Appleby at Allington Read Online Free Page A

Presently what appeared to be an improbably vast wall rose up before them in uncertain silhouette against a sky dimly powdered with stars. It was tier upon tier of seats raised over scaffolding.
    ‘The house and the castle,’ Allington said, ‘and the end of the lake in between. You get all that from anywhere up there. But you get it from this affair too. Naturally, the chap who twiddles the knobs has to have his eye on the whole thing. Do you mind the short ladder? It’s quite safe.’
    Appleby didn’t mind a short ladder, and he put on a decent show of climbing with alacrity. There was a strain of naivety, he had decided, in this eminent retired scientist. Allington was as proud of his son et lumière as a small boy with a new model railway. And he was determined to show it off before letting his guest go.
    ‘You might call it a gazebo,’ Allington’s voice said from up above. He had climbed first. ‘Hold hard, and I’ll see if the electricity’s really on. No go if it isn’t. Ah!’
    There had been a faint click. Appleby emerged into a glass-sided chamber now faintly visible in a low amber light.
    ‘It might be the cockpit of an air-liner,’ Allington said. ‘Or the place from which they conduct the business of a battleship. Almost frightening, in a way. All in the interest of a ninety-minute divertissement . We live in a very artificial age.’

 
     
3
    It was a surprisingly roomy place to be perched in air as it was, and in addition to the elaborate equipment for projecting the spectacle there seemed to be much miscellaneous lumber flung into corners and stuffed under benches. In the dim light Appleby could also just distinguish a small table with punctured beer cans, crumpled sandwich papers and empty cigarette cartons.
    ‘They seem to have made it a home from home,’ he said.
    ‘They certainly do. I had them put up in the local pub, which is said to be thoroughly comfortable. But they camped here most of the time. Rather a long-haired crowd, and I can’t say that I took to them. The top man gave himself artist’s airs in a big way. He might have been taking time off from producing grand opera at Covent Garden.’ Owain Allington laughed contemptuously in the near-darkness. ‘But he knew his stuff, all the same. Handled all these dials and switches in a genuinely sensitive and loving way. He reminded me of a cathedral organist, as a matter of fact. And – do you know? – the show improved night by night.’ Allington’s pride in the son et lumière was again peeping through. ‘As it was all prefabricated and sent down from London in boxes, you’d hardly suppose that to be possible. But, of course, there’s a certain scope for nuance in fading the different bits and pieces in and out. Have a go.’
    ‘Take a stab at all this stuff?’ Appleby was amused. ‘I hardly think so. The most dreadful things might happen.’
    ‘I can promise you nothing will blow up.’ Allington spoke lightly. He sounded rather offended, all the same. It was as if he had offered a treat to a small boy – to hold the wheel, to perch on the saddle – and had it turned down. Appleby felt that, at least for a minute or two, he must accept this absurd role. And Allington, who had been investigating, spoke again. ‘I’m afraid the sound is off. They’ve taken out the tapes.’ He was clearly disappointed. ‘But the lighting’s in order.’
    Appleby looked through the sheet of glass in front of him. To his left he could just distinguish the house, which was in darkness except for half a dozen outdoor lamps which he knew followed the curve of the terrace.
    ‘The switches are simple on-and-off affairs,’ Allington said encouragingly. ‘The knobs with the calibrations are rheostats. Did you ever hear of composing symphonies out of colours instead of musical notes? There was some aesthetic character who had the notion of it years ago. But he hadn’t the technical know-how. It could be done now, with a contraption