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SHEILA
A Narrative Poem In Twelve Parts
MARTIN DOMLEO —————————————————
Belfast Lapwing
SHEILA A Narrative Poem In Twelve Parts
MARTIN DOMLEO
Belfast LAPWING
First Published by Lapwing Publications c/o 1, Ballysillan Drive Belfast BT14 8HQ lapwing.poetry@ntlworld.com http://www.freewebs.com/lapwingpoetry/ Copyright Š Martin Domleo 2012 Cover Drawing Copyright Š Martin Domleo 2012 All rights reserved The author has asserted her/his right under Section 77 of the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Cover drawing by Martin Domleo Since before 1632 The Greig sept of the MacGregor Clan Has been printing and binding books
Lapwing Publications are printed at Kestrel Print Unit 1, Spectrum Centre Shankill Road Belfast BT13 3AA 028 90 319211 E:kestrelprint@btconnect.com Hand-bound in Belfast at the Winepress Set in Aldine 721 BT
ISBN 978-1-907276-95-8 ii
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
The Desk an illustrated narrative poem first published by Janmar Books DTP 2003 revised edition 2006 ISBN 0-9544820-1-8 Scream Over Stallard’s a novel published by Plane Tree 2005 ISBN 1-84294-176-3 Available from the author Decelerations a collection of poems Lapwing Publications 2011 ISBN 978-1-907276-67-5 The Haunted Barn a novella Lapwing Publications 2011 ISBN 978-1-907276-79-8
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to Ruth O’Callaghan for sharing with me her great wealth of experience in poetry writing and teaching, without which this contemporary narrative would not have appeared.
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INDEX OF PARTS AND THEIR FIRST LINES 1 She was middle-class, sweet-natured
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2 Down hill all the way, slow and easy
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3 Macey was in demand. Papers fastened on their case, she, the magnetic point
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4 Matty Hogg was appointed Tour Manager
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5 Time for the Fourth Coming, Dream Ride – The Album
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6 Sunlit faces in Class Five, English lit. students reading Mistakes of a Night…
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7 Sheila’s father, son of a priest
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8 Down hill all the way, slow and easy
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9 Cold in the earth – and fifteen wild Decembers
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10 Michael finished off his microwave dinner
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11 He read a little
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12 He knew where she was, roughly
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Notes
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SHEILA A Narrative Poem In Twelve Parts MARTIN DOMLEO
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To all young people who live life to the full, and strive for happiness.
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Martin Domleo
1 She was middle-class, sweet-natured, lived by rules, sang in church choirs; became confused, argumentative, hard-nosed, rebellious; went clubbing, did that awful, brave, stupid thing: got up to sing. Two bars in, chatter ceased. Soulful passion shook her slender frame down to her finger ends. Waiters froze, passers by paused and stared. She became a regular, filling The Room to bursting. The leader of a touring band turned up; said he liked her style. Made an offer. No strings; she could leave, whenever, if. ‘We’re called Macey – Mac with an e-y,’ he explained. Not bad, she thought; knew a lot of chords. Liked his smile. There was no paper work.
9
Sheila
He was fifteen years older, done the rounds. Indolence should have signalled his preferred weed, but she was all of eighteen; innocent bird; knew nothing. She might have left, if Mac hadn’t sent Fred Meek a disc. He’d sent Meek stuff before, received nothing in reply. Sheila’s vocal changed the game. The group was summoned to His Presence in London: Fred Meek, The Mekon, All-Powerful Producer, maker, breaker. Reality Man.
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Martin Domleo
2 Down hill all the way, slow and easy, slow and smooth with a soulful passion that grew more beautiful, more dangerous, the deeper she sank. The Mekon had a ballad he wanted her to try. Sheila listened, said it was all right, no more; from a soiled purse, took some scruffy lines. ‘Try me,’ Meek said. She sang The Heart Never Wins, unaccompanied, perfect pitch, a voice from the mountains, distant, universal, eerily personal; all hers, down to her finger ends. Breaking silence, Mac told her to start again, joined in with chords; came a slow beat, second guitar, third on base. Soon they were on it, she, so uncannily exact, even an idiot could follow.
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Sheila
‘OK,’ The Mekon said. ‘Who wrote it?’ Clear as spring water Sheila replied, ‘I did. Wrote it at School.’ ‘OK, we’ll use both.’ Contracts were signed – ninety per cent to Meek, but no-one gave a damn. Did she want her parents involved? ‘No’ – like a gunshot. He didn’t ask twice. Session musicians arrived. All had to be paid. ‘All my risk,’ Meek said, licking his lips. He had America in mind. Smash hit. More originals flowed from Sheila’s stash. Even professionals were impressed. The timing was all wrong. Session-hot and sweaty Mac offered a joint. A voice said ‘No’, but what the heck, it was only pot; she wanted to know what the fuss was about; pretended to inhale, sucked in a little, then inhaled again, for real.
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Martin Domleo
Faint, wanting to puke, she smiled, held it down. Innocent, middle class bird! – wanting to show cool, wanting to please! Too late: the stuff came in glowing. She saw herself on TV, night dress loose, an innocent Juliet peering out a window; sang a weird duet with the charlatan. Wondered vaguely what her mother thought, her little Sheila staring out of the LED.... Probably wasn’t watching anyway… she’d be out on the town, living it up with her latest man.
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Sheila
3 Macey was in demand. Papers fastened on their case, she, the magnetic point. Where did she learn to sing like that? What school did she go to? Did she have a boy friend? The world turned crazy. Meek organised a tour, nation-wide; told Macey to trust him, make most of the mania. They’d have the best Road Manager, everything taken care of; their only task – to perform. She was floating on a honey-cloud, gliding to the next gig, in transit always. Mac made his move after a night in Leeds. Followed her to her room, kissed her full on the lips. She was nineteen, a big girl now, pulled her in, both hands on her butt. She backed into the room, pushed him away. Sheila liked Mac, but not that much. Not that much.
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Martin Domleo
He passed on a weed, said, try one of these. New stuff, pure, the best. She took it, inhaled. Half-closed eyes opened and stared. His face slid by. The walls rose from their roots as he took her innocence, her dumb acquiescence, laid them like produce on the slab of her bed.
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Sheila
4 Matty Hogg was appointed Tour Manager. Copy-cat bands, no-talent singers, had left him a wiser man. He knew his limitations; how to steady the ark, keep negativity from the bridge, knew the wisdom of the age. Saw Sheila in dope-induced stupor – no leaks, no wild headlines, no summons to his master’s presence. Hogg did what was right: wrapped hotel rooms in steely cords; controlled exits and entrances, made compliance too expensive to refuse. ‘What day is it?’ she asked, but it was just another night after the spotlight, trapped in Transylvania where dope bites dribbled, and she lusted for more.
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Martin Domleo
5 Time for the Fourth Coming, Dream Ride – The Album. Time to push out the group, the girl to go it alone; Fifth Coming, Just Sheila, was already down the road. Meek wanted dope-talk dispelled; the cash-cow’s health was key. He wanted Mac out. He and Sheila were an item to the world outside. The deal wouldn’t come trouble free. An orchestra, ten violins, put Macey in the shade – part of Meek’s long-term plan. Taking Mac to one side, said the contract allowed for amicable splits, offered twenty per cent of the Ride. Mac thought of his scorched time with Sheila. The public’s perfect pair! Firming his jaw, Mac raised the bar, asked for a straight one million. The Mekon turned crimson when he passed down the dough, but his orderbook was bulging. He knew straight away the seven figure cheque was pretty much a bargain.
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Sheila
A place was found for Sheila, in an exclusive private home. In answer to her shouts and screams, frothing at the mouth, she was given less stuff each time – mixed with harmless dust; same look, took her in for a while.
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Martin Domleo
6 Sunlit faces in Class Five, English lit. students reading Mistakes of a Night.... Michael glances at Sheila, fifteen and fair, four desks to his right; snatches for air; she’s beautiful, a star, Princess of the Night. She knows…she knows.... The print turns to bold as she puckers her brow, sees only vacant spaces. OK, he’s tall…a bit spotty, but not bad.... Worth a closer look. Sidling towards the gate, she pauses, checks her books, looking for Mistakes of a Night. She walks slowly towards the school, slowly. Michael’s already through the gate, making sure he’s there first. Apple blossom flecks pavements like pink snow.
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Sheila
He sits on a wall below a hedge, sunshine warming arms and face, warmer still inside from the hammering. Passing through the gate, flicking blossom from her hair, Michael’s muted ‘hello’ causes mild seizure. She walks on, murmuring a reply; stops, turns and smiles. Initiative regained. Michael jumps up, walks close; asks with indecent flatness (there’s a lump in his throat) if he can walk her home. She nods, says it isn’t far. His smile, matching hers, consigns acne to oblivion. Footfalls fade. Finding her hand, he gently squeezes. Response is immediate. He's nice, Michael – more than nice.
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Martin Domleo
The world's a bummer. There's so much he doesn't know. Not far to go now; not far.... Michael feels sudden force on his fingers. She's gripping hard. Her eyes are moist. Something's wrong. At the door, Sheila's full-on radiance. restores the high. His steps are light. He can't wait for Monday. Course, he should have asked her out Saturday or Sunday. Why has he been so dumb?
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Sheila
The weekend shambles from hour to hour, drags through steamy nights. Monday comes with gathering shock. She's absent. Isn't in Tuesday, nor Wednesday, nor the rest of the week, term, year. The curtains are drawn. No-one at home. Michael stares at the sign in front of the house: FOR SALE. For sale.... His lights go out.
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Martin Domleo
7 Sheil’s father, son of a priest, seemed destined for the cloth, until he found his métier – proprietor of a cycle shop. Customers trusted David J Milne. His business grew, one shop into three. Income rising commensurately, he became the target of worldly women who knew the art of giving a little, teasingly, just enough. Christine found David at a charity ball, made sure he couldn’t miss, excitedly talked of cycling, gave him a goodnight kiss. Sheila was part of her long-term plan, knew he’d never stomach a bastard.
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Sheila
The marriage lasted six months in truth, twelve crusty years in law – a soulless victory for David, bitter lessons for the girl. The day was crisp and cold, ideal cycling weather, when David lost control on a moorland pass. The oncoming car couldn’t miss.
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Martin Domleo
8 Down hill all the way, slow and easy, slow and smooth with a soulful passion that grew more beautiful, more dangerous, the deeper she sank. They had stabilised her, set her free. Now another craving took hold – off the shelf-available – the mass killer, alcohol. Dream Ride sold fifteen million, Just Sheila, thirty. Massive offers for world tours were turned down. Meek put it around that her itinerary was full to bursting. Truth was, he had doubts about Sheila’s ability to perform ‘live’. Seemed OK for now, but for how much longer? Her image needed boosting. Maybe the media knew her mobile had been ditched: they majored on her ‘aloofness’, called her an uncaring bitch. Who did she think she was? 25
Sheila
GET OFF YOUR HIGH HORSE SHEILA! Then mother arrived. With swollen pride, told how her daughter had sung in church choirs, made her father so happy, singing solo at the Nationals. Christine’s tears fell on Sheila like six-inch nails; sent the star into paroxysms of rage. Meek offered mother £20 k to shut her up. Face alight, the lady screwed him, a genteel ten times as much. Further business was then sealed. After careful selection: channel, programme, interviewer, Meek agreed a deal – for Sheila to be interviewed on live TV.
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Martin Domleo
9 Cold in the earth – and fifteen wild Decembers, From those brown hills, have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering! Coming across the verse in bookshop-browsing, brought Michael back to another spring: sitting on a wall, blossom falling. Her brilliant smile still haunted his dreams, gave substance for grief. Why so? Why so, after eight impatient, hungry years? How could he know what old men know? And how could she, in half-waking dreams, know that uncorrupted love outshines, outstays the rest? Sheila saw only the short term. The mess of her father on a moorland road had guillotined the rest. Even chopped God – the sort her father had praised, at any rate. Then rebellion buried His Body for good. 27
Sheila
Remnants of church music still swam in memory’s mire; one piece in particular, a carol, In the Bleak Midwinter, words by Christina Rossetti. Something clicked with Christina Rossetti. A dull-eyed life ago, school and church had come together. An English teacher slapped Remember on her desk just as Holy Trinity was gearing up for Carols, Bleak Midwinter the centrepiece. Her biggest hit was Remember Me. She wrote the other stuff herself; words first, music following. Words set the tone. Most of them flooded in after her father’s death. Sheila had always cried a little during recordings. Lately, more so. Good and bad still had meaning when she sang. 28
Martin Domleo
Out of the studio, her demeanour was hard, unforgiving, a mask, tears drained by alcohol’s dead fist. She saw only the short term. She must be sober. Must be sober, sober for the interview. Preparations left little to chance. An agenda was discussed, questions agreed in advance. The mountain would come to The Mekon. She must be at her ease. Hogg fussed around the hairdresser, make-up artist; ensured her needs were met. Missed only the water bottle, vodkafilled, marked with the letter X.
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Sheila
10 Michael finished off his microwave dinner, switched on the TV, slumped in his chair. Catching the last of the news, drifted into sleep. Awoke to Sheila’s ‘Man Child’, a weird, doleful sound, like Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. He homed in on the singer. Tall, well proportioned, free of implants… nice figure, he thought. Spaded make-up, hair jet black, panel pin lashes… a perfume maker’s fantasy. The scene switched to ‘live’: Sheila sitting, cross-legged on a sofa. Her hair had undergone alchemy to a fair, natural colour. Her eye-lashes were short, discrete. Michael sat bolt upright.
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Martin Domleo
11 DOWNFALL OF A LEGEND He read a little, closed his eyes, stuffed the paper into the seat pouch. The Pendolino was on time for a 10 a.m. arrival. Although, in his case, as he kept telling himself, only God knew what for. TV images rose up, overlaying one another: the interviewer leaning forward – he had a kindly face – asking Sheila about her mother. Sheila replying icily: ‘What about her?’ Sheila drinking from a plastic bottle. The smiler asking if her mother had influenced her. Sheila saying she had, but not in musical ways. The bastard going for the jugular: What were those ways? Sheila taking another slurp, shifting in her seat, saying she missed her dad. And that was it. That was all.
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Sheila
But that hadn’t been it, hadn’t been all. Smiler wouldn’t let go. Got what he wanted. Sheila hated her mother. Michael couldn’t forget how Sheila clung to the bottle like a frightened child; wouldn’t take a replacement. She was a total mess, incoherent. Sitting there, rocking from side to side. Worst part was the silence. Of one thing he was sure: the singer was the girl he’d known in Class Five, with whom he’d walked happily in sunshine to her door’s portcullis. He’d been a barman, cut hedges, emptied bins, delivered pizzas in a rusting Corsa. Now – his Geography degree untested – he drove a white Sprinter delivery van.
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Martin Domleo
But he breathed the same air as Sheila, felt the same pain when a door shut on a finger, or an ankle twisted in a grike; knew the same sickness after a night out, or a night in, or in daylight, stupidly drunk.... He didn’t care. He’d cut through the booze-smell, take her away, do anything to help. Nothing would stop him except Sheila herself.
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Sheila
12 He knew where she was, roughly – where she had been the night before – The Penthouse at The Crown, Central London. Smiler had said so. Deep sea swaying subsides into ceiling plaster. Mouth dry, tongue like camel leather, she sips water from a bottle someone has left by her bed. Water, definitely. She lies back. Yesterday’s hysteria has drained away. She is alone; wants it that way. She’s blown it, exploded everyone’s hopes. A chapter is closing. They’d take her music if nothing else: her voice, her music. There is nothing else. She writes songs of sad betrayal, knows she is weak, that shouting gets her nowhere. She’s lost self-respect; doesn’t care about anything much. 34
Martin Domleo
Memories of something better blow in, blow out; bounce back briefly, sometimes. Maybe her father would have liked her music. A little bit. Her father had known loneliness too. His forced silences spoke volumes. Grow up! Grow up! Grow up! – her answer for everything – Grow up! It seemed logical, one day, to take her at her word; do what her mother did – disappear for a few days. It was what grown ups did. Two months after her father’s death she was found by a dog walker, shivering, miserable, hungry and alone, under a pier at Blackpool. Rivulets form at her feet. Her eyes close on darkness.
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Sheila
Cameras flashing, Michael pushes through the pack: TV cameras, hangers on, plain nosy people. Two hulks bar his way, want to know his business. He can go to the desk. No further, you understand? A rouged lady in hotel blue gives him a starched look. Michael tells of a letter for the singer, Sheila. She’s an old friend. He takes a deep breath. ‘Tell her I’m Michael, from Hazel Grove High.’ Eyes trained on his postgraduate face, she makes a call, then another. High above on every wall a wide-angle lens hovers, spooky, alien heads.
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Martin Domleo
A gale of action blows him back to desk level. The Manager appears, speaks briskly to his face. Michael, processing the words slowly, reads his lips. Colonnades collapse. Walls draw back and bow. Stepping from winter into spring, he follows towards the lift.
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Sheila
NOTES
Part 6 (The) Mistakes of a Night – alternative title or subtitle to the play She Stoops to Conquer by Oliver Goldsmith, 1774. Part 9 Cold in the Earth… from the poem Remembrance by Emily Brontë, 1846. Part 9 In the Bleak Midwinter… a carol, words by Christina Rossetti, music by Gustav Holst, 1906, also set to music by Harold Darke, his Anthem, 1909. Part 9 Remember, a sonnet by Christina Rossetti, first published in 1862. Part 10 Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, from the album Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, LennonMcCartney, 1967; usually attributed to John Lennon.
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Martin Domleo
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Sheila
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L A P W I N G PUB L I C A T I O N S
MARTIN DOMLEO
Sheila, who has sung in church choirs, turns to contemporary popular music. With perfect pitch and great range, she captivates audiences in pubs and clubs. As the narrative unfolds, a turbulent upbringing collides with fame and fortune. The road ahead is dark and dangerous. Written in a lyrical, yet punchy, contemporary style, the narrative flows at pace from first to last. Sheila is a love poem for the twenty-first century. W Brought up in Derby, Martin Domleo’s early working life was spent as a butcher’s assistant. This was followed by thirty-five years in the teaching profession. Throughout this time, he wrote plays, stories and poems for the children in his classes. Sheila is his third title to be published by Lapwing, the others being Decelerations, a collection of poems, and The Haunted Barn, a novella in the Rights of Passage genre. He is a long-standing member of Preston Poets’ Society.
The Lapwing is a bird, in Irish lore - so it has been written indicative of hope. Printed by Kestrel Print Hand-bound at the Winepress, Ireland
ISBN 978-1-907276-95-8 £10.00