He took the decision to remain in his job at the newspaper Soir, despite the fact that it was now under the control of the Germans. Hergé began the story in 1944, a time when Belgium had been occupied by the Nazis. That Prisoners of the Sun is so perfectly formed, that this book exists at all, is something of a minor miracle. The effect of this was as beguiling to me as any of the great fantasy portal stories I loved. Instead he somehow uncovers a secret entrance to a network of caves hiding a tribe of Incas. When Tintin, Haddock and their young companion Zorrino attempt to cross a precarious rope bridge it inevitably snaps, sending our hero plunging towards a watery grave.
Then there’s the arresting scene that still pulls me dangerously close to fast falling water. There’s a great filmic quality to this scene the tension Hergé creates in just a few panels is the the equal of anything by Steven Spielberg – indeed more if you take his Tintin film as the benchmark of his ability in this area (which you shouldn’t). He attempts to engage the emergency brake but it snaps off in his hand, sabotaged. As Haddock tumbles to safety Tintin returns to save Snowy who is snoozing on his seat. I still have total recall of the scene where the train carriage that is carrying Tintin high above the Andes is uncoupled from the engine and is left to freewheel into oblivion. Where the first book ratcheted up the suspense, Prisoners of the Sun lets loose, with a string of tremendous action packed sequences and dramatic set pieces. Following the atmospheric mystery of Seven Crystal Balls, Tintin drags the increasingly eccentric Captain Haddock out of his recently acquired family home on a mission down the Amazon and up the Peruvian Andes, where he hopes to to lift the Inca’s curse. It is in many ways the perfect Tintin adventure. Reading it again today I can see exactly what attracted me to this particular story. It wasn’t ever going to feed my family, but at least we’d alway have plentiful words and pictures. The hunter gatherer instinct was strong in those days, honed to perfection in the face of stiff competition. This seemingly useless skill that has proven remarkably useful over the years, taking me from children’s book obsessive to record collector and back again. I developed an ability to recognise a favourite book from its spine or a small portion of the front cover. Laser guided I flicked past the assorted Raymond Briggs and Pat Hutchins until I found a clump of distinctive hardbacks that seemed more colourful and vivid than anything else in the building – The Adventures of Tintin. Most weeks I had only one destination in mind when we were unleashed – the several large crates of oversized picture books that sat in the middle of the rough carpeted children’s section. Still take in the view from the mezzanine down on the librarian’s desk where I’d watch the quietly mesmerising art of the rubber stamp ritual unfolding.
And I can still remember the feeling of the sun warming my face as I kneeled under one of large picture windows looking through the Target Doctor Who novels.
I knew the geography of the building as well as my home. There were long stacks of classics on the far wall and shelves laden with an exhaustive collection of contemporary children’s books. Once inside we were released into the children’s section, which covered nearly half of the space.