‘Francis,’ I asked, frightened and excited, ‘what is it we’re going to see?’

It was apparent to me later that he was reckless in not warning me properly. Nor was there any reason for his silence beyond sheer theatricality, although he may have feared that if I had known what we were going to do I would have refused to come with him. It is one of my first clear memories of his preference for drama over safety.

He took my hand and led me through the doors and down the corridor beyond. We went down a small flight of stairs, so that the windows above our heads were at floor level in the courtyard outside the building. We came to a point where ten or so students were waiting, talking to one another in small groups, their bags slung over their shoulders, their shoes and cuffs wet with melting snow. It was then that I became aware of a smell, lying under the institutional atmosphere of floor polish and dust. I caught only isolated breaths of it, which came to me like odd bars of a distant song, staying just beyond the edge of recognition. Those breaths made my nostrils flare with an acrid tang that made me think of strong chemicals. At the same time there was a meaty layer to it that was organic and unwholesome. The smell increased my trepidation. I looked again at the faces of the students crowding around the door, and tuned in to their voices. They were not laughing, or telling one another anecdotes, or asking questions that required answers. They were talking about the snow, about how far they had got with their essays. They were making small talk to fend off silence. From the academic content, I gathered they were first-year medics. The groups were gathered around the wooden swing doors of a lecture theatre, which were inlaid with small windows of safety glass. Without drawing attention to myself, I tried to peek through into the dim interior, but all I could see in the gloom was a series of white sheets, draped around as if over furniture in a house closed for the winter.

A tall woman in a white coat appeared from the other end of the corridor, announced by the business click of her heels on marble floor. She walked straight up to the door and unlocked it. Then she turned to us, and said, ‘Professor Lister is ill, I’m afraid. My name is Dr Fitzgerald. I’ll be taking today’s seminar. I’ll try to pick up your names as we go along.’

When she pushed the door open and the lights in the dissection room guttered into neon life, the smell rolled out, and I almost gagged. I looked at the young faces around me. They registered no surprise, but they also showed an attempt to suppress discomfort. These fledgling doctors were already working on their clinical calm, trying to show their peers that the layman’s reaction was well behind them. In most cases, the assumed air of professionalism looked ridiculous, like a child tottering downstairs in his father’s shoes.