Calder pointed vaguely towards the cabinets. ‘In there I keep the herbs in pill and powder form. Comfrey, myrrh, sarsaparilla, golden seal, fo-ti-tieng, things like that.’
‘Er...‘I said. ‘What do they do?’
He ran through them obligingly. ‘Comfrey knits bones, and heals wounds, myrrh is antiseptic and good for diarrhoea and rheumatism, sarsaparilla contains male hormones and increases physical strength, golden seal cures eczema, improves appetite and digestion, fo-ti-tieng is a revitalising tonic second to none. Then there’s liquorice for coughs and papaya enzymes for digesting proteins and passiflora to use as a general pacifier and tranquilliser.’ He paused. ‘There’s ginseng also, of course, which is a marvellous rejuvenator and invigorator, but it’s really too expensive in the quantities needed to do a horse significant good. It has to be taken continuously, for ever.’ He sighed. ‘Excellent for humans, though.’
The air in the windowless room was fresh and smelled very faintly fragrant, and as if to account for it Calder started showing me the contents of the drawers.
‘I keep seeds in here,’ he said. ‘My patients eat them by the handful every day.’ Three or four of the drawers contained large opaque plastic bags fastened by bull-dog clips. ‘Sunflower seeds for vitamins, phosphorus and calcium, good for bones and teeth. Pumpkin seeds for vigour — they contain male hormones — and also for phosphorus and iron. Carrot seeds for calming nervous horses. Sesame seeds for general health.’
He walked along a yard or two and pulled open an extra-large deep drawer which contained larger bags; more like sacks. ‘These are hops left after beer-making. They’re packed full of all good things. A great tonic, and cheap enough to use in quantity. We have bagfuls of them over in the feed shed to grind up as chaff but I use these here as one ingredient of my special decoction, my concentrated tonic’
‘Do you make it... on the stove?’ I asked.
He smiled. ‘Like a chef.’ He opened the refrigerator door. ‘I store it in here. Want to see?’
I looked inside. Nearly the whole space was taken with gallon-sized plastic containers full of brownish liquid. ‘We mix it in a bran mash, warmed of course, and the horses thrive.’
I knew nothing about the efficiency of his remedies, but I was definitely impressed.
‘How do you get the horses to take pills?’ I said.
‘In an apple, usually. We scoop out half the core, put in the tablet or capsule, or indeed just powder, and replace the plug.’
So simple.
‘And incidentally, I make most of my own pills and capsules. Some, like comfrey, are commercially available, but I prefer to buy the dried herbs in their pure form and make my own recipes.’ He pulled open one of the lower drawers under the work-bench and lifted out a heavy wooden box. ‘This,’ he said, laying it on the work surface and opening the lid, ‘contains the makings.’
I looked down at a whole array of brass dies, each a small square with a pill-sized cavity in its centre. The cavities varied from tiny to extra large, and from round to oblong.
‘It’s an antique,’ he said with a touch of pride. ‘Early Victorian. Dates from when pills were always made by hand — and it’s still viable, of course. You put the required drug in powder form into whatever sized cavity you want, and compress it with the rod which exactly fits.’ He lifted one of a series of short brass rods from its rack and fitted its end into one of the cavities, tamping it up and down; then picked the whole die out of the box and tipped it right over. ‘Hey presto,’ he said genially, catching the imaginary contents, ‘a pill!’
‘Neat,’ I said, with positive pleasure.
He nodded. ‘Capsules are quicker and more modern.’ He pulled open another drawer and briefly showed me the empty tops and bottoms of a host of gelatin capsules, again of varying sizes, though mostly a little larger than those swallowed easily by humans. ‘Veterinary size,’ he explained.
He closed his gem of a pill-making box and returned it to its drawer, straightening up afterwards and casting a caring eye around the place to make sure everything was tidy. With a nod of private satisfaction he opened the door for us to return to the outside world, switching off the fluorescent lights and locking the door behind us.
A car was just rolling to a stop on the asphalt, and presently two recognised figures emerged from it: Dissdale Smith and his delectable Bettina.
‘Hello, hello,’ said Dissdale, striding across with ready hand. ‘Calder said you were coming. Good to see you. Calder’s been showing you all his treasures, eh? The conducted tour, eh, Calder?’ I shook the hand. ‘Calder’s proud of his achievements here, aren’t you, Calder?’
‘With good reason,’ I said civilly, and Calder gave me a swift glance and a genuine-looking smile.
Bettina drifted more slowly to join us, a delight in high heeled boots and cuddling fur, a white silk scarf round her throat and smooth dark hair falling glossily to her shoulders. Her scent travelled sweetly across the quiet cold air and she laid a decorative hand on my arm in an intimate touch.
‘Tim the saviour,’ she said. ‘Calder’s hero.’
The over-packaged charm unaccountably brought the contrasting image of Ginnie sharply to my mind, and I briefly thought that the promise was more beckoning than the performance, that child more interesting than that woman.
Calder took us all soon into his maxi-cottage sitting-room and distributed more drinks. Dissdale told me that Sandcastle had almost literally saved his business and metaphorically his life, and we all drank a toast to the wonder horse. Four further guests arrived — a married couple with their two twentyish daughters — and the occasion became an ordinarily enjoyable lunch party, undemanding, unmemorable, good food handed round by the manservant, cigars offered with the coffee.
Calder at some point said he was off to America in the New Year on a short lecture tour.
‘Unfortunately,’ he said, ‘I’ll be talking to health clubs, not horse people. American racehorse trainers aren’t receptive to me. Or not yet. But then, it took a few years for Newmarket to decide I could make a contribution.’
Everyone smiled at the scepticism of America and Newmarket.
Calder said, ‘January is often a quiet month here. We don’t take any new admissions if I’m away, and of course my head lad just keeps the establishment routines going until I return. It works pretty well.’ He smiled. ‘If I’m lucky I’ll get some skiing; and to be honest, I’m looking forward to the ski-ing much more than the talks.’
Everyone left soon after three, and I drove back to London through the short darkening afternoon wondering if the herbs of antiquity held secrets we’d almost wilfully lost.
‘Caffeine,’ Calder had been saying towards the end, ‘is a get-up-and-go stimulant, tremendously useful. Found in coffee beans of course, and in tea and cocoa and in cola drinks. Good for asthma. Vigorous marvellous tonic. A life-saver after shock. And now in America, I ask you, they’re casting caffeine as a villain and are busy taking it out of everything it’s naturally in. You might as well take the alcohol out of bread.’
‘But Calder dear,’ Bettina said, ‘There’s no alcohol in bread.’