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By 1958, Peter, Anne, Michael, Sarah and a horde of stuffed animals from Harrods were living in a large white stucco house on Oakleigh Avenue in the fashionable, even-further-north village of Whetstone. It featured a lovely bay window overlooking a large terraced garden. Peter called it “St. Fred’s” and had a sign painted for the front gate to announce it. As he’d explained, “You can ruin anything with ‘Fred.’ ”

Michael, on the brink of four, was the titular owner of an electric car set, a pair of walkie-talkies, a number of radios, and a vast army of toy soldiers, but, as Michael later noted of his father’s playtime needs, “Only when he grew tired of playing with them himself was I permitted to touch them.” One evening, Peter spent several hours setting up opposing toy battalions for combat. Michael made the mistake of staging the engagement the following day when Peter was out of the house. It was a glorious battle with lots of dead bodies, but it paled in comparison to the rather more unequal clash that occurred when Peter returned home. Today we call it child abuse.

The children’s first nanny was named Frieda Heinlein. The kids loved her. Peter called her a “German swine” and fired her. Nanny Clarke arrived. Peter became so enraged by something she said that he stormed out of the house, drove to London, checked into a club, called Anne, shouted something about “that bloody nanny,” returned home, and picked up the nearest carving knife. Awakening Nanny Clarke with shouts of “I’ll kill you, you cow,” Peter plunged the knife into her bedroom door, which split. Quick-thinking but not as nimble as she might have been, Nanny Clarke hurled herself out the window, crawled to the house next door, and ended up in the hospital with a sprained ankle. Frieda Heinlein returned.

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As abusive a parent as Peter could be at times, he wasn’t without affection toward his children. He loved them to the extent that he was capable of love. Blame Peg, of course. She made him what he was. But blame Peter, too. A rotten mother doesn’t absolve her son’s rotten fathering.

Home movie footage shows Peter playing with a grinning Michael on a swing set in the yard at St. Fred’s. Another has him helping toddler Sarah learn to walk. Still another features Michael, resplendent in a plaid playsuit, examining Peter’s newest car. This little vignette is clearly staged, although the child star remains quite unaware of the fact. Peter, in voice over, plays the role of a showroom car salesman: “Try the driving position!” he cries as customer Michael climbs in—“I’m sure you’ll find it Ab-So-Lute-Ly First Class!” Then: “I’m going inside now to see to the projector, so I’ll see you in just a few moments. Jolly good luck!”

It’s cute to outsiders, but Sarah Sellers, in retrospect, finds this sort of thing to be painful to watch. “There’s not really very much just ‘natural’ footage of us playing or anything,” she notes. “It’s all staged. It’s all telling us exactly what to do, and when to laugh, and ‘Be happy!’ and ‘Enjoy yourself ! Have a good time!’ ”

Peter liked to drive Michael and Sarah down to London for a stroll in the zoo on Sunday mornings. Of course, being Peter, he followed up by taking them to lunch at the Ritz or the Savoy. Like everything else, much depended on his mood.

One particular Sunday, Peter was driving his brand-new red Bentley Continental. Michael Sellers claims that Peter’s other luxury cars had been previously owned, which helps explain how Peter afforded an unending slew of top-of-the-line luxury automobiles before he was pulling in the extraordinary income necessary to sustain such a habit. The Bentley Continental, however, was unblemished by other hands. It featured handmade fittings, cost £9,000, and was the trophy of trophies. Peter adored it.

A barrage of pebbles hit the car during a family drive. Chips appeared on the bright, shiny surface. Helpfully, Michael took it upon himself to fix them. He found touch-up paint in the garage and, with a child’s logic, painted a long stripe down the length