A literary romantic tragedy of obsession, music, and the art we kill to create.
In The Girl from Melodia, Martyn Lockhart—son of the revered yet doomed folk legend John Lockhart—inherits both his father's extraordinary gift for melody and the toxic legacy of jealousy that ravaged his family.
Exiled on a London houseboat and haunted by his own violent past, Martyn vows to reclaim the English folk crown in his father's name. But when he meets the ethereal young French singer Françoise Audrey at a folk festival, he believes he's found his salvation and muse. As their passionate collaboration ignites, her radiant talent soon eclipses his own, awakening the same destructive impulses that doomed his father. What begins as profound love spirals into possessive envy, leading Martyn to an irreversible act that shatters their bond—and himself—forever.
A sincere exploration of artistic genius, inherited darkness, and the cruel price of unbridled passion, this debut novel echoes the tragic romanticism of Baudelaire and the raw intimacy of a heartrending folk ballad.
A literary romantic tragedy of obsession, music, and the art we kill to create.
In The Girl from Melodia, Martyn Lockhart—son of the revered yet doomed folk legend John Lockhart—inherits both his father's extraordinary gift for melody and the toxic legacy of jealousy that ravaged his family.
Exiled on a London houseboat and haunted by his own violent past, Martyn vows to reclaim the English folk crown in his father's name. But when he meets the ethereal young French singer Françoise Audrey at a folk festival, he believes he's found his salvation and muse. As their passionate collaboration ignites, her radiant talent soon eclipses his own, awakening the same destructive impulses that doomed his father. What begins as profound love spirals into possessive envy, leading Martyn to an irreversible act that shatters their bond—and himself—forever.
A sincere exploration of artistic genius, inherited darkness, and the cruel price of unbridled passion, this debut novel echoes the tragic romanticism of Baudelaire and the raw intimacy of a heartrending folk ballad.
I (25) first met Françoise (21) in 1992 at the Tulle Folk Festival, an event that was, in its heyday, a beacon of the French folk scene. It was a mystery why I’d been invited to play; I was in hiding at the time, on my houseboat, and the only thing I expected to come through the door were the police with their fists clenched and truncheons raised. I wouldn’t have resisted if they had, for I’d beaten my friend in the most terrible way, leaving him gasping for breath under his desk, and I deserved my punishment. But they never came, not that night, nor the next day, nor the next week.
And so I found myself in France, on a dilapidated bus, the morning before the festival began. The only Englishman among a handful of French travellers, I said not a word, feigning sleep in case they discovered a foreigner among them. Though I found their poetic tongue deeply moving, I felt in my bones that they were my adversaries, given our nations’ long history of warfare, and I still felt a flicker of duty to those countless forgotten Englishmen thrown into fields and mowed down by a blaze of musket fire.
Yet, despite my reservations about the French, I had a weakness for flattery and was intrigued by the invitation. The festival organiser, a man named Gustaine, had written to me in glowing, reverential terms, insisting I play. As far as I was aware, the few copies of my debut LP hadn’t made it across the English border and so I was dubious about the whole thing, but in truth I’d been seduced by his words and felt a strange desire to meet him. My fledgling folk career, once on the cusp of greatness, had collapsed, first under the weight of my friend’s betrayal, then through an agonising case of writer’s block, and I hoped France might offer a path to redemption.
The principal reason for my journey was, however, far more sombre. Since my grievous act of violence against Tristam, I’d been haunted by nightmares of my mother, centred on the last evening I saw him. She was there in his office, pleading with me to stop as I beat him, first with my fists, then with a chair. I hoped that by going to France I might obtain some peace from her and the things I had done. There was nothing in life that moved me more than the sound of my mother crying, and I would have stabbed my eardrums if I thought it might make it stop.
The bus creaked to a halt.
As the other passengers collected their bags, I lingered on board, smoking while I waited for them to leave. There was still a chance one of them might speak to me, and I didn’t want to reveal myself, not yet. Once they were gone, I gathered my things and followed at a distance along the dusty golden path to the festival gates, swatting away flies as my guitar swung at my side. As I trudged under a sweltering sun, I heard only the gravel beneath my feet, its satisfying, biscuit-like crunch pleasing my ears, and for that brief moment, my mind was free of Tristam and my mother, and I remember little except for being at peace.
Soon after, I reached the gates and was met by a girl with a clipboard seated at a table. In a light blue floral dress, she wore a name badge indicating her name was Aurélie.
“Bonjour!” she exclaimed when she saw me, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. “Ça va?”
I smiled, deciding it was best to ignore her French and reply in English.
“Bonjour, Aurélie!” I set my guitar down and pulled out Gustaine’s tattered invitation from my pocket. “I’m not sure if I’m on your list, but I was invited by Justin to play this weekend. It was a last-minute invitation.”
“May I have your name?” she asked, replying kindly in English.
“Yes, of course. It’s Martyn. Martyn Lockhart.”
A strange thing happened then because she blushed and leapt up from her chair.
“Mr Lockhart, we’re so pleased you could make it!”
“Really?” I said, surprised.
“Yes, Gustaine was thrilled when you wrote and confirmed you were coming.”
“Oh? Well, I’m flattered if that’s true. Until today, the furthest I’d travelled for a gig was a farmer’s market on the Scottish border!”
She laughed, gazing at me admiringly, and if I didn’t know better, I’d have said she was starstruck. This left me at a loss for words; despite my brief, modest success in England, I was largely unknown on the folk scene, and it seemed implausible that they’d know me in France.
“You must be tired from your journey,” she said in the ensuing pause. “Shall I show you where you’re staying?”
I nodded. “Yes, please do.”
I followed her through the gates into the main field. The festival hadn’t yet opened, so as we walked, we passed numerous empty music tents and bars, without meeting a soul. I asked about the festival, expressing my surprise that it was still going after all these years. Much smaller than in its sixties heyday, it was hard to believe luminaries like Leonard Cohen, Bert Jansch, and Marie Sauvet had ever graced its stage.
She glanced at me, struck by my ignorance. “It’s been like this for years,” she said. “At its peak, it spanned three months, moving through six towns.”
I looked at her, astounded. “I had no idea it used to go on for so long. How many months is it now?”
“You don’t know?”
I shook my head.
“You’ll be with us for just over three weeks, Mr Lockhart: the first two in Tulle, the last in Amiens—”
“Three weeks? I thought I was only here for the weekend.”
She looked at me, concerned. “Is that too long? Do you have other commitments in England?”
I laughed. “No, not at the moment. My diary’s as bare as a newborn’s backside.”
She giggled. “I’m pleased to hear it! We were all worried you might be booked up!”
We continued walking, and after ten minutes, we reached the fenced-off artists’ section, where life emerged in small groups of musicians and their entourages, many sitting around last night’s campfires, smoking pot and drinking from carafes of wine. As they drank and sang, a few of them stopped to glance at me, some calling out as if in recognition. I looked down, retreating into myself, suddenly anxious about whether word of my crime had travelled this far. From the way Tristam had cried out that day, it felt as though the whole world might have heard.
“Is it annoying that so many people recognise you?” Aurélie asked.
“It depends on what it’s for.”
She looked confused. “Well, for your music, of course! What other reason could there be?”
I said nothing, letting the question die in the air.
After a minute or so, we reached a large tipi on the campsite’s perimeter. I’d hoped I might be alone, but I was housed right by another group of tents, and the occupants were all outside, sitting in a circle. The young men here were lean, some bare-chested, all with face paint and bangles on their wrists. The girls, by contrast, dressed modestly, wearing light, summery dresses and flowers tucked into their hair. At that moment, their attention was focused on a girl who was standing in the centre of the circle telling a story. Though I didn’t understand a word, it sounded whimsical and joyful, judging by her friends’ reactions.
Aurélie led me to the entrance of my tipi.
“Here you are, Mr Lockhart. If you have any questions, Gustaine will be here tomorrow at noon.”
I swatted flies from my face. “I look forward to finally meeting him.”
“He does, too,” she said. “If you need anything, come and find me at the gates. I’ll be there until midnight.”
I nodded. “Thank you, Aurélie.”
She smiled sweetly. “À bientôt!”
I smiled back and entered the tipi, unprepared for the furnace-like heat awaiting me. I wanted to leave but changed my mind when my new neighbours’ laughter erupted outside, a sound so jubilant and life-affirming I found it unsettling. While a passer-by might have been moved by this melody of friendship—of playfulness and light-hearted jousting—I couldn’t share in it, not after what I’d done.
My decision then was to curl up on the mattress and brave the heat, serenaded by the bonding outside.
It cut into me like the worst kind of heckling.
* * *
I awoke an hour or so later, panicked, my heart pounding.
I’d dreamt of my mother again.
I hadn’t seen her in years until that night I returned from Soho. There was only a glimmer of her voice then, but as weeks passed, her presence grew more real, and I was convinced my crime had disturbed her slumber. I’d hoped France would bring peace, but that afternoon’s dream in Tulle was the worst yet.
She just wouldn’t let me be.
I decided to leave, wrenching myself from my pool of sweat and packing my bag with only what I’d need later—whiskey, cigarettes, and enough sleeping pills to dope a small army. I thought about taking some water but resisted the temptation. It would only prolong my agony.
Once I was ready, I unzipped the tipi and stepped outside. The air was still humid, but the flies that had antagonised me earlier were gone. I glanced at the group next door, finding them sitting in near silence, painting portraits of one another. One of the girls posing watched me curiously. She was wearing a white tiara and had some of her hair made up in plaits.
She was so beautiful I couldn’t take my eyes off her.
“It’s hot in there,” I said, fanning my face.
“That’s why we’re outside!” she replied amiably in near-perfect English. “Why don’t you join us? We have a spare paint set.”
“Yes,” a man posing suggestively for her said. “Come sit.”
As the girl shuffled aside to make space, I paused for a moment to consider the invitation, and it seemed that all the eyes of this merry little group were on me, each of them willing me to join.
But it was too much.
“Merci,” I said, “but I think I’m going to explore... I need to speak to Justin about stage time.”
“Gustaine? He was just here. He’ll be back in ten minutes,” the girl said.
“Where did he go?”
“To the wine tent, of course!”
They all laughed.
I smiled and turned to leave.
“Do you know what he looks like?” the girl called after me. “I have a picture if you don’t.”
Before I could answer, she leapt up and retrieved a photo from her pocket. I took the photo and gazed at the man, noting his thick bush of black curly hair and peppery stubble.
He was as handsome as his prose suggested.
“Would you like to take it with you?” she asked.
“No, thanks,” I said. “You keep it. I might lose it otherwise.”
“Suit yourself,” she replied, smiling, before sitting back down with all the grace of a ballerina.
I turned and continued my journey, the hot sun beating down on my face.
“You’re going the wrong way!” one of the men called after me, but I pretended not to hear him.
I knew where I was going.
The Girl From Melodia is like a folk song. It's about two people who are looking for their authentic voices and are consumed by a passionate love, a love that ends badly. It speaks about truth, love, art, obsession, and unhappiness all of the things that make a perfect tragic love song, but a very crappy real life incompatible relationship.
Martyn Lockhart is the son of famed English folk singer/songwriter, John Lockhart. He is proud of his family legacy and his father’s reputation but he also wants to come out of his father’s shadow and be known as his own person. In 1992, Martyn encountered Francoise, a French woman at the Tulle Music Festival. To Martyn, the Artist, Francoise is the Muse. She inspires him and the two begin a very passionate romantic love affair that continues when returning to Martyn’s native England. Unfortunately just as quickly as the romance and creativity are set afire, they fizzle out when the reality of commitment, artistic temperament, financial and practical woes, and professional and personal insecurity set in.
It cannot be overstated how unhealthy this relationship is. Martyn is the archetypal Artiste. He is creative, passionate, reckless, iconoclastic, argumentative, self-absorbed, and Narcissistic. Everything is material for his music. His first encounter with Francoise leads him to his latest song and concept album, The Girl From Melodia.
Melodia is a fictional country that Martyn created as a child that he could mentally retreat to in his imagination when things got tough for him. In many ways, Martyn never left that fantasy and still remains in Melodia even as his real world falls apart around him.
He possesses a romantic ideal of Francoise at first. She inspires him with her looks, carefree attitude, lively spirit, and vulnerability. Like him, she is also a passionate writer particularly in her journal which she describes the headlong sexual and romantic emotions of being near each other and the intellect of two creatives sharing ideas. She is also a musician and songwriter and just as she inspires him, Martyn inspires her.
These are the days of the early lyrics and first juvenilia poems which describe the youthful innocence of plunging feet first without thinking or caring about what comes next. Francoise fills that Melodia fantasy so well that Martyn tries to remain there. He wants to hold Francoise to the fantasy world and image that he created. But he considers Melodia and Francoise as his works and there is only room for one writer and artist in that fantasy.
That all changes when they move to England and their real natures, especially Martyn’s, emerges. Because just like Martyn has all of the positive aspects of an artist like creativity and passion, he also has many of the negative aspects. He is the kind of guy who diss tracks like “You’re So Vain,” “You Oughta Know,” or most of Taylor Swift’s catalog were written about.
Martyn is the type of guy who excites, fascinates, and blinds one with his talent, charm, looks, and artistic fire at first. Then his true nature is revealed to be controlling, absent, egocentric, jealous, volatile, immature, and self-indulgent. Suddenly, his love interest is left with a broken heart, a diminished soul, and a cynical outlook on love to fill at least hundreds of discographies.
One of the ways the narcissism is manifested is when Martyn suffers through writer’s block. As his creative well runs dry, Francoise is activated. She writes, rehearses, and performs. There are even hints of a record deal which makes Martyn furious.
It is very reminiscent of stories like A Star is Born, which is a film that I thoroughly despise no matter the adaptation for reasons that I won’t go into, despite the original screenplay being written by Dorothy Parker, one of my favorite writers. Martyn feels that he is supposed to be the creative one, the musician, the poet and Francoise is the creation, the inspiration, the model. He can’t live with his partner’s success if it is at the expense of his own and doesn’t have the enlightened foresight to take pride in it.
To Martyn, the muse is not supposed to drink from the artistic poetic well. She is supposed to guide him to the well and provide him with a cup. He was once interested in her talent when it was hers, but now that’s in direct competition of his own, he sees it as a threat. He behaves irresponsibly, withdraws from Francoise, belittles her, and in one of the worst chapters destroys her demo recordings that she worked hard on for months.
Her songs and journal entries show that she is just as driven, just as passionate, and cares about her music just as much as he does. She shapes Melodia into her own fantasy and Martyn doesn’t want to share it.
To his credit, I suppose Martyn recognizes these attributes in himself. In the prologue, as he goes over his relationship with others, particularly Francoise, he realizes that he is to blame. He compares himself to a vampire sucking on Francoise’ energy and creativity to survive.
The novel reveals that she wasn’t the only one who suffered from his egotism and his previous partnership with a former friend produced violent results because of Martyn’s conceit and insecurities. Looking back with regret and harshly obtained wisdom, he comments in the narration with lines like “This still haunts me,” and “I know that I shouldn’t have done this, but..” He knows that he screwed up so has some humility and remorse over it.
Some of those negative attributes can be attributed to his upbringing by his folksinger father, John. John also possessed a similar artistic temperament, penchant for violent behavior, and self-destructive coping mechanisms. Those mechanisms led to the decline of his relationship with Martyn’s mother.
Martyn saw the creative sparks and emotional decline from the front row. But he only connects to his father through their music. He wanted to achieve the artistic, professional, critical acclaim, and audience adulation that his father had. Unfortunately, he got that and everything that came with it: the temper, the addiction, the mistreatment of partners and didn’t realize it until it was too late.
One could say that Martyn’s regret is more self-indulgence and that he hasn’t truly repented. That may be true. He might find another toxic relationship to inspire then anger him. But he may also see this as a wake up call and finally gain the maturity to improve not only his life but his music as well.