Read Online Little Black Book of Stories by A.S. Byatt - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: A.S. Byatt
Tags: Fiction
Ads: Link
Martha Sharpin thought of him. He needed to find out.
The meeting wound on. Damian reported the purchase of a painting by Thérèse Oulton and the gift by an anonymous donor of some prints by Tom Phillips. The nursing supervisor reported on the scheme for ward decoration by the art students. She said there had been problems with someone trying to bring unhygienic things into the ward with the incubators. And some of the students had started things and not come back, leaving bits of mistletoe and oranges with cloves, cluttering the Surgical Ward. Damian Becket said he thought the decoration of the Gynae Ward had been very successful, very imaginative and unusual. He thought they should thank Miss Whimple. He asked Joey Blount, the performance artist, if he knew Miss Whimple. Not personally, said Joey Blount. Not at all, actually.
The meeting always ended with the problem of Eli Pettifer’s Collection, which was always deferred. It was a condition of the bequest—and of all Pettifer’s other munificent bequests—that the Collection should be maintained and appropriately displayed. And there it was, in boxes, and old display cabinets you couldn’t make your way between. Daunting. They’d once had a real cataloguer, said the Bursar, who had been in there for six months, and got very depressed by the dust and the darkness. She turned out to have catalogued
one
box
when she left, according to a system no one could make head or tail of. Moreover, she’d developed a mystery virus, which she claimed must have come out of the boxes, and had threatened to sue the hospital.
Martha asked whether the Collection was labelled. Yes, said the Bursar, most of it had little hand-written stickers and tags. It was hard to know where to start, he said gloomily. Martha said she would like to see it. The Bursar said this was more than Letitia had offered to do. Letitia was squeamish. Martha said she herself was not, and would take a look at what was there. Damian said he would be happy to show her round.
So Damian Becket and Martha Sharpin made a clanking descent in the steel cage into the bowels of the hospital. The door to the Collection was opened by a coded keyboard: Damian punched in his code and pushed it open. Martha Sharpin exclaimed at the extent of it. There were several rooms, opening off a central one which had a little murky daylight from a thick glass window let into the pavement above, through which they could see the soles of passing feet. There were rooms within rooms, made of crates and packing-cases. There were cabinets along the walls of the rooms containing shelf after shelf of medical implements and curiosities. Martha walked along, staring in. Damian followed her. Shelf after shelf after shelf of syringes: cartridge syringes, laryngeal syringes, varicose vein syringes, haemorrhoid syringes, lachrymal syringes, exhausting syringes, made from ivory and ebony, brass and steel. From another cabinet shelf after shelf of glass eyes stared at them from neatly segmented boxes, or squinnied higgledy-piggledy, like collections of marbles. There were bottles—ancient tear-bottles, ornate pharmacy bottles in pale rose with gilded letters, preserving jars, specimen jars. There were surgical and gynaecological implements, repeated, repeated. Saws and vices, forceps and tweezers, stethoscopes, breast-pumps and urinary bottles. Shelves of artificial nipples, lead and silver, rubber and bakelite. Prostheses of all kinds, noses, ears, breasts, penises, wooden hands, mechanical hands, wire feet, booted feet, artificial buttocks, endless faded hair, in coils, in tangles, in envelopes with the names of the dead men and women from whom it had been clipped. There were specimens also. Human brains and human testicles in jars of formaldehyde. Shelves of foetuses, monkeys, armadillos, rats, sows, boys, girls and an elephant. Monsters also, humans and creatures born with no head, or two heads, stunted arms or spare fingers, conjoined twins and
The meeting wound on. Damian reported the purchase of a painting by Thérèse Oulton and the gift by an anonymous donor of some prints by Tom Phillips. The nursing supervisor reported on the scheme for ward decoration by the art students. She said there had been problems with someone trying to bring unhygienic things into the ward with the incubators. And some of the students had started things and not come back, leaving bits of mistletoe and oranges with cloves, cluttering the Surgical Ward. Damian Becket said he thought the decoration of the Gynae Ward had been very successful, very imaginative and unusual. He thought they should thank Miss Whimple. He asked Joey Blount, the performance artist, if he knew Miss Whimple. Not personally, said Joey Blount. Not at all, actually.
The meeting always ended with the problem of Eli Pettifer’s Collection, which was always deferred. It was a condition of the bequest—and of all Pettifer’s other munificent bequests—that the Collection should be maintained and appropriately displayed. And there it was, in boxes, and old display cabinets you couldn’t make your way between. Daunting. They’d once had a real cataloguer, said the Bursar, who had been in there for six months, and got very depressed by the dust and the darkness. She turned out to have catalogued
one
box
when she left, according to a system no one could make head or tail of. Moreover, she’d developed a mystery virus, which she claimed must have come out of the boxes, and had threatened to sue the hospital.
Martha asked whether the Collection was labelled. Yes, said the Bursar, most of it had little hand-written stickers and tags. It was hard to know where to start, he said gloomily. Martha said she would like to see it. The Bursar said this was more than Letitia had offered to do. Letitia was squeamish. Martha said she herself was not, and would take a look at what was there. Damian said he would be happy to show her round.
So Damian Becket and Martha Sharpin made a clanking descent in the steel cage into the bowels of the hospital. The door to the Collection was opened by a coded keyboard: Damian punched in his code and pushed it open. Martha Sharpin exclaimed at the extent of it. There were several rooms, opening off a central one which had a little murky daylight from a thick glass window let into the pavement above, through which they could see the soles of passing feet. There were rooms within rooms, made of crates and packing-cases. There were cabinets along the walls of the rooms containing shelf after shelf of medical implements and curiosities. Martha walked along, staring in. Damian followed her. Shelf after shelf after shelf of syringes: cartridge syringes, laryngeal syringes, varicose vein syringes, haemorrhoid syringes, lachrymal syringes, exhausting syringes, made from ivory and ebony, brass and steel. From another cabinet shelf after shelf of glass eyes stared at them from neatly segmented boxes, or squinnied higgledy-piggledy, like collections of marbles. There were bottles—ancient tear-bottles, ornate pharmacy bottles in pale rose with gilded letters, preserving jars, specimen jars. There were surgical and gynaecological implements, repeated, repeated. Saws and vices, forceps and tweezers, stethoscopes, breast-pumps and urinary bottles. Shelves of artificial nipples, lead and silver, rubber and bakelite. Prostheses of all kinds, noses, ears, breasts, penises, wooden hands, mechanical hands, wire feet, booted feet, artificial buttocks, endless faded hair, in coils, in tangles, in envelopes with the names of the dead men and women from whom it had been clipped. There were specimens also. Human brains and human testicles in jars of formaldehyde. Shelves of foetuses, monkeys, armadillos, rats, sows, boys, girls and an elephant. Monsters also, humans and creatures born with no head, or two heads, stunted arms or spare fingers, conjoined twins and
Similar Books
