In fear of father

My father was a small man but, in my childish view, he seemed like a giant. George Carman, QC, was the most celebrated barrister of his generation, the successful defender of Jeremy Thorpe and Ken Dodd, the great destroyer of Gillian Taylforth and Jonathan Aitken, and I was in awe of everything he said and did - exactly the way he wanted it.

His gravelly voice penetrated every corner of the house, especially in temper. I had often been dragged out of bed to watch a drunken performance: my mother Celia's head banged against the wall, her body punched, her life threatened.

If he felt ill after a bender the night before, my mother and I sat and waited in silence until he got up for his first cigarette and tea. I had stood beside him in the kitchen as he brandished two carving knives and snarled at her: "Which one do you want in you first?"

Sometimes, I intervened, desperately hoping that he would return to being the enthusiastic man who spoke so passionately about the law. Instead, he would often tell me why she deserved this treatment, explaining that he was the victim of a neurotic wife and that he was the one who loved me, not my mother. Such horrible episodes dominate my early memories. And if one of these had ended in murder, I wouldn't have been surprised.

Incessant corrosive language sticks in the mind as much as images of horror. For behind closed doors, Gorgeous George had a limitless capacity for humiliation. He growled hatred through gritted teeth, punctuating his drunken tirades by vomiting on the floor and smashing glass or china.

Any mess would always be left for others to clear up. He enjoyed chaos, never once apologising or showing remorse for the misery he caused. Sometimes he cried as a means of getting me on his side.

If he wanted to stay up drinking, we stayed up with him, however late. My duties included keeping his glass filled with whisky or brandy and lighting his cigarettes, never less than 40 a day. I was treated as an adult, feeling very grown up when encouraged to sip at his drink or puff on a Benson and Hedges. In our home, there was no room for childhood.

I loved my father. But I also lived in fear of him. He sometimes showered me with affectionate words, but I was usually too fearful to say much in return. Shortly before my sixth birthday, he arrived home drunk and took me out on the first-floor balcony. My mother was hiding in the garden. He then suspended me by my wrists over the balcony edge - a drop of maybe 15 feet - before proclaiming: "I've got Dominic here." Celia duly rushed inside and suffered the consequences.

Some months later, I was given a ginger kitten called Orlando. House training was problematic. George took control one Sunday morning after seeing him mess on the carpet. "I'll teach you a f***ing lesson," he shouted, throwing the animal down on our back doorstep.

He pulled me over to watch, then strategically placed a slippered foot underneath his stomach and kicked his twisting body high into the air before the kitten landed in the snow. Orlando had learned his lesson - and ran away soon afterwards.

On 31 December 1968, I overdosed on two bottles of junior aspirin tablets, taken from the kitchen cupboard. I had my stomach pumped; both of my parents were watching at the hospital, but neither suspected anything other than foolish over-indulgence from their seven-year-old.

If being brought up in a world of abuse and alcohol meant that the daily fabric of family life was infused with violence, my duty as the only child was to keep quiet. Several neighbours knew something - screams in the street and broken windows ensured that. But in a peculiarly English way, they confined themselves to a "tut, tut" behind their twitching curtains.

I told no one what happened. The thought of ever daring to reveal such secrets to anyone else would never have occurred to me. Who was there to tell, anyway?

We were isolated from my grandparents and other family members and whenever Manchester policemen came to deal with an outburst, George quickly pulled rank.

Celia ran away to London when I was 11. George won custody without a fight. A year later, my stepmother, Frances, became the next victim. She suffered from epilepsy, frequently provoked by violence. In a seemingly endless melodrama, most efforts to defuse his drunken anger proved ineffective. He even kicked Frances on the floor during one epileptic seizure.

I began to blame myself and started cutting my teenage arms with razor blades and glass. These self-inflicted wounds left permanent scars as a reminder, but I naively thought I had kept it secret. I was wrong.

Frances revealed two years ago that my father knew all about this self-harm at the time, but pretended it wasn't happening.

Since Frances left him in 1983, she has not suffered one epileptic seizure.

Much of my adult life was spent as a prop for George - talking on the phone about his work or his relationship crises, often for hours at a stretch, watching him on his feet in dozens of cases. I spent less time with him when I got married in 1992. I don't claim to be a perfect father but I always try my best to be patient, understanding and give my children as much time as I can.

I only stopped being afraid of my father at the age of 39 - on the day he died. Within a week, my father's first wife, Ursula, gave a newspaper interview, revealing the violent torture of their three-year marriage. It was only then that I told my wife, Rachel, what had happened throughout my childhood.

My thoughts focused on honouring his deathbed request to write his biography. My research uncovered sexual abuse by the Irish Christian Brothers at his Blackpool school and a secret homosexual life, which included the intimate company of much younger men. But this did not explain the periodic rage.

Regrettably, I never had the courage to ask my father the most important question: why? His talent may have been unique, but there are undoubtedly thousands of men in Britain who behave like George Carman, creating fear and humiliation for their families. In my experience, such suffering must not be allowed to continue in silence.