FIRST HERO

The neighbors on one side were Mr and Mrs. Breck. Mr. Breck was our
hero. He took us cycling. He took us on swimming trips. He showed us
how to fish. He repaired our bicycles. He let us watch the 1954 World
Soccer Cup matches on his television, the second TV to arrive on our
street. To my shame, I, sometimes, secretly and sneakily, wished, that
my father was more like him, or, more considerately, that my father had
more of Mr. Breck's know-how.

When our two families went on our annual, joint camping fortnight to A.
Island, I noticed that my father always slipped into the role of Mr.
Breck's assistant. This happened when they were putting up a tent,
rowing a boat or simply filling a straw, sleeping sack.

Mr. Breck died young, like a true hero. He died of cancer. I was only
fourteen. He was the first dead man I ever saw. I still remember my
mother's "You've been asked to go through and see Mr. Breck before he
goes....Now, you're not to be scared or anything: He looks very nice."
And I remember my first, panic-stricken thoughts on seeing him: "God,
they've shrunk his head!" So tiny it looked, enveloped in silk
cushion.