Travels Through An Imaginary Landscape

In Freud We Trust, Part One

          The policeman pushed back his shiny blue cap and scratched his head thoughtfully as he considered the question. At least I think he was a policeman. He may have been a traffic warden. Or a lollipop man. The uniform was rather non-specific and I didn’t like to cause offence by asking. But he had that official air about him that suggested he was the right person for us to address our question.

          “The Explorer’s Club?” he repeated slowly, in a manner that indicated either he wasn’t aware of its location or he wasn’t sure we were the right people to be divulging that sort of information to.

          I had foolishly assumed that once we reached Stafford Harcourt locating the office of the Explorer’s Club would be a breeze. Sid Hitchins may have described it as ‘a large-ish town’ but the name had conjured up images of a gentle country village in my mind. A few idyllic cottages scattered along narrow lanes, a parish church and a cosy pub. Perhaps a post office and a small shop. Certainly somewhere an office of the Explorer’s Club would be likely to stick out like a sore thumb.

          The place had turned out somewhat different. Stafford Harcourt was a busy, restless city where buildings of every description were thrown together. The town seemed to sprawl in every direction, a succession of tightly packed neighbourhoods butting onto one another. And everywhere people and traffic bustled purposefully by – it appeared this was no place for idle sauntering. It could take us a week to search all the avenues and alleys for an office that, for all we knew, had already moved on. So, at the first opportunity, we stopped to ask the man in the uniform.

          The official tilted his head this way and that for a while before finally deciding we were worthy of his information. “Oh yeah, the Explorer’s Club,” he eventually said. “It was a surprise when they turned up in Stafford Harcourt, I can tell you.”

          “But do you know where they are?” I pressed him anxiously.

          There was another agonising pause. “Ah, that’s it. They took over the old Samson offices on Brook Street,” he finally said. “Just go up to the crossroads and turn left. You can’t miss it. There’s a big sign over the door.”

          I was so excited by this news that I scarcely found time to mumble a word of thanks before I hared off up the street, leaving Michael trailing in my wake. The policeman/traffic warden/lollipop man stood and impassively watched us disappear into the crowd before he turned away and resumed his beat.

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          I saw it the moment I turned the corner. It was a low sprawling building sandwiched between two tall, rather nondescript townhouses. For an outfit reputed to maintain a Masonic secrecy about themselves I was rather surprised to note a large painted sign hanging over the doorway proclaiming ‘The Explorer’s Club’. Even with this clue I felt compelled to reach into my pocket for the faded photograph Sid had given us back in Havana just to check it really was the same place.

          The short flight of steps leading up to the darkened doorway were identical. The only thing missing was the frozen figure of Sturridge, whose image in the photo was staring up the street to a spot right about where I was standing just now.

          “That’s it! We’ve found it!” I exclaimed with a sense of triumph.

          Michael merely smiled with a serene confidence that insisted he had never doubted for a second that we should locate the place.

          I tucked the photograph back into my pocket and was about to set off down the road towards the office when, on second glance, something struck me about the sign. I paused and stared at it with a puzzled frown. It took several seconds of concentrated gaze before I was able to pinpoint exactly what it was that had caught my eye. But as I looked it became clear that the letters on the sign above the door were fading from view. Gradually but undeniably the words were gently seeping into the background.