Memoir: Alan Cumming is not his father's son We pulled up in front of the house and sat for a moment in the car just staring at the grey stone edifice before us. Sometimes when you come back to places from your childhood they seem smaller, less daunting. But this place seemed as bleak and gothic and unwelcoming as it had when we were little boys. You okay? Tom asked. "I think so," I whispered. Just try and stay calm and not let him get to you. "I'm really scared," I said. Remember, he doesn't control us any more, Alan. I loved my brother so much in that moment. We got out of the car and rang the doorbell, but then moved back up the drive a bit, as though to protect ourselves from a looming explosion. After a moment our father appeared through the mottled glass of the porch, like a memory coming back into focus. We watched him, hanging back, gauging him. Then he opened the door. "Aye," he said. Are you coming in? Tom and I had both decided that we couldn't enter the house. It would be too unnerving to discuss past incidents that may have occurred in the very room we were sitting in. And also we didn't want to do this in his territory, be trapped on his home turf. "We'd actually like to go for a walk, if that's okay with you," said Tom. "Oh aye," he murmured and disappeared into the house, returning moments later in a jacket, and with a large rough-hewn wooden stick in his hand. His little West Highland terrier scampered up to us, breaking the tension that was beginning to crackle all around. "You're wanting to talk about something," he began, hitting his stick against the side of his work boot as we began to walk up the yard. Yes, we are. I was amazed to hear my voice, quite calm, quite strong. We want to talk to you about stuff that happened when we were little. He said nothing, but cleared his throat noisily and spat into a drain. Undaunted, I continued. I don't know if you know, but I've been having a bit of a bad time recently. "I hear your marriage has broken up," he said suddenly and accusingly ... Was he trying to shift the focus? That made sense. He was like an animal now, sizing me up, sniffing my fear. Eh, yes. I felt the weight of my words, their portent, their resignation. Part of the reason that happened is that I had a bit of a breakdown earlier in the year and it made it harder and harder for me to be able to function. And I remembered a lot of things that both Tom and I had suppressed for many, many years. Memories of things that had happened in our childhood, things you did that we don't think were right ... and we've come today to talk to you about them. "Oh aye," he said again, and began walking up the yard away from us, whistling for his dog as he did so ... My most vivid memory of our conversation is of my father's utter silence. I had said that I knew he must remember some of what we were speaking of, and his silence, aside from a whistle for the dog and the vicious thump to the inside of his boot with his stick, was proof that he did. What was your childhood like? I asked him. Did Granddad hit you? I was both fascinated and scared about the prospect of my father not being able to break a circle of abuse because that might mean I would be unable to too. He ignored me. Did you never feel bad about hitting us? Again he started off in front of us, desperate to avoid. But we were in the middle of the estate's most huge and sprawling drive. There were no cars coming, there was nobody around. There was nowhere to run. I scampered after him. D'you think you hit us because you were so unhappy in your marriage? He turned to me, fury in his eyes. "My marriage was over four years after Tommy was born," he spat. I stopped in my tracks, shocked, and watched him as he walked away. "Thanks," I called after him. That's two years before I was even born. That makes me feel great. Tom was beside me, his hand on the small of my back, propelling me down the drive to catch up with him. Why didn't you leave then? I demanded when we had caught up with him. "I had kids to think of," he replied with a mixture of indignation and righteousness that was both galling and horribly predictable. Of course he would be able to justify his presence in our lives, the very presence that allowed his sons to be repeatedly abused, with his fatherly duty to protect them ... Where were they? I said to his retreating back. Where were these kids you were thinking of ? Cos they sure as hell weren't Tom and me. His only response was the usual litany of spitting, banging his boot with his stick, and whistling for the dog. Finally we were back at the house and wrapping things up. We had said everything we had wanted to. We had countered every trick and bullying technique he had tried to pull with solidarity and strength. I had thought he was actually going to hit me once, when I'd said that if he thought that his abusive behaviour was not connected to unhappiness or events in his own life, then he was basically admitting that he was psychotic. But he backed down. "I am not a psychopath," he seethed and marched ahead once more. "Thank you," I said, and I truly meant it. Thank you for letting us come here today and get this off our chests. I hope you understand how much we needed to do this. And I hope you understand that we want to move on and put this behind us, and if you want to have a relationship with us, we are willing to have one with you. But you'll need to make an effort; you have to reach out ... So the ball's in your court. I never heard from him again. From the book Not My Father's Son: A Memoir by Alan Cumming. Copyright © 2014 by Alan Cumming. Reprinted by permission of Dey Street Books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.