Mr Moleskin & His Little Black Book

Mr Moleskin & His Little Black Book

Forty seconds. Efficiency and empathy were one of McGregor’s combined traits Parker most admired of the man.

“Good Afternoon Lady Pomptfer. And may I, welcome you, to the Moleskin Estate…”

Indeed, no single thing renders itself an asset unless paired with something of complimentary use

“…yes, indeed Lady Pomptfer…and if I may be so bold… I believe most earnestly you may very well be in in the innings for this year’s Strongbold prize…”

McGregor certainly was earnest. The old man had one of Britain’s richest women blushing in anticipation, politely deflecting the weight of his personal jest, but truly relishing it. Perhaps it was his slow but purposeful speech. Considerable pauses were considerate pauses. Though how McGregor’s taking-of-the-time saw a job done in the blink of an eye, Parker did not know. Perfume frolicked by and away as quickly as it arrested his nasal cavity. Just like that, Lady Pomptfer was ushered into The High Hall, coat taken, besotted by the air of a to-be-won prize. (No doubt of course, now inclined to extend more of her millions at the Annual Moleskin Affair). All in forty seconds.

Parker slipped his silver watch to its habitual silk pocket to which it had impressed its secure spot, and was taken aback as McGregor returned him a quick wink before attentively waltzing Duke Pinkerbottom into the sandstone entrance. Indeed, the man always knew when he was being observed.

He himself on the other hand, was not granted the heart’s warmth as much as he was intellect; a sharp mind lent itself useful with the efficiency he jointly shared with McGregor. Though swift in his ways, Parker suspected that his presiding intellect over McGregor’s human affections was why he was the estate’s primary servant, and McGregor, secondary.

“Mr Pinkerbottom…how do you do Sir? …Please, let us take your coat Sir… yes…between you and I Sir…I believe-” the coatmen were no less the arms of McGregor’s, following his welcoming cues, they were meticulously synchronised.

McGregor was not of course daft, he would not be employed at the Moleskin Estate if it were so. He well knew that not every guest could possibly win the grand sum of the Strongbold prize every year, but it did not equate to his lack of…encouragement. Mr Moleskin often said if one believes it, it is theirs. McGregor, the earnest believer he was, simply conferred this to Mr Moleskin’s guests. As such, the monetary prize increased every year at the affair. This was why McGregor always welcomed the guests of the estate, why he personally delivered important letters or messages on behalf of the estate. This was why he was an asset - swift and purposeful talk, the warm believing behind it.

“- I believe Mr Moleskin has you amongst the very top in mind for this year’s Strongbold Prize!” McGregor finished.

Point in case. At Mr Moleskin’s name, Parker straightened out of peculiar musings for efficiency. Leaving the sandstone entrance his feet slid on to the cool clunk of black marble into the midsts of The High Hall. Sandstone, marble and gold; this was the foundational trinity of the Moleskin estate. Mr Moleskin said it had to be. Mr Moleskin had also delegated the estate’s ballroom title, The High, and not the ‘Great,’ Hall because greatness, said he, was not to be found in great things, but rather in the development of character in the action of reaching for high ambitions.

Champagne flutes floated into the filtering guests’ gold-bolted, perfume-smoked, stone-embedded hands, in the very time the bubbles in the liquid itself fizzed to the top of each glass. Jazz notes filled the spaces between the bubbles, linking even the guests who despised each other to a dazzling afternoon affair. Day time affairs at the Moleskin Estate encrusted the staff – including the band – in white suits. Naturally, the Peterson Brothers whom were the nationally-esteemed British jazz band of London, 1947 were to entertain the 1947 Moleskin Annual Strongbold Affair. Black of course, was reserved for evenings. Mr Moleskin however, without exception always wore black. Parker preferred the black, but the white combined with the Summer afternoon sunlight through the floor-to-ceiling windows brought something exquisitely fresh; the chance to win. Not to say these guests particularly needed to win. On the contrary, it was their donations throughout the year (and more so on the afternoon of the annual affair itself), that pooled the prize: more money. Mr Moleskin said it is all in the game of winning that is important; the child winning sweets is no different than the rich winning more money: the game of winning equalises all who play for it. Parker supposed that was the essence of human nature McGregor understood.

Parker again retrieved his pocket watch, no more consciously than a natural reflex. Good. He allowed himself a momentary breath within his own thoughts. All is timely.

He supposed what made the annual event so alluring was absolute discretion of the winning recipient. The disclosure of a generous sum was merely ushered in private words with Mr Moleskin himself.

“Paaaarker!”

Only an American could enthusiastically bellow his butler’s name in high British company.

“Mr Moleskin, Sir.”

Parker felt the back set of eyes of each and every guest. The chatter continued amongst themselves but their attention to each other did not. Even the Peterson Brothers seemed to have slowed their tempo.

Moleskin customarily checked in with Parker on such occasions. Today he assessed that all was “Looking good, looking-ing good my friend!” The latter or “Rather fine my chap, ra-th-er fine” followed by a solid clap and rubbing of his large American hands together, that could very well start a fire. Parker didn’t mind that Mr Moleskin talked more to himself during this pre-entry before his grand entry into the High Hall. Parker always took post to observe at the outskirts of any of the estate’s activities, but Mr Moleskin’s aura was so heavy and exuberant he had already laid his kingly claim upon them all. Parker sensed it; every single guest pulled closer to him. Makes them feel they owe Mr Moleskin a favour when he asks for one, McGregor often said. Puppets on golden thread.

Lady Pomptfer laughed at Mr Polickton’s misguided flirting but darting eyes betrayed her, Sir Pinniger twisted his chocolate moustache a degree more than he would vouch necessary, one could see Mr Plankerback silently berate himself for following the crowd to look Parker’s way and compensating by pretending to admire the sandstone architecture.

From the bulk of Mr Moleskin’s black, slid into the being, The Black Book.

All who found themselves in Mr Moleskin’s presence speculated that the book held information on everyone was anyone, having been handed down by Mr Moleskin Senior who moved to Britain in the late 19th century after his merchant days in America. Little rich girls and boys with careless curiosity say it’s how Mr Moleskin chooses his friends, gossip in servant quarters across Britain loosely inferred a log of society’s richest and paranoid wealthy bankers like Mr Plankerback speculate its recording of the moral wrongdoings of high British and American to-do’s - which he would later unconsciously remind Sir Pooley or Lady Petunia this afternoon that of course, he would never personally commit. And yet, with that American Moleskin smile, maids of manors served a slice of afternoon cake more generously cut than any other guest, and wealthy financiers and military men dutifully performed any necessary favour requested of them. One could not help but dutifully and genuinely respect him.

Regardless, the book would draw a pressing thought that they ‘must’ discuss when Mr Moleskin retrieved his little signature black object.

With a background in British intelligence, Parker needn’t see its contents. Having been taken into the confidence of the Moleskin familial status and dealings upon employment, he understood that key geo-political information resided in its pages. Mr Moleskin was always fetching and etching in it before appointments or during supper which he usually had alone. It was always on his person. Parker sheepishly admitted an air of superiority in the perimeter of the gaze of the British gentry before the book re-pocketed Mr Moleskin’s black evening vest.

“Welcome everyone! Welcome! May I -” Moleskin beamed as he rose above his guests joining the staged Peterson Brothers. The black marble marked his boldness, the gold fretwork framed his articulation and the sandstone embellished his presence. And that is how each and every guest received the gallant American as the afternoon affair ensued to 5:00 o’clock, the deciding hour whence Mr Moleskin retreated to the downstairs study, and Parker would not so far as ‘stand watch,’ than politely guide cunning guests hoping to have only a moment of Mr Moleskin’s time, back to the High Hall.

But no guest tried their luck this year.

“Parker.”

“Sir.”

“Come in please.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Mr Moleskin talked elaborately to many men and women of Britain. Current talk, was old news for Mr Moleskin and having served his estate for some time, Parker always sensed restraint. Parker decided that his mind, not unlike his own, was too quickly mechanised, collecting sub-thoughts of the initial thought and traversing multiple possibilities and consequences while the person in conversation had merely just heard the last line of sentence.

“Parker, I think it is now time I revealed to you this.”

Parker walked forward and rather surprisingly was handed the black book before he had barely reached the desk.

Mr Moleskin returned to some papers.

Ten moments of silence behind the drum of jazz and jest passed oddly.

“Sir? It’s…it’s a single poem?”

“Indeed Parker, in-deed.”

Not allowing for questioning silence, he continued, “You know Parker. No single thing in this world is really useful, unless it is combined with some second or third entity of value.” He slowly turned his chair towards the sunset light filtering through the window.

“Those people out there are intellectual, but they are merely of ‘calculating’ intellect: engineers, officers, etcetera, etcetera. They don’t soar on their intellect, they offer it for mundane monetary service. A service that comes back tenfold, to themselves. No. Society will not progress forward this way Parker. And yet, the uneducated empath offers no fruitful utility. The dreamer extends his or her notions beyond the restraints of education, but money too, gets he or her nowhere.”

He must have noticed some absence of comprehension in Parker because, turning his chair back around, he shot to the point of explanation.

“Parker, nobody in there wins the Strongbold Prize. They are too caught up in their frivolous notions to even question who does. I invest their money into causes of progress; education, infrastructure in less fortunate nations, opportunities for women. It is ghastly, the women who could be of the world if given the chance. For anything Parker that drives the human race forward.”

And, just like that he withdrew his conversation - it seemed the exertion of these ventures had long been conversing in his mind. Parker was oddly compelled to ask, “McGregor has seen this Sir?”

Mr Moleskin was staring out the window, to the lined English pines or to himself, Parker again knew not who he was talking to; “He already saw it before I had shown him.”

Parker looked back down at the book:

How green the other side they say

How green the other side

They wish and watch, and hope they may

With a smile and mind’s despise

But how green the other side I say,

How green the other side

I wish and watch, and hope I may

With a smile and soul’s despise

For I know why here lays green

It reflects in all their eyes

And it is why they smile back

And keeps at bay, their demise

How green the other side say

But what greens the other side?

How I wish you watch, and I hope you may

Be sure you look with both eyes