over what Dad is doing to me. One night I hear Danny shout, ‘You fucking animal,’ and it’s definitely about me.
But I love it when Dad has parties and has people around because I won’t get touched. Instead he always ends up fighting with people in the house. I’m fine though because me and Bonnie are safe. We just sleep through it.
They’ve been drinking all night and finally I hear the front door close about eight in the morning and thensilence. I get up to investigate but there’s no one there, not even Dad. I switch on the TV and go in the kitchen to get some toast and milk for breakfast, and open a can of corned beef for Bonnie and put it in her bowl. Then I go into the living room to watch cartoons until 8.30. The house is peaceful and everything is calm, then like a whirlwind Dad and Danny come crashing up the hall and into the living room where I’m sitting. They’re both covered in blood.
‘If the polis come, we’ve been sleepin’. Yi tell them we’ve been here all night.’
‘OK, Dad.’ I run and get a quilt from the bedroom to throw over them.
Two minutes later, four policemen come crashing through the front door. I’m now standing at the living-room door with my hands on each part of the frame.
‘What are you doing, mister?’ I ask the police.
‘Where’s yir dad and his mate?’
‘They’re in there sleeping. They’ve been here all night having a party.’
They push me out of the way and walk into the lounge as I hang on the tallest one’s leg trying to protect my patch. They walk over to the couch and pull the quilt back. Dad and Uncle Danny are both covered in blood, pretending they’re asleep. ‘Jock, you can stop pretending. We seen you run away from the car and come up here, and you’re gonna need a few stitches for that head.’
Uncle Danny is still pretending he’s out cold and Dad’s saying, ‘What, eh, what’s going on? I’ve just woke up.’
I can see the coppers laughing at the fact that they’re still trying to say it wasn’t them. They had taken the car to go and get some fags from the garage but they were that drunk that on the way back they drove it into a lamppost at the bottom of St Fillans Road and nearly smashed someone’s house wall down. They didn’t even have seat belts on. I just wish that Dad had been going faster and Uncle Danny had had his belt on.
They are taken away by the police and social services come up to look after me, but one of the neighbours says they’ll look after me until Dad gets back out later in the day.
This happens a
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