The Coffee Grinder

1.

When Min tried out the coffee grinder on me, I didn't take that much notice. She had had a presentiment. She was quite prone to these presentiments, so I humoured it, and that was that. But looking back, I wonder how much she knew. The fact that she had also given me a large sleeping bag and a gallon of port shows that perhaps, after all, she did anticipate the horrifying days ahead.

I live in the middle of the english countryside, in a small house on a hill surrounded by a scattering of trees. I keep out of the way of my family. I don’t dislike people, I just prefer trees, so it suits very well to be here. There is one particular tree which I enjoy sitting under. It emanates a wise benevolence. I sit by it in the afternoons. Then at night I enjoy looking at the stars, climbing up onto the roof with a small bottle of port. I have a fire in my room, and light to read by. It is a very appealing life, allowed by the tolerance of my family.

I have never been in any way useful to them. My ancient mother does not believe that I am related to her at all. Her usual greeting to me is:
“You're not my daughter.” Sometimes she softens on this resolve, to the more moderate:
“I just don’t understand it. How could someone like me, produce something…like you?”
Occasionally I catch her looking at me, as if to say ‘But how?’

She is now 85 years of age, while I am just 41. Everyone says that I am the problem one, but I’m not sure.

2.

I want to escape, but somehow, year after year,I stay here. It's odd, because I want to run away to the mountains where there is only the enchantment of snow and silence and the northern lights. Still, in Nacton the ratio of people to trees remains firmly in favour of the trees.

3.
Since I was expelled from school at the age of 14 I have been working as a carpenter. I make furniture so small you could have a dining table set out for twelve in the palm of your hand. Night after night in my bedroom, I gaze through a magnifying glass and then a microscope as I work with tweezers, tiny paintbrushes and surgical instruments. Each piece grows slowly. I lost two years of work with a sneeze.

Occasionally people visit my workshop. They always want the same thing.

"I'd like this rocking horse please. How much is it?"
"What's it for?"
"It's a - present for my daughter.
For what?
For her doll's house. These are very beautiful."
My furniture is not a toy
Well no, I'm sure - but I -
My furniture is not a toy
Um. Would it be alright to just have a
My furniture is NOT A TOY.

Then the workshop is empty again, the dust settles, and I can get back to work.

3.
Every Thursday I walk into the town to visit my friend Min. This particular Thursday was a pale grey day. A day when it is better to be inside by the fire. Still I walked through the rain into town, and waited by the statue of the lion in the square.

I could see at once that she was in a state of high excitement as she was wearing different shoes on each foot. One was a pink converse, the other was a red slipper.
“I’ve found the most amazing - the most amazing thing.”
Once we were inside a cafe, she opened up a green plastic bag and pulled out a coffee grinder. Made of a dusty, dark wood, it had a brass handle on the top. On the side of the box was a silver plaque, on which the words Doom or Gloom? were written in delicate italics.

“I found it in a Dublin book fair. It looks like a coffee grinder, but it’s much, much better. It's phenomenal.”

It did not glow with particular promise.

“Look. It's completely amazing."

She turned and turned the grinder’s long brass handle. It made a satisfyingly gritty, grinding sound. After a few minutes she opened the little tray at the bottom, and removed from it a tiny length of paper.

But I don’t get it. You'll see. You see. It’s completely amazing. And I discovered it by completely by accident. Well. Go on then. Show me. Alright.

I stared at the paper, confused.

“It records everything it hears. It must have been used by a spy, or something. Isn't it amazing?”
“How does it work?”
“I don’t know. A Dictaphone? A computer? Who cares? Here it is. For you."

The coffee grinder sat on the table, humming with promise.

“Why don’t you keep it?”
“Listen, Well, all the people I care about are dead. Bishop Odo, papal legates. I can’t overhear them."

That seemed to seal it. We shared a cigarette. They were a delicious luxury. We never smoked. I hoped she did not know that I, in fact, enjoyed this rare pleasure on an hourly basis. Then she gave me the sleeping bag and the port.

"Why?" I asked.
"A presentiment."

Whatever I would need a sleeping bag and a bottle of port for, it didn't look good. But I was grateful.

I went back home through the rain with the coffee grinder swinging in my bag.

5.
A few months later, my brother and sister and mother and nephew started walking around with long faces. They would stop talking as I walked into the room and abruptly start a conversation about the vegetable garden or the tories. I decided to put the coffee grinder to the test. I left it sitting quietly in the corner of the sitting room, behind a framed photograph. Each night I retrieved it and wound the handle. It revealed to me secrets I was sorry to hear. Most concerning to me, although certainly not the most scandalous, was the fact that my family were about to throw me out of the house.