Milan

“What an honour,” said Miss Strappe, tugging at the bodice of her costume. “To be invited to perform traditional British music-hall songs at the world-famous La Scala opera house!”

“Yes,” said Fiona, scanning the lyric sheet one more time. “How lucky that we ran into Director Scherzo in the dining carriage this morning. Incidentally, why was he on the train?”

“Good question. Now that I think about it, I encountered him last night, coming aboard. Funny thing, but it looked like he was on his way to the schoolgirls’ carriage.”

“Probably giving them a late-night music lesson,” said Fiona, brushing her golden hair. Seven women occupied the dressing room, all fiddling with makeup and straps and silk and stockings. “I must say I didn’t realise the Orient Express made so many overnight stops.”

“Well, if it just went straight through to Constantinople, you wouldn’t be able to explore Europe on the way. And it’s nice to be able to stay on the train instead of booking a hotel. Does your costume fit alright?”

“I suppose it’ll do,” said Fiona, inspecting herself in the mirror. The seven of them wore stylised peasant costumes, with low-cut blouses and wide skirts. They seemed curiously shoddy in construction, as if they’d been hastily thrown together only this morning, though Scherzo had assured them he’d been planning an event just like this for months. “Now, all we’ve got to do is stand on the grand stage at the Opera House and sing a full roster of comic songs, beginning with the well-known Roses Of England.”

“Yes. Scherzo chose the songs personally. He said they’re his very favourites, and we shouldn’t deviate from the list by even a single line. Whole performance shouldn’t take more than two hours or so.”

“Aren’t some of these lyrics a little… cheeky?”

“He’s interested in the music, not the lyrics. Anyway, they’re all in English, so Italians won’t be able to understand them.”

“That makes complete sense.”

“The only other thing,” said Miss Strappe, “is that the King and Queen of Italy will be in attendance.”

“Do they have a king?”

“Doesn’t everyone? Now, I didn’t know this, but it turns out that in Italy it’s illegal to interrupt a performance before royalty. So, once we’ve started singing, we have to finish the whole show, no matter what happens, on the penalty of no less than one hundred days in women’s prison.”

“Who told you that?”

“Director Scherzo.”

“He would know, I suppose.”

“And it’s considered very rude when performing before the King and Queen to do anything with your hands but keep them by your sides.”

“Scherzo again?”

“Of course.”

“Well, these stipulations seem very easy to comply with. No putting one’s hands in front of one’s body, and we can’t leave the stage until we’ve finished all the songs. And I suppose we can’t turn around and face away from the audience, or anything like that?”

“Why would you need to?”

“No reason at all.”

“You definitely can’t, anyway. Italian theatre law is very strict.”

“I’ve always wanted to sing in an Italian opera house,” Fiona said, brightly. “Even if the song does have to be Roses Of England. Let’s get out there!”

Several minutes later the seven girls were standing on the opera stage in front of a gigantic crowd, who looked a little puzzled, almost as if the evening’s scheduled performance of Tosca had been preempted by some insane whim of the famously eccentric and horny Director Scherzo. Fiona found herself taken aback by the gilt, the chandeliers, the velvet curtains, the thousands of impeccably dressed Italian music aficionados in suits and evening gowns and the rows and rows of private boxes, each packed to bursting with more Italians, who peered at the stage through opera glasses and asked each other just what in the hell was going on.

“There’s more people here than I expected,” she said.

“Silencio,” said Maria, and nudged her sharply with her elbow. From left to right the girls were Megan, Manon, Maria, Fiona, Miss Strappe, Lakshmi and Dorothy, all positioned in centre stage under a brilliant spotlight. “It’s starting.”

And it was. The lights were dimmed, ensuring every eye in the opera house was focused on the girls. The orchestra struck up a jaunty tune.

Fiona took a deep breath.

“We’re pretty English roses, we’re lovely when we dance,
But if you take our clothes off, you’ll see our underpants,
We’re pretty English roses, that’s what the vicar said,
But if you take our clothes off, our faces will turn red.

We’re pretty English roses, we’re lovely when we blush,
But please don’t take our clothes off, don’t be in such a rush,
We’re pretty English roses, we’re never coarse or rude,
But please don’t take our clothes off or you’ll see us in the nude.

We’re pretty English roses, we’ve got such lovely hair,
So please don’t take our clothes off and leave us standing bare,
We’re pretty English roses, we’re from the upper classes,
So please don’t take our clothes off and expose our tits and asses.

We’re pretty English roses, we’ve lovely little feet,
So if you take our clothes off, please don’t throw us in the street,
We’re pretty English roses, we’re friends with lots of vicars,
So if you take our clothes off, please leave us with our knickers.

We’re pretty English roses, we’re lovely, wild and free,
Please stop taking our clothes off for everyone to see,
We’re pretty English roses with courage, skill and wits,
Please stop taking our clothes off and looking at our tits.

We’re naked English roses, you’ve taken off our frocks,
Embarrassed English roses without even our socks,
Embarrassed naked roses, and now we have to sing,
With no clothes on in public, exposing everything.”

The spotlight was on them. The audience, Fiona had to admit, looked a little disengaged, although some of them were chuckling at the lyrics, which they seemed to understand reasonably well. The seven girls exchanged glances, shrugged and delivered the final lines of the comic song with gusto.

“OH, NO! PLEASE DON’T TAKE OUR CLOTHES OFF!”

And, on that note, the seven peasant costumes, which were woven from a very particular kind of silk that reacted in a very particular way with a very particular kind of spotlight, dissolved into nothingness, along with the girls’ underwear. Leaving the lovely and suddenly very uncomfortable ladies nude in the spotlight, bare from top to toe, looking out at exactly 1,987 astonished opera buffs.

There was a local moment of total silence.

Then the theatre burst into raucous applause and laughter, quieted only by the strains of the orchestra, as they struck up the next tune. Fiona’s face had gone bright red. The very last thing she had expected from the evening was some kind of horrible wardrobe malfunction, obviously completely unplanned, that left her and the other six girls standing stark naked on the La Scala stage! Her hands instinctively flew to cover herself, before clenching into fists and returning to her sides as it occurred to her that it would be a very serious crime to hide her full, creamy, pink-nippled, peasant-wench bosom or golden silky bush in any way from the formally attired, opera-glasses-equipped multitude currently ogling her.

She felt her entire body glow with heat, her cheeks blazing furiously, as the full weight of her current predicament sank in.

She took another deep breath, and began on the next song, which was an old English folk tune called The Maiden And The Thief. Miss Strapp, beside her, was doing precisely the same thing, as were the other five girls. The unutterably lovely and very modest girls had **** but to stand in a row in the bright spotlight, singing their little hearts out, exquisitely conscious that every last inch of their gorgeous, trembling figures was on display before one of the most judgmental audiences in Europe. Oh, and all the schoolgirls were in the front row, taking pictures.

“Oh, in the town of Coventry there was a maiden fair,
With cheeks like English roses and lovely golden hair,
And while she was a-bathin’ on a bright September morn,
A thief stole all her clothes and left her naked and forlorn.

Oh, the maiden walked home naked, and everybody saw,
And she said the thief should be locked up because it was the law,
But she looked so pretty naked, her face all blushing red,
They gave the thief a loaf of bread and sack of gold instead.

The maiden swore to see the thief repaid in his own coin,
For all had seen her naked bare from tit to ass to loin,
But while she sat considering how to the thief outfox,
The thief took all her clothes off and clapped her in the stocks.

And while she was bent over he spanked her bottom scarlet,
And draped her with a sign that read “A Silly Little Harlot”,
And left her nude and shamefaced for all the world to jeer,
And went off home to have himself a lovely pint of beer.

When finally she was released, the maiden was quite furious,
For everyone had seen her tits, about which they’d been curious,
So off she went into the swamp to consult with the witch,
For an evil magic spell to leave the thief without a stitch.

“There’s a method,” said the swamp witch, “but you must be very brave.
Do exactly as I tell you and you’ll make the thief your ****.
Dance naked at the festival on bright midsummer’s day,
And all your troubles with the thief will simply go away.”

So came midsummer festival, and folks from miles around,
Came to gather in the village on the green festival ground,
And at the stroke of noonday when the day was at its peak,
Came the naked shamefaced maiden with a blush upon her cheek.

She danced with wild abandon, as if she had ****,
And all the townsfolk laughed and mocked and teased her with one voice,
And then emerged the swamp witch, and took off her disguise,
And said, “You silly maiden, I am the thief! Surprise!”

So girls, beware, and maidens fair, of the quick-handed thief,
Don’t let him catch you naked, or you’ll have no relief,
He’s cleverer than you, and he’ll leave you dancing bare,
A sweet embarrassed blushing girl, a naked maiden fair.

He’ll strip you nude and tease you, he’ll made you squirm and wriggle,
The world will point and laugh at you, the whole village will giggle,
So don’t go swimming naked, unless you’d like to be,
A sweet embarrassed blushing naked maiden girl like me.”

The punchline to that song was “WE’RE SWEET EMBARRASSED BLUSHING NAKED MAIDEN GIRLS!”, shouted at full volume. There were cheers, and cries of “Encore!”. Megan, Manon, Maria, Fiona, Miss Strapp, Lakshmi and Dorothy wanted nothing more than to flee backstage and hide themselves from the thunderous applause, but of course that was against the law. They had **** but to stand on the opera stage, tits and pussies bare, presented in a neat row for ease of comparison, and keep on singing comic ditties about how silly and embarrassing it was to be a naked girl.

Only another hour and fifty minutes to go! Without encores, of course.