Read Online One Christmas Morning & One Summer's Afternoon by Tilly Bagshawe - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tilly Bagshawe
Ads: Link
–
how the hell were they going to get that fixed by tomorrow lunchtime?
– with a set piece involving the shepherds and kings bringing their gifts. Lisa James, centre stage but with nothing to do except nod and smile, began at last to look like a convincing Mary. And Gabe delivered his few lines with no court-jester embellishments. Even the schoolchildren, as the heavenly host of angels, seemed to have pulled themselves together, with Denver Trotter in particular looking subdued.
It wasn’t until George Monroe launched into his first verse solo of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, his pure, reedy treble cutting through the air like the voice of heaven itself, that Laura noticed it. Denver wasn’t just subdued. He was grimacing, clutching his stomach. No one on stage seemed concerned. They were all focusing on their own lines and cues. Until suddenly Denver’s eyes widened and with a horrified, helpless wail of ‘Oh, shit!’ he made a run for the stage door. Unfortunately for Denver, a particularly large and obstinate donkey stood between him and salvation.
‘Move!’ the boy cried. ‘Move, for fuck’s sake!’
But it was too late. With a fart so spectacularly loud it sounded like a thunderclap, Denver Trotter’s bowels exploded, a thick brown stain spreading across his white angel’s robe as splatters of shit sprayed the entire chorus line behind him. Little girls started screaming. The pianist stopped playing, and various teachers ran on stage, flapping their arms uselessly like a flock of surprised chickens. George Monroe, still on his pedestal, kept singing, changing the words to ‘Once in Royal Denver’s Shitty’, and unable to keep the delight off his face.
Laura put her head in her hands.
It’s official. The play’s a disaster. I’m going to be the laughing stock of Fittlescombe, and Graham Kenley, and Daniel, are going to be there to witness my humiliation first-hand.
Looking up, she saw that Gabe Baxter was clutching his stomach too. Surely the whole cast hadn’t got food poisoning? Or some terrible, super-contagious vomiting bug? But then Gabe stood upright and she saw that, far from being unwell, he was actually crying tears of laughter. He winked at George Monroe, and little George winked back.
They did it together!
Laura gasped.
They slipped something into Denver Trotter’s drink!
Gary Trotter was on stage now, yelling blue murder. Grabbing his sobbing son by the shoulders he was trying to lead him off stage, when a follow-up thunderclap occurred and Denver exploded for a second time. Unfortunately, this time he was standing right in front of the fan that the stagehands used to make the angels’ wings flutter.
A fine mist of faeces sprayed out across the hall, showering the entire cast with foul-smelling diarrhoea. Even Laura, in her director’s chair at the foot of the stage, didn’t escape. She was wiping flecks of brown from her ridiculously expensive cashmere sweater when the rear doors to the hall opened and Daniel walked in. In a dashing, floor-length winter coat and Burberry leather driving gloves, carrying a vintage Aspinal of London suitcase and with a beautifully wrapped Christmas present under his arm, he looked like a creature from another planet.
Sexy.
Sophisticated.
Not covered in a ten-year-old boy’s poo.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Pulling out a handkerchief he held it over his nose. ‘What in the hell happened?’
Gabe Baxter answered him through tears of mirth. ‘The shit hit the fan, Daniel. Bet
that
doesn’t happen too often in the West End.’
CHAPTER SIX
Back at Briar Cottage, Laura deposited Daniel on the sofa and raced upstairs to peel off her sweat-soaked, poo-splattered clothes. When she saw her face in the bathroom mirror, she had to stifle a sob. She looked a fright. Her cheeks were beet-red, her nose had gone all shiny, and strands of limp, greasy hair stuck to her forehead like tendrils of seaweed clinging to a rock. Heavy bags under her eyes
how the hell were they going to get that fixed by tomorrow lunchtime?
– with a set piece involving the shepherds and kings bringing their gifts. Lisa James, centre stage but with nothing to do except nod and smile, began at last to look like a convincing Mary. And Gabe delivered his few lines with no court-jester embellishments. Even the schoolchildren, as the heavenly host of angels, seemed to have pulled themselves together, with Denver Trotter in particular looking subdued.
It wasn’t until George Monroe launched into his first verse solo of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’, his pure, reedy treble cutting through the air like the voice of heaven itself, that Laura noticed it. Denver wasn’t just subdued. He was grimacing, clutching his stomach. No one on stage seemed concerned. They were all focusing on their own lines and cues. Until suddenly Denver’s eyes widened and with a horrified, helpless wail of ‘Oh, shit!’ he made a run for the stage door. Unfortunately for Denver, a particularly large and obstinate donkey stood between him and salvation.
‘Move!’ the boy cried. ‘Move, for fuck’s sake!’
But it was too late. With a fart so spectacularly loud it sounded like a thunderclap, Denver Trotter’s bowels exploded, a thick brown stain spreading across his white angel’s robe as splatters of shit sprayed the entire chorus line behind him. Little girls started screaming. The pianist stopped playing, and various teachers ran on stage, flapping their arms uselessly like a flock of surprised chickens. George Monroe, still on his pedestal, kept singing, changing the words to ‘Once in Royal Denver’s Shitty’, and unable to keep the delight off his face.
Laura put her head in her hands.
It’s official. The play’s a disaster. I’m going to be the laughing stock of Fittlescombe, and Graham Kenley, and Daniel, are going to be there to witness my humiliation first-hand.
Looking up, she saw that Gabe Baxter was clutching his stomach too. Surely the whole cast hadn’t got food poisoning? Or some terrible, super-contagious vomiting bug? But then Gabe stood upright and she saw that, far from being unwell, he was actually crying tears of laughter. He winked at George Monroe, and little George winked back.
They did it together!
Laura gasped.
They slipped something into Denver Trotter’s drink!
Gary Trotter was on stage now, yelling blue murder. Grabbing his sobbing son by the shoulders he was trying to lead him off stage, when a follow-up thunderclap occurred and Denver exploded for a second time. Unfortunately, this time he was standing right in front of the fan that the stagehands used to make the angels’ wings flutter.
A fine mist of faeces sprayed out across the hall, showering the entire cast with foul-smelling diarrhoea. Even Laura, in her director’s chair at the foot of the stage, didn’t escape. She was wiping flecks of brown from her ridiculously expensive cashmere sweater when the rear doors to the hall opened and Daniel walked in. In a dashing, floor-length winter coat and Burberry leather driving gloves, carrying a vintage Aspinal of London suitcase and with a beautifully wrapped Christmas present under his arm, he looked like a creature from another planet.
Sexy.
Sophisticated.
Not covered in a ten-year-old boy’s poo.
‘Jesus Christ.’ Pulling out a handkerchief he held it over his nose. ‘What in the hell happened?’
Gabe Baxter answered him through tears of mirth. ‘The shit hit the fan, Daniel. Bet
that
doesn’t happen too often in the West End.’
CHAPTER SIX
Back at Briar Cottage, Laura deposited Daniel on the sofa and raced upstairs to peel off her sweat-soaked, poo-splattered clothes. When she saw her face in the bathroom mirror, she had to stifle a sob. She looked a fright. Her cheeks were beet-red, her nose had gone all shiny, and strands of limp, greasy hair stuck to her forehead like tendrils of seaweed clinging to a rock. Heavy bags under her eyes
Similar Books
