Short Story - A Musical Feast

By Jackie Brewster

A Musical Feast

“Watch out, Jayne.” Doreen nudged her friend as they took their balcony seats for tonight’s performance of ‘Sounds of the Seventies’. “We’ve been spotted by Nigel, the food police.” Nigel was employed by Frog Alley Theatre to take tickets and show people to their seats, but he took the job far too seriously. During tonight’s show there would be no dancing, no flash photography and categorically no food or drink in the auditorium. Doreen and Jayne had had dealings with him before. In the last year he’d confiscated three boxes of midget gems, a bar of fruit and nut and twelve tubes of extra strong mints. Now he was heading in their direction, waving his torch. “Nice to see you ladies making the effort for the occasion,” he whispered loudly. The poster for the show said ‘dress to impress’, and Doreen and Jayne had answered the call. Both were wearing sequinned boob tubes, satin flares and huge pink afro wigs. “Why can I smell vinegar?” He sniffed the air suspiciously. Doreen and Jayne glanced at each other. “That’s my new perfume.” Jayne sat down gingerly, holding onto her wig. “Are you making up rules about how the audience should smell now?” “You both have a reputation for food smuggling.” Nigel tapped his torch against his palm. “I’m right to be suspicious.” “Don’t panic Nigel, we’ve learned our lesson,” Doreen huffed. “Look at us, we’ve nowhere to smuggle anything. Check my handbag if you like.” Nigel gave the offered purse a cursory glance but To advertise in The Villager and Town Life please call 01767 261122

there was nothing to be found. Doreen’s wig was slowly starting to slide off her head. He reached out, and, uninvited, straightened it. It made a curious crunchy sound. “Would you mind removing your wig?” he frowned. “I certainly do mind.” Doreen shook her head. The wig wobbled precariously. “It’s part of the outfit.” “It’s obstructing the view, they both are.” “Whose view?” Jayne turned round. “There’s no one behind us.” “Besides,” Doreen snorted, “you can’t tell folks to take off their clothes, it’s not that sort of show.” “I insist you show me what’s under your wig,” Nigel said firmly. The lights went down and audience members started coughing. “It’s just newspaper.” She lifted the front of the wig to reveal a corner of yesterday’s Evening Post. “See? You fill the wig with scrunched-up newspaper to give it height.” “Now leave us alone or I’ll be asking for your manager,” Jayne said crossly. “I’m sure you’re not supposed to be manhandling audience members.” There was the unmistakeable sound of someone opening a can of pop in row G and Nigel’s head snapped round. He scowled and sloped off, his torch beam dazzling everyone as he walked past. “Has he gone?” Doreen said. She reached beneath her wig and pulled out a newspaper-wrapped bundle. “Did you get cod or haddock?” she asked her friend, as the curtain went up and the band began playing. “I’ll swap you a piece for some of my chips.”