NWW Issue 9 Spring and Summer 2018

NORTH WEST WORDS
SPRING / SUMMER 2018 ISSUE 9
Roches Point Automatic
From the glass jug, he poured some water into ‘the usual’ that had been set down in front of him on
the counter – always the same measured drop. Then, he swirled the water and the spirit around a
few times in the glass. When it stopped moving, he took his first long sip.
He stood alone among the wooden stools. Frank, the owner of the bar was at the fireplace, noisily
shovelling ashes into a grey metal bucket. A plume of ash dust rose up around him as he knelt in
front of the old wooden top fireplace with the cracked and faded coloured tiles.
Apart from the two men, the place was empty. The front door was held open by a bucket and mop
to let air in to dry the newly washed floor. The smell of Jeyes Fluid lingered in the air, a triangle of
sunlight lay on the shining floor. The only voice that sounded in the room came from the radio,
which sat on a high shelf behind the bar.
‘’And now the sea area forecast at twelve noon Roches Point Automatic North, North West 8 Knots
Mist. Greater than 10 miles. One thousand and thirty two. Falling slowly’’
“Frank, Frank - is all them lighthouses gone automatic now- no one minding them anymore?”
After a pause and taking a deep breath, Frank tiredly replied,
“What lighthouses are they, Gerry?”
“Them ones, all around the coast ,”Gerry said – and pointed a finger towards the radio.
Frank was rolling up newspapers tightly, then putting firelighters and small kindling sticks together
into a small pile in the grate.
“Aye, I think they’re all automatic now,“ he said over his shoulder. “And Frank, where’s Roches
Point?”
Frank is striking matches now –one, two, three in quick succession. The papers start to catch fire
quickly and the kindling begins to crackle, sending flames leaping up from the grate.
“Roches Point, let me think.”
“Roches Point ,” said Gerry, “must be somewhere Frank –Roches Point Automatic.”
“It’s somewhere all right, maybe it’s in Cork, “ he said.
Using a long black tongs, Frank added lumps of coal carefully one by one to the fire. When he had
made a pyramid of coal around the flames, he picked up the bucket and walked away towards the
door marked PRIVATE at the far end of the room.
As he walked, he said to himself- but half loudly,
“Roches Point Automatic. I wish I was there now, wherever it is!”
Frank left the room, the creaking door’s arm closed the door shut behind him.
Gerry stood alone at the bar.
He swirled the drink again and watched it spinning around in a circle in the glass. When it stopped
moving, he took his last long sip.
With a deliberate clink, he tapped the empty glass down on the counter, shook his head a few
times and walked out outside, into the sunlight.
Eamonn Bonner
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