FIRST HERO, FIRST TO GO

Our neighbours on one side were Mr and Mrs Breck. Mr. Breck was our
hero. He showed us how to fish. He repaired our bicycles and let us
watch the 1954 World Soccer Cup matches on his television, the second
TV to arrive on our street. He took us cycling and on swimming
trips.

He was the first dead man we ever saw. He died of cancer, when I was
fourteen. Mr. Breck died young, like all heros.

When our two families went on our joint camping fortnight to A.
Island, I noticed that my father always slipped into the role of Mr.
Breck's assistant (putting up a tent, rowing a boat, even filling a
straw sleeping sack, etc.). To my shame I sometimes wished, secretly,
sneakily, that my father was more like him, or that my father had his
know-how.

I still remember my mother's "You've been asked to go through and see
Mr. Breck before he goes...he looks very nice. Now, you're not to be
scared or anything--."

And my first, panic-stricken thoughts on seeing him: "God, they've
shrunk his head!" So tiny it looked, enveloped in silk cushion.