orbits, and once again became possessed by the desire to know who he was. The need to name him, to understand how and why he’d come to this, grew in her with each stage of his disintegration.
As soon as she started work, however, this obsession with his identity fell away. Under Mr Smailes’s appraising eye, they teased out layers of muscle and exposed nerves and tendons to the light. He encouraged them to explore their own and each other’s faces: to feel the skull beneath the skin. It made sense to test what they’d learned against the living reality. All the same … Elinor couldn’t help noticing how Smailes’s lips parted as he watched their fingers probe and delve.
She hated these sessions of ‘living anatomy’, but they were probably more useful to her as an artist than the actual dissection. Certainly, she felt her growing knowledge was now feeding into her drawing, though for a long time she’d been unable to make a connection. The cadaver hadn’t helped her see the model on the dais more clearly. If anything, the dissection had become linked in hermind to the passion, bewilderment and pain of that night in Toby’s room. As if it were his body on the slab: familiar, frightening, unknown.
And then, one morning, it was over. Elinor left the Dissecting Room determined she would never go back. Next term the other girls would start work on another cadaver, the second in a long line, but for her there would only ever be this one. She lingered for a moment in the doorway, trying to squeeze out the appropriate emotion, whatever that might be.
As she closed the door behind her, one of the attendants was sluicing down the slab.
It was snowing when she left the hospital, as it had been, on and off, for the past two days; the sky above the rooftops had a jaundiced look that suggested more was on the way. The pavements had been trodden to a grey sludge. She stopped outside the main entrance to watch the flakes whirling down. Before the end of term – and that wasn’t far away now – she’d have to see Tonks and explain that she didn’t want to go on with dissection. She’d say she’d learned a lot and she was very grateful to have had the opportunity, but …
But
. Still planning what she’d say to Tonks, she set off to catch the bus home, walking fast, head down, arms swinging, away, away, away …
And then, just as she reached the bus stop, she realized she’d left her bag behind.
It was Friday afternoon, and the Dissecting Room would be locked up over the weekend. It was no use: she’d have to go back. She ran most of the way, a blundering, impeded canter through slush and icy puddles, slipping and slithering across patches of black ice. As she pushed the doors open, cold air rushed after her into the building. She waited impatiently for the lift and then ran all the way down the top-floor corridor.
The Dissecting Room smelled different: less formaldehyde, but enough bleach to make your eyes sting. The lights were still on, so somebody must be around. In the harsh glare, the organs in their display jars glittered like jewels. Forgetting her lost bag, she stood atthe foot of the slab where she’d worked and slowly recreated the man who’d lain there, surrendering himself to their scalpels through the long hours of dissection. She remembered the shock she’d felt when the covers first came off; the glow of his uncut skin. Now, when there was nothing of him left, the full force of her desire to know who he was, who he’d been, returned.
The door at the far end of the room had been left ajar. Normally, it was kept locked. This was where the mortuary attendants disappeared to at the end of each session; access to students was strictly forbidden. She walked across the room, hesitated, then pushed the door further open. Nobody spoke, nobody demanded to know what on earth she thought she was doing, so she went in.
To her left, a trestle table ran the full length of the room. On it were three bundles
As soon as she started work, however, this obsession with his identity fell away. Under Mr Smailes’s appraising eye, they teased out layers of muscle and exposed nerves and tendons to the light. He encouraged them to explore their own and each other’s faces: to feel the skull beneath the skin. It made sense to test what they’d learned against the living reality. All the same … Elinor couldn’t help noticing how Smailes’s lips parted as he watched their fingers probe and delve.
She hated these sessions of ‘living anatomy’, but they were probably more useful to her as an artist than the actual dissection. Certainly, she felt her growing knowledge was now feeding into her drawing, though for a long time she’d been unable to make a connection. The cadaver hadn’t helped her see the model on the dais more clearly. If anything, the dissection had become linked in hermind to the passion, bewilderment and pain of that night in Toby’s room. As if it were his body on the slab: familiar, frightening, unknown.
And then, one morning, it was over. Elinor left the Dissecting Room determined she would never go back. Next term the other girls would start work on another cadaver, the second in a long line, but for her there would only ever be this one. She lingered for a moment in the doorway, trying to squeeze out the appropriate emotion, whatever that might be.
As she closed the door behind her, one of the attendants was sluicing down the slab.
It was snowing when she left the hospital, as it had been, on and off, for the past two days; the sky above the rooftops had a jaundiced look that suggested more was on the way. The pavements had been trodden to a grey sludge. She stopped outside the main entrance to watch the flakes whirling down. Before the end of term – and that wasn’t far away now – she’d have to see Tonks and explain that she didn’t want to go on with dissection. She’d say she’d learned a lot and she was very grateful to have had the opportunity, but …
But
. Still planning what she’d say to Tonks, she set off to catch the bus home, walking fast, head down, arms swinging, away, away, away …
And then, just as she reached the bus stop, she realized she’d left her bag behind.
It was Friday afternoon, and the Dissecting Room would be locked up over the weekend. It was no use: she’d have to go back. She ran most of the way, a blundering, impeded canter through slush and icy puddles, slipping and slithering across patches of black ice. As she pushed the doors open, cold air rushed after her into the building. She waited impatiently for the lift and then ran all the way down the top-floor corridor.
The Dissecting Room smelled different: less formaldehyde, but enough bleach to make your eyes sting. The lights were still on, so somebody must be around. In the harsh glare, the organs in their display jars glittered like jewels. Forgetting her lost bag, she stood atthe foot of the slab where she’d worked and slowly recreated the man who’d lain there, surrendering himself to their scalpels through the long hours of dissection. She remembered the shock she’d felt when the covers first came off; the glow of his uncut skin. Now, when there was nothing of him left, the full force of her desire to know who he was, who he’d been, returned.
The door at the far end of the room had been left ajar. Normally, it was kept locked. This was where the mortuary attendants disappeared to at the end of each session; access to students was strictly forbidden. She walked across the room, hesitated, then pushed the door further open. Nobody spoke, nobody demanded to know what on earth she thought she was doing, so she went in.
To her left, a trestle table ran the full length of the room. On it were three bundles
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