The Library

My Father, My Compass

My father, Leslie Hedaux, was a man of many hobbies and ever-changing interests—a restless explorer of the world and of himself. Born and raised in East London, he carried with him stories of resilience, like the time he was bullied on his way to school and had his lunch money taken. He could be tough, too—I remember hearing how his own father once chopped up his bike after he’d upset him. But beneath that steel was a man overflowing with love for his wife, my mum, and for his children and grandchildren.

Before family life, he travelled the world with the navy. I don’t know much about those years, but I do know he met my mum in Stanford-le-Hope in the 1970s, where they worked together. They wrote letters while he sailed—pages of longing and devotion. They moved to South Africa for a time, where my brother Dan was born in 1976. Homesick, they returned to Essex, and I was born in Orsett in 1978. Dad had so much time for us boys. It felt like he was living the childhood he never had—through us. Most weekends were spent racing motocross around the country. He gave us an upbringing other kids could only dream of: skiing, go-karting, and summers in Carlucet, South of France. He adored the culture, the food—especially Rocamadour Cabecous and smoked duck.

We fished together often, searching for the perfect lake, casting lines for carp, trout, and salmon. I remember wrapping ourselves in black bin bags in the Scottish rain, laughing through the discomfort. We took narrowboat trips through English canals, navigating locks and tunnels, fishing off the side. He’d take me to Grays to buy stamps, always making it feel like it was for me, though I knew it was for him.

He earned his private pilot’s license and took us flying to different airfields. He loved aircraft, and he passed that love on to me. I had my first flying lesson at twelve. We flew in formation with a group called the Seaweeds, from Southend to North Weald.

He introduced me to the casino. Our first night, we won on roulette—pure beginner’s luck. The second night, we lost it all. That was part of the lesson, too. We often talked about gambling, not just the games but the psychology, the stories, the odds. At home, we’d host our own casino nights with a proper setup: green baize, weighted chips, and official blackjack cards. It wasn’t about money. It was about theatre, strategy, and laughter. He loved the ritual of it all, and I loved sharing it with him.

In his forties, cancer arrived. He sold his share in the fabrication business he’d built—a hard decision, but one made for his health. He and Mum moved to Lincolnshire for a quieter life. I’d visit and find him on his PC, immersed in flight simulators and virtual air traffic control. He kept busy—driving the Spalding river taxi, selling seed at the Deeping St. Nicholas farm shop.

Later, we discovered World of Tanks. We played for hours. He wasn’t very good—his gun often pointed skyward—but he loved it. Eventually, his grandson Josh joined us, and the three of us played together. Dad looked to the sky, just like I do. He tinkered with telescopes, collected stamps and coins, and wore beautiful watches—Rolex, Breitling, and others. When we visited, he’d be on his computer, quiet but comforted by our presence. He’d slice biltong, mussels, smoked duck, urging us to try.

In the end, the cancer returned—faster, stronger. Yet he still cared for others, travelling any distance to help someone in need. He never asked for money. He gave from the heart. In his final months, I’d drive him to hospital for treatment, and even then, he couldn’t help but nag about my driving. It was his way of staying engaged, of still being my dad. Teaching me, correcting me, loving me—right to the very end.

Leslie was a man of motion—always learning, always tinkering, always giving. He lived with intensity and heart, pouring his energy into his family, his passions, and the skies above. Whether flying planes, racing bikes, collecting stamps, or fishing lochs in bin bags, he made life feel like an adventure. He gave us more than memories—he gave us momentum. And though he’s gone, the echo of his curiosity, generosity, and quiet strength still guides me. I see him in the sky, in the coins I inherited, in the way I build this mansion. He was my compass. He still is.