Quelques Fleurs

Liz Lochhead

• Publisher: Nick Hern Books
• Year: 2014
• eBook ISBN: 9781780014449
• Topic: Literatura
• Subtopic: Arte dramático británico

A short play from the leading Scottish poet and playwright.

Verena and her oilman husband are childless, and their marriage is unravelling. In two intercut monologues which take place over the course of a year, we enter the hearts of each of them in turn.

Liz Lochhead's play Quelques Fleurs was first staged at the Assembly Rooms, Edinburgh, in 1991.

QUELQUES FLEURS

Quelques Fleurs – in a slightly different form from the text here printed – was first produced by Nippy Sweeties Theatre Company at the Assembly Rooms, Edinburgh Festival Fringe, on 10 August 1991. The cast was as follows:

VERENA	Liz Lochhead
DEREK	Stuart Hepburn
GUARD (voice recording)	Billy Riddoch

Characters

VERENA

DEREK

Note

The set for this play is two isolated spots, one containing an armchair, rug and coffee table bearing, initially, a small imitation silver Christmas tree (Verena’s home); the other a double InterCity seat and table (Derek’s ‘Rattler’ train). Verena’s costume changes indicate her passing year. Verena’s scenes span from 24 December 1990 till 23 December 1991, the date of Derek’s single journey – shown backwards from drunk till sober and measured by a dwindling mountain of beer cans – from his Aberdeen home to Glasgow.

Scene One 24th December 1990

At home, VERENA on Christmas Eve.

VERENA. His Mother’s a problem. Always has been. I don’t know what she wants. (Pause.)

Take last year, racked my brains, no help from Him as per usual, left to Him we’d end up getting a bottle of Baileys, a gift voucher and a petted lip all through Christmas dinner! Anyway I done my best, lovely wee lambswool cardi, sortofa mauvish, a blueish mauvey no pinkish, nothing too roary, not my taste but then I’m not seventy-four in February. Self-covered buttons, none of your made-in-Hong-Kongs. So. I goes into the top drawer of her tallboy looking for clean guest towels for her toilet and there it is. Still done up in the blinking glitterwrap the following November! Says she’s keeping it for a special occasion. I felt like saying Where do you think you’re going, your age, crippled with arthritis? But I bit my tongue.

Thing is too, only the week before – well, He was home at the time, you know, one of His weeks off – and we’d went to the bother of driving over there, and we’d picked her up in the car and we’d took her along with us to our Stephen’s engagement party – aye, My Mother’s losing her baby at last – well, anyway we thought His Mother would be company for My Mother while the young ones discoed. Plus it would be a wee night out for her. And naturally it was an occasion for the glad rags, Big Night for The Wee Brother exetra – even Our Joy had made somewhat of an effort. Good appearance, my sister, I’ll admit that. If she bothered. I says to her: Listen, Joy, I hope you have not bankrupted yourself paying through the nose to get that wee costume on tick, I says (because it’s a false economy yon Provident cheques and whatnot, you know!). I says: Joy, I’m sure I could’ve gave you a loan of something perfectly acceptable to put on. Because I’ve got the odd silky trouser and matching top, several dressy wee frocks jist hinging there since the last time I wis down at ten-below-target…

Anyway I was telling you about His Mother: we get there, she takes her coat off and, honest-to-God, I could of wept.

I says to her, I says: What’s up wi your wee lambswool cardigan, wee brooch on the collar and you’d have been gorgeous? She says: Och I thought I’d let my hair down, you’re only young once, and she winks at Him. I says to Him afterwards I says: Your Mother. What was she like? Telling you, talk about mutton dressed as lamb? Crimplene trousers. Thon stretchy efforts with the underfoot stirrups. And this sortofa over-blouse affair that quite frankly lukked like it came from Whateverrys. Big blooming Dallassy shoulder pads, hectic pattren, lurex thread through it, sent away for it out Myna-Wylie-Next-Door’s catalogue, cheap-lukkin wisnae the word for it. I was quite affronted, you’d think we never bought her anything decent. I caught our Stephen’s fiancée’s mother looking at her, eyebrows raised. Although what right she’s got to be so blinking snobbish, all she was was a manageress in Robertson’s Rainwear… Aye, I think my young brother’ll no have his troubles to seek dealing with that one! Looked to be the type that likes to control everything, get everybody dancing to her tune. (Pause.) Fiancée seemed to be a nice enough lassie. Pageboy. Good bone structure, but. Suited it.

I mean, you want to give, but – basically – you want to give something acceptable… So. Our Stephen’s no problem for once, something-for-the-house, naturally. Well, they’re both modren so the electric wok seemed the obvious thing. My Mother’s easy pleased, she’s had nothing all her life, give her a good thing she’s delighted. With His Mother I give up. Designer thermals. At least I’ll no know if she’s wearing them or not! For Him this – (Holds up a men’s dressing gown.) plus the exact same golfing sweater Moira-McVitie-round-the-crescent-in-the-culde-sac got for her man Malcolm last Christmas. Well, He’s been threatening to take up golf for yonks and if not… well it would always do for lounging around the house. When He’s home. Plus, I’ve got some stocking fillers for Him, nice wee items in the novelty-line hid away for months up the back of my night-dresses. Well, the July sales can be a very good time for Christmas shopping. Particularly in the discontinued toiletries.

Actually I got Moira’s wee minding then as well. We just tend to exchange a wee token thing, just to be neighbourly, nothing pricey – well what with her Malcolm only being on a teacher’s salary I think Moira was frankly quite relieved when I suggested putting a ceiling on it. Because the whole thing can get out of hand. Over-commercialised. Which is a pity.

I hope I done right. I asked Him when He was last home, I said: Country Diary of An Edwardian Lady Drawer Liners, does that say Moira McVitie to you? He goes: Drawer liners? I said: Don’t start, you know fine well it’s for fragrant clothes storage. He says that sounds like Moira to me. Definately.

Big sigh. Several beats.

So, basically, that just leaves me with the recurring nightmare of Our Joy and family. Because recently I’ve frequently had the feeling I just cannot say or do anything right as far as my sister is concerned.

I blame My Mother. I mean to her my man’s God Almighty. Fair enough. He is a Good Provider, unlike some.

I said to My Mother though, I said: Fair enough you worshipping Him, fine you being over the moon we’ve a new shagpi...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Contents
• Quelques Fleurs
• About the Author
• Copyright and Performing Rights Information