- Introduction -
(Regrettable Dreams)
Charlie asked him once if he ever had any regrets.
The two of them had been in the Inventing Room, with Willy up to his elbows in a special mixture that he had to get just right—Charlie was leaning over the table, his chin propped in the shelf of his palm, a careless swipe of chocolate across his cheek. Charlie had grown from a small boy full of curiosity and love for the world around him into a lanky young teen who admired his mentor more than life itself. It frightened both of them, just a little, how much Charlie cared for Willy, who was really the only father figure Charlie had ever known.
Willy had put down the stirrer and turned off the heat underneath the pot full of liquid. He turned to his small protégé, who was looking at him with a mixture of uncertainty and delight.
"Regrets, my dear boy," he began, "are simply dreams that have never been spoken aloud and left alone."
Charlie's blue eyes wandered downwards and then he said, "I think I have a few of those."
Willy ruffled Charlie's hair and snatched his purple overcoat. "I think we need a visit to the Chocolate Room."
In the chocolate room, stretched out on the peppermint grass, the conversation continued.
"If regret is a dream that hasn't been said and then left alone," Charlie asked, chewing on a candy mushroom thoughtfully, "why do people have so many of them?"
"Because people love to dream," Willy answered, his slender fingers unwrapping a plain piece of butterscotch candy. "This is where I go to dream, Charlie, and it's where all of my regrets disappear."
There was a long silence, as worn and comfortable as an old warm jacket. The muted frothing of the chocolate waterfall soothed both of them, along with the peppery, musical chirps of the spearmint crickets in the grass. Charlie rolled onto one side and evaluated the profile of Mr. Wonka with a practiced eye; how often had he studied the serious profile of his whimsical tutor? How well did he know the moods and inspirations which struck the candymaker like the rise and flow of the tides?
"Who was she?"
Mr. Wonka closed his eyes.
"A musician."
"Did she like chocolate?"
He laughed then—a soft sort of chuckle. "Like chocolate? Of course she liked chocolate."
Charlie turned onto his back again and began memorizing the ceiling. He had a few precious gems of facts—ideas, really—about Mr. Wonka. Before the Golden Tickets. Before the Buckets. Before Mr. Wonka had a family. Here, he added two new pearls to his tiny treasure chest.
She was a musician.
And she liked chocolate.
Amy, just like May but all mixed up.
She was very much all mixed up, and but not in the way he was. You could see it in the primness of her lips, the tight, smooth line of her jaw—she was a Sensible Young Lady, all capitalized, and of course they wanted nothing to do with each other because Amy was Amy and Willy was Willy. They didn't mix. Like peppermint and orange juice. They knew of each other but they didn't know each other. Everyone knew about Wonka's Candies, and most of the people in the City knew about the ragged little girl who sat on a street corner playing the violin.
Sensible young ladies didn't hang about in grungy taverns trawling for tips in a slinky black dress.
And rich, creative young men didn't spend their days locked away inside a defunct factory.
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Bit of fluff and nonsense. I may continue this, if there's anyone interested.