The Hawk A North Country Boy

by Anthony Jones

Dazed and confused, The Hawk stared at the mirror in the bathroom, smoothing shaving cream into his near-perfect skin. If he had learned anything from his public school days it was the correct use of soap.

Old red eyes is back, he reflected towards the man in the mirror and it was as if his image was asking him, Who are you?. It took the Hawk some moments for him to answer. I am the DJ, he finally said out loud.

It was Monday. Early morning. And he had a show to do. Mrs Hawk and Sienna were still away having a weekend in the city of Munich and last night he had received an insistent telephone call from Nana Hawk demanding him to join her in Manchesters latest nightspot The Tea-Towel Club. She had had a winning scratch card and was in the mood for celebration. She was loaded on one after another Tequila Sunrise and was already on her fourth bottle of Mateus, a whole lotta ros by even her standards. He knew he shouldnt have heeded the call-up, but The Hawk had spent all of Sunday Morning and the sunny afternoon on his own and was badly in need of company and his decision to go out was also out of love and affection and a sense of duty towards the old bat. With a dark sense of foreboding he rang for a taxi.

The driver was not chatty. Silent in fact, so The Hawk spent the journey considering his lot. Ten years after joining 6Music so much had happened. His life in London was complete, a dream job with a dream radio station. He had many favourite weather girls and hed married the best of them and the icing on the cake was the birth of his daughter. When it was put to him that he was to hit the north-west and move to Salford

he understandably had misgivings.

Its grim up North, the softly spoken southerners had told him. A hard rains a gonna fall from that Northern Sky. Everything, everything, they insisted, is black and white up there. Only two-tone.

It conjured up old images of an urban wasteland, industrial estates; a monochrome set of pictures of young men in raincoats looking wistful, singing gloomy songs. But since then thered been optimistic, hedonistic, supercalifragelistic music too and to be in the heart of the city which gave us that deep seam of music history had great appeal.

And it wasnt as if the Hawk hadnt made big moves before; ever since his musical youth, hanging around with the young farmers girls and boys, mucking out on local farms. He knew hed never find love on a farm boys wages though and couldnt wait to leave the comfort zone of a pastoral lifestyle and head for the city lights.

So, all the friends he had, the cosy 6music studios, the local pub, the venues he used to frequent, all those happy memories, he had to leave them all behind in London. But Manchester was only two hours away by rail and there was nothing like a Virgin train to get him there in two, three, or even four hours. (Other rail companies may be available, but not, I believe, for this journey.)

On a more calculated level, he was only too aware that slowly and surely the 6Music slots were being infiltrated by the likes of Keaveny, Radcliffe, Maconie, Kershaw, Riley, Garvey, and Joyce. Perhaps by moving to their neck of the woods he may acquire their

regional accent himself, which may prove useful in the future.

Some months later though he was settling in. There was the sweetest feeling of a summer breeze in the air tonight, 6Music was Sony Radio Station of the year and he was proud to have been a part of it from the start. He really felt he was starting to enjoy his life in a northern town.

The big yellow taxi pulled up outside the Tea-Towel Club. The taciturn taxi driver simply said, Money, thats what I want, and, having been paid in full, drove off into the twilight. The premises had been used as a club for years and had seen many incarnations; the Culture Club, the Tom-Tom Club, the Country Club, the wordy Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and the ill-advised Seal Club, which had been prevented from opening by a concerned city council only seven seconds away from its launch.

The first thing the Hawk noticed about the Tea-towel Club was an absence. There was no queue here. There were no doormen. The doors were open and he walked right in. He still held his wallet in his hand and brass in pocket ready to pay to get in but the sumptuous atrium area in which he found himself had only a cloakroom and a sweeping staircase going underground to the basement area below.

The girl at the cloakroom kiosk was the sweetest girl hed ever seen. She smiled and beckoned him over. You seem to be in a state of confusion, she said, without ceremony. Dont worry, everyone looks like that the first time the come here. Let me explain. My name is Candy, by the way, although they call me Charlotte sometimes. The Hawk was intrigued and listened closely.

Entry into the Tea-Towel Club is free for everyone. The only rule we have is that members must be nice and like good music. Do you like good music? Of course you do, otherwise you wouldnt have got in. We have no concept of after hours since the doors are always open. There is no closing time. In that respect you could say that were twenty-four hour party people. We excuse me

A red light was flashing on the console on her desk. The Hawk jumped. Hed been held spellbound by this winsome Candy talking. Behind him he heard a short fuzzy buzzy sound and, turning round, he was just quick enough to see a middle-aged couple falling and laughing and picking themselves up from the pavement outside. She pressed a button and spoke into a microphone.

Everythings alright darlings, her mellifluous voice sounded over the tannoy, Youve just come to the wrong club. Vanessa Feltzs club is just down the road, two doors down. Youll like it better there. The couple outside looked at each other shocked. Then turned ninety degrees and started to move on up the street.

Dont worry baby, Candy was addressing the Hawk again now. A small electric field across the entrance prevents them from coming in. Its only a little shock. It makes them fall down but the shock they feel is like a lovely tickle. Nobody ever gets hurt. But you said it was free for Free for nice people who like good music, she interrupted. Just as you were allowed in, they werent. Theyre lovely people, theyve just come to the wrong club for them.

And thats why you dont have bouncers. She finished his sentence for him. Thats right. We never use them as we never need them.

The Hawk was uneasy. But they might have liked it given the choice. You gave them no choice at all.

Our sensors are very finely tuned. If they come back one day and theyre ready then thats fine and well know it and everyones best interests are of paramount importance to us. Weve got other clubs in our organisation and theres room for everyone Now, give me your jacket and Ill sort you out.

The Hawk did as he was told and she disappeared for a while behind a green door marked Candys Room. When she returned she handed him a folded piece of cloth. Thats yours forever, she said.

With a feeling of intense fascination he unfolded it and was stunned. It was a beautifully produced tea towel, a strange, unique token of membership. But what was more shocking, what sent a chill running straight down his back, was the picture on it.It was a picture of himself, and underneath, the legend: Chris The Hawk Hawkins. You know me. It wasnt a question.

Of course I do, Candy laughed. Everyone in this club knows you here Chris. Now go downstairs and find your Nan. Shes in the Pubzone. Oh, just one thing, the Hawk said, Why do they call you Charlotte?

No one calls me Charlotte. But you said I said, They call me Charlotte Sometimes. Its just because I like the song by the Cure. OK, fair enough. He thought. As he headed down the stairs he thought nothing more could surprise him now. He was wrong.