Wonder if there's a flourishing smuggling trade?

Careful, even talking about that sort of thing's probably a crime, or at least a misdemeanour.

Fuck em!  I laugh in the face of their vicious anti-chewing-gum laws!

Yeah, you're probably safe; they'd never make it stick.

Ack. - - Goodbye.

'Kate.'

'Uncle Freddy.' I had been summoned to Uncle F's large and chaotic study in Blysecrag after lunch, while most people were still recovering from the excesses of one night and preparing themselves for those of the next.

'Jebbet E.  Dessous.'

'Gesundheit.'

'Come now, dear girl.  He's a Level One.'

'I know.  Isn't he the one in Nebraska?  Collects tanks and stuff?'

'That's right.  Made the news a while ago when he bought a couple of them what-d'ye-call-'ems.  Rocket thingies.'

'Scud missiles?'

'That's right.'

'Was that him?  I thought that was another guy, in Southern California.'

'Oh.  Maybe the other chap got caught, then, and Jebbet didn't.  That would be more like Jebbet.  I can't remember.'  Uncle F looked confused and stared at something long, grey and untidy on the floor, which turned out to be one of the wolfhounds.  The beast stretched, yawned with a single echoing snap of its extensive jaws and then — such extreme activity having entirely exhausted it — rolled flopping back over with a long sigh, and fell asleep again.

Uncle Freddy opened his mouth as though to speak, then became distracted by something on his desk.  Uncle F's desk was covered to a depth of several inches with a bewildering assortment of mostly paper-based rubbish.  He picked up a long, elegant-looking, Y-shaped piece of metal and turned it over in his hands, a look of intense concentration on his face, then he shook his head, shrugged and put it back again.

'Anyway,' I said.

'Anyway.  Yes.  Fancy paying old Jebbet a visit?'

'Do I have to?'

'What?  Don't you like the fellow?'

'No, I've never met him, Uncle Freddy, though his reputation goes before.  Why do I have to go and see him?'

'Well, he's sort of asked to see you.'

'Is that good or bad?'

'How d'you mean?  For him or you?'

'For me, Uncle Freddy.'

'Ahm…pretty damn good, I'd say.  Can't do any harm getting to know old Jebbet; very highly respected amongst the other top brass, he is, oh yes.' Uncle Freddy paused. 'Completely mad, of course.  Thing is, you know his, umm, nephew or something, don't you?'

I said, 'Dwight?'

Now.  There is a certain way of pronouncing Dwight's name that I find it hard to resist — sort of Dih-Wight? — when I'm trying to make it clear that the prospect of encountering the lad again has a coefficient of attraction roughly on a par with being invited to chew on a wad of silver paper.  I made no attempt to resist that temptation here.

'Dwight.' Uncle Freddy looked puzzled, staring up at the study ceiling. 'Is that a real name, d'you think, Kate?  That Eisenhower fellow was called that too, I remember, but then he was called Ike as well, and I could never work out which was a contraction of the other.'

'I think it is a real name, Uncle Freddy.'

'Really?'

'Yes.  Don't worry.  It's American.'

'Ah, I see.  Jolly good.  Anyway, Jebbet wants you to talk to the boy.'  Uncle Freddy frowned and pulled on one pendulous ear-lobe.  'The nephew.  Dwight.  He's a playwright or something, isn't he?'

'Or something.'

'Thought that was the fellow.  Is he any good, do you know?'

'As a playwright?'

'Hmm.'

'From what I've seen, no.  But, of course, it's all very subjective.  For all I know the boy's a genius.'

'Modern sort of stuff, is it?  He writes?'

'Almost by definition.'

'Hmm.'

'Uncle Freddy, why does Mr Dessous want me to talk to Dwight?'

'Umm.  Good question.  No idea.'

'He couldn't phone, e-mail?'

Uncle Freddy looked pained and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  'No, he definitely wants you to go there.  But look, Kate.'  Uncle F leaned forward and settled his elbows on the desk, causing a small landslide of papers, envelopes, old magazines, scraps of newspapers, bits of tissue and — by the sound of it — at least one until-then buried glass, which fell to the floor with a thud and a faint chinking noise.  Uncle Freddy sighed and spared a glance at the stuff that had fallen.  'I think there is something Jebbet wants you to talk to the boy about; some mad idea he needs talking out of, but I've got a feeling he wants to talk to you himself as well.  The nephew thing might be an excuse.'

'For what?'

'Well, Jebbet's word counts for a lot with the American people in the Business, from his own level, oh, well down past yours.  Lot of these young Turk types, the keen brigade; they think the sun shines out of his behind, frankly.  People like that, at the US end of things, they're making up the majority of your level these days, Kate.  And the one below.'

'I know, Uncle.'

'Exactly.  Exactly.'  Uncle Freddy looked pleased.

'Uncle Freddy, you haven't actually answered my question.'

'What question was that, dear girl?'

'Why does he want to size me up?'

'Oh!  For promotion, of course!  Old Jebbet can put a lot of words in a lot of the right ears.  As I say, the youngsters listen to him.  He must have heard about you.  You must have impressed him from afar.  And good for you, I say.'

'I'm already at Level Three now, Uncle.  I was expecting to wait a while yet before any more promotion.  Right now I don't think even I would vote for me to step up another rung.'

'Think long, Kate,'  Uncle Freddy said, and actually wagged a finger at me.  'You can't get a good impression in too early, that's what I always say.'

'All right,' I said, half elated and half suspicious. 'Would the middle of the week be suitable?'

'Just about perfect, I should think.  I'll check with his people.'

'You still in York State?'

'Yorkshire,' I said.  It was late afternoon on the West Coast and I'd caught Luce on her way to her shrink.  'At Uncle Freddy's.'

'Yeah.  Uncle Freddy.  I was thinking: is this the old guy who used to molest you?'

'Don't be ridiculous, Luce.  He pats my butt now and again.  But that's all.  He's always been really good to me, especially after Mrs Telman died last year.  I cried on his shoulder, I hugged him.  If he'd really wanted to try anything on that would have been the ideal opportunity, but he didn't.'

'I'm just concerned he might have abused you in the past and you're in denial about it, that's all.'

'What?'

'Well, you seem to just do anything he tells you to and you jump down my throat when I remind you this is the same guy who's sexually harassed you in the past —'

'What?  Putting his hand on my backside?'

'Yeah!  That's harassment!  That'd get you fired from any office, most places.  Interference with your fanny.  Hell, yes.'

'Yeah, my American fanny.'

'Oh, Jeez, if it had been your British fanny he should have been locked up.'

'Well, call me less than a perfect sister if I let one old guy I happen to like a lot briefly touch my bum through a couple of layers of material, the point is I don't count that as abuse.'

'But you don't know!'

'I don't know what?'

'You don't know whether he abused you or not!'

'Yes, I do.'

'No, you don't.  You think you know that he didn't but you don't really know that he didn't.'

'Luce, I think we're in the same boat here; neither of us knows what the hell you're talking about.'

'I mean, maybe he did much worse things to you in the past and you've repressed all the grisly details and even the fact that it happened in the first place; you're in denial about it all and it's fucking you up!'