DISCLAIMER: I do not own Mr. Willy Wonka. He owns me!
CAUTION:
Reading this FanFic can cause: Arousal, drooling, dryness of the eyes or excessive tear production, excitement, fear and loathing, feelings of a romantic nature, fever, headaches, itching of the skin, nausea, sadness, severe addiction and watering of the mouth.
Please consult your physician or your local pharmacist before reading this fanfic if you are currently reading another author's work.
A maximum intake of one chapter per every two weeks is advised and should not cause abstinence.
If abstinence does occur, please see: Internet for visual relief, your local shop for chocolate, the Wonka soundtrack for auditory satisfaction or the video rental shop for complete bliss.
If any of these remedies should not work, please contact author for advise.
DESCRIPTION OF FANFIC:
CAUTION! MAJOR SPOILER-WARNING! CAUTION!
This story contains movie based material and stays true to most of the storyline.
It contains a lot of major spoilers and should not be read before watching the 2005 movie.
The story was first written in 2005 after I saw the movie, and has laid dormant for five years until I took it up again.
It is set in Sweden and in Bangor, Maine, in the United States. The reason for the Bangor location is because it was the best choice of location and it also is a tribute to Mr Stephen King.
It is mostly based on the 2005 movie, some is based on the 1971 movie, and, off course, more than a little part is based on the two books by Roald Dahl.
It is not a crossover, but you will find that some characters and events from other movies and books have sneaked their way into this story, but I will not list them here, since that could cause confusion as to what the story really is about. The readers could believe the story to be much different from what it really is.
(Just go ahead and have fun finding out which movies and characters are from where.)
The two major influences in it though; are; Fight Club (can you imagine that?) and my favourite Fan fiction writer(s): "The Puddled Rizzler", and the Wonkalicious story: "To love a Riddled Puzzler." These wonderful writers have given me their written permission to use some of their work, such as some names of candy and other "wonky" things from their story I consider to be quite genius.
You can find their wonderful story here at . Just search for it, and I swear you won't be disappointed!
PS: Here and there, the original -71 and -05 movie-lines from the different characters have been altered. Some of them are switched. I'm well aware of that, and it is meant to be so. The reason I have chosen to do so is to keep the story flowing.
And, just so you all know it from the start: My character "Ellen Winter" is a Mary Sue. I will not bother denying the fact that she is a better and younger, less obnoxious version of me. She is me as I want to be. Young, pretty and in the immediate vicinity of mr Willy Wonka. (Who would say no to that?)
The story also contains the soundtrack lyrics from the -05 movie, and as the Gods and Goddesses of Administration have decreed that no one is to use lyrics, since they do not own them, I hereby plead with Them in Their Almightyness and announce:
I do not own the story by Roald Dahl, nor do I own any of the songs, written by Danny Elfman, and I do not earn any money from either work. If I did, then I would be richer, more beautiful and slimmer than I am today.
DS
Rated: M
Please, oh, please, SEND REVIEWS! I love them. I need them. I feed on them!
Flame me, please, if you so must, but risk to betray my tiny trust.
1
THE FACTORY lay heavily upon the winter landscape, majestic as a palace of purest white ice.
The clear azure sky seemed to reach to infinity and the sun shone down upon it with all it's merciless splendour.
In the mirage the low frigid hills behind the immense complex seemed to quiver in anticipation.
Ellen turned her tired gaze from the picture on her TV set to glance at the disturbingly loud-ticking and hideously coloured wall mounted clock. It showed five minutes past four. She sat trying to watch the late night news, unable to sleep due to the autumn storm that forced her to listen to the drizzling rain spattering against the dark living-room window. In the silence of the night it sounded like tiny metal fingers rapping the glass. She had gotten up from bed, made herself a little nest on the living-room sofa, curled up in a thin grey tattered blanket and turned on the TV. She was ready to do almost anything to ward off the sound of the raindrops hammering the aluminum windowpane, a sound that made her feel like a victim of Chinese water torture.
It had rained almost constantly for three whole days and nights, and the dark streets outside were practically drenched. Ellen could hear a lone passing car sloshing through a particularly large puddle.
It was late October and cold outside, just some degrees above freezing. It was late at night, and the chilling damp wind seeped inside, making her shudder.
She gave a slight abject sigh as a gleefully smiling and neatly combed TV reporter moved into the scene and disturbed the serene beauty of the factory front yard. "This is Evan Baxter, from WKBW Eyewitness News, reporting to you, live from Hillside Boulevard, Bangor, Maine in the United States of America, and the world's most famous chocolate factory…" the reporter eagerly announced. "…and just now, at ten o'clock in the morning I have received the incredible word that Mr. William Wonka, elusive multimillionaire, owner of the Wonka Chocolate and Sweets Industry, creator of the world's most popular candy, will open his factory to five lucky children and their parents!"
How wonderful that would be; thought Ellen; to be as lucky as to win such a treasure…
Ellen sighed once more, rubbed her cold hands together, hiding them under the blanket to warm them, and thought of her situation.
It was; sad to say; depressingly unfortunate.
Ellen could count herself lucky if she had enough food to quell her hunger, and even luckier still if she could manage to save any leftovers for the next day.
The old and diminutive apartment in which she and her best friend Eric were forced to live was cold and had walls the hue of baby food on the rebound, and floors scratched by years of wear and tear. The entire apartment complex, built some years after the second World War showed all the signs of the architecture from those meagre years, and fifty more years of constant neglect. The mortar between the bricks on the outer walls was slowly crumbling into sand and dust, the plumbing lamented disturbingly each time one used the faucets and taps, clogged up sinks and bathtubs as no one had ever cared to mend it, and the radiators were hardly warm at all. It seemed to be designed as a dolls-house, with the impression of the architect mirroring the blueprints to make all apartments on the right side of the sickly yellowish stairwell fit a deadline.
Especially the kitchen seemed to be designed for left handed dwarfs. To the north, the kitchen window revealed a bleak partially grass-covered yard with green fence. Once lush and fragrant jasmine bushes were now pruned to the root, sticking pathetically up from the musty soil. It looked as if Mother Earth had decided to try out her newly acquired epilator; to no avail; leaving a stubble. In midst of the fenced area was a gravelled square; with puddles of water; making it resemble an old Appellplatz to round up unfortunate inmates of a camp from the great war. To the south, one could; if one dared; venture out on a rickety balcony, with floorings that fell out in chips of concrete, as the raw autumn winds gnawed deeper into its rusting firmament. The flowers in the fractured racks were all gone, and a savage garden rioted completely, with whatever seeds the winds had carried. Two old brownish black garden chairs in wood stood haphazardly parked for occasional smokers, who were allocated to the exterior. Yellowish brown withered seeds and grass dominated the life of pots in the corners.
The vista of the balcony matched that of the kitchen, as a sick elm, ready to crash into the building with every new autumnal rage of tempests leaned toward the side of the balcony, and beyond it; an ever decaying lawn with withering grass and dying trees; lay an old factory in sepia. The factory gave sound during all hours, as of mating dinosaurs clashing together, screeching their cries of anger, frustration and lust into the stale air. The sight was not cheerful, thought Ellen. It easily conjured up distressing memories from schoolbook-pictures of annihilation camps. One large chimney rose in mid-view and gave vent to the offensive fumes of whatever was produced inside the heavy bulk of the main building.
During night, there were also noises from the vast attic above, as if people pulled funeral coffins across the floor.
In all, it was not a nice place to live.
Ellen sighed again and glanced through the rain-distorted window at the neighbouring factory with it's brown and dirty brick walls and old reeking chimneys, wishing she lived somewhere else.
It wouldn't matter if she was still as poor; Ellen thought; she would not care the least if she could just live close to that wonderful chocolate factory.
She had heard about it ever since she was a little girl, heard stories about the amazing candy-maker and his wonderful chocolate factory. She had been told he always cared for the environment and was kind to all his workers. Once, when Ellen was a little girl, and her aunt Josephine had been to the states to visit a friend, she had brought with her a bar of delicious Wonka chocolate which she gave to Ellen who found it to be the best she had ever tasted. It was then she decided she would never buy any other candy than Mr. Wonka's, and; being a little four year old girl with vivid imagination; she had immediately made up her mind to move to the States and work for him.
But the factory closed, Ellen grew older, and by the time it opened again, it was too late. Even if the factory was running, producing more and more candy, now exporting sweets to the four corners of the globe, the sales ever increasing, the demand growing every day, it still stayed closed, Mr. Wonka allowing no one to enter.
Saddened to hear the news; Ellen thought the better of it; and changed her path of education.
But now; years later; she sat; wishing she was there in real life. Instead, she had to sit in her poorly constructed stale apartment, watching the factory from her TV set.
"Hiya, Ellen!" said a voice from the door. Ellen turned, rubbing her tired eyes with the back of her hands. Eric, her best friend stood in the doorway, he too seemingly unable to sleep. Ellen smiled at him.
"Hope the volume didn't wake you." she said, scootching over to one side of the sofa, letting him sit down beside her. Eric smiled back at her. "Nope, it didn't." he said, leaning his back toward the cold wall, trying to find a comfortable spot. "It's the bloody rain."
As Eric settled himself beside her, Ellen watched the journalist who continued reporting his news.
The camera zoomed in on the massive steel gates at the factory entrance.
"The Wonka industry has been a mystery to the entire world for fifteen years…" the reporter carried on. "…and as we all know Mr. Wonka closed his factory and banned the public and his workers from accessing the factory grounds due to severe infiltration, resulting in multiple trademark theft."
The camera moved in further and the picture seemed to make it's way in between the large metal bars of the closed gates, showing pristine snow, glistening like small diamonds in the bright morning light.
"A yard no one has tread in fifteen years," the reporter said via satellite. "No footprints in the snow, no silhouettes of workers through the large windows… only the tire-marks from the Company delivery trucks, always delivering in the darkest hour of the night, just before dawn."
Ellen watched the glimmering yard with awe, and felt an unexpected thrill moving through her body, her hair suddenly standing on end.
"No one ever goes in…" nearly whispered the reporter, "…and no one ever comes out…"
Ellen shuddered at his words and drew her tattered grey blanket closer around her thin form, as an eerie feeling crept across her skin. The picture on her TV changed once more to face the smiling reporter holding on to his bright red microphone.
"Until now, no one has entered, but now Mr. Wonka has hidden five golden tickets in five ordinary Wonka bars, sending them to the four corners of the earth, and the five lucky winners of these golden tickets will be invited to spend an entire day in Mr. Wonka's factory, guided by none other than Mr. Wonka himself!"
Now the camera closed up on a Wonka Whipple-Scrumptious Fudgemallow Delight bar and the golden print of a star in it's left upper corner stating: "Win a golden ticket and a trip to Wonka's Wonderful World of Chocolate!"
"And that's not all…" the reporter smiled to the camera. "…each of these lucky winners will receive a lifetime supply of chocolate and sweets, and they also automatically enter one final contest with a very special prize at the end of the day!"
The camera zoomed in on a wooden telephone pole with a poster fastened to it, stating:
"Dear people of the world!
I Willy Wonka, have decided to allow five children to visit my factory this year.
In addition, one of these children shall receive a special prize beyond anything you could ever imagine.
Five Golden Tickets have been hidden underneath the ordinary wrapping of five ordinary Wonka-bars. These five candy bars could be anywhere, in any shop, in any street, in any town, in any country in the world. Good luck, and good hunt!
// Willy Wonka."
"Probably some scam to sell more chocolate. Corporate guys in blue suits making billions, while the blue-collars on the factory floor do not even get dentals" Eric muttered darkly. Ellen was used to him venting anti-globalisation musings every now and then. But what could one do, more than growl silently at the movers and shakers of society?
She watched on in silence, not wanting him to throw another fit against the worlds collective capitalism.
Ellen clutched the old blanket tightly and tried not to imagine what it would be like to win this incredible tour. But she felt her inside beg for food, and licked her lips at the thought of a lifetime supply of sweets delivered to her front door whenever she was hungry.
Hungry… Oh, what she wouldn't have given for a full meal, she thought, almost unable to look at the factory she knew she would never enter.
Mr. Wonka had clearly stated that it was children who were to enter, and she was not a child any more. "I'm going to bed again." Eric said tiredly as he rose from the sofa, closing the door behind him to avoid the cold and unnecessary draft of musty autumn air.
She sat a while and watched the screen, now showing other news. She was not too interested in what happened in the world, since it was always the same; bad news about floods, horrible news about corrupted politics, distressing reports from different wars and terrible diseases threatening the lives of the indigenous population of wherever. It appeared the president of the United States had now decided to triple the taxes for those owning environmentally friendly enterprises. He stood behind a White House rostrum looking as pretentious and self loving as ever, telling the world he improved it. Ellen could hear Eric's voice in her head, muttering about dictatorship and greed. She frowned at the president and sat waiting, watching the news until they were once more showing the Chocolate factory, with it's enormous steel gates.
Ellen gritted her teeth, her thoughts trailing. She had no chance to win, she told herself. Off course not. Rich children had the chance, and no doubt they would be self absorbed, fat and know-it-all spoiled brats who got everything they pointed at. Those, not a poor young woman in her twenties, dependant on her monthly welfare ticket, would surely win.
Slowly she rose from the torn blue sofa with the blanket still clutched around her quivering shoulders in an effort to ward off the cold wind seeping in through the poorly constructed window, and turned off the light hanging from the small living-room ceiling. Silently as not to wake her sleeping friend, she lay down on her red creaking metal-economy-camper's bed and snuggled into the thin blanket.
She lay with her arms clutching herself, staring numbly into the dark, listening to the rain and Eric's slow intakes of breath, wishing she had the means to give them both a life worth living. Her thoughts lingered on the beautiful winter scene, her mind slowly wandering off to the closed gates that held the secret winter wonderland just beyond them, so close, but so hopelessly out of reach.
She tried to imagine she was there, tried to imagine the sound of the rain being drops of candy, falling off the end of a conveyor.
Ellen fell asleep, and in her dreams, she could smell the fragrance of freshly fallen snow mingled with the rich warm scent of chocolate-smoke abundantly emanating from the enormous, towering chimneys of the Chocolate Factory.
The following morning they rose early, as the dusty and grey Venetian blinds did not close completely, leaving them in a bleak daze of morning light seeping through the buckled lamellas.
A Spartan breakfast of oatmeal usually sated some of her worst longing for real aliments churning in the depths of her innards. But as Ellen looked, she found the cabinet empty, apart from some plastic bags with holes at the bottom, a can of white beans in tomato sauce and half a bag of macaroni.
"So, what's left?" wondered Ellen, who pined for bread, butter and cheese.
"Two pounds, and…'"Eric searched in the tin box, in which they kept their money, his fingers only meeting empty corners
"…seventy penny, " Ellen finished his sentence, after she had finished turning her coat pockets inside out.
"Enough for a loaf of bread and some cheese." he smiled, about to close the tall closet. Ellen could see how he froze in mid motion, eyes longingly beholding the tin chocolate container labeled "Wonka's Dreamy Chocolate Drink". It had been unopened for such a long time, now only containing a brown measure with a swirling trademark "W" imprinted on it. He gently took the container from the shelf, and opened the lid with reverence. They could both see some cocoa powder left in a corner. He wet the tip of his forefinger with his tongue, gathered as much as he could of the minute grains, and licked the finger clean. As Ellen watched him, she felt a raw longing for the contents in the box. How long since her tongue had felt the rich flavour of hot chocolate? Weeks? Months?
In two weeks they would hopefully get their welfare ticket. Again.
Ellen put the money in her pocket, opened the front door and descended the echoing stairwell, careful not to lean too much on the green rickety loose banister. She sighed downheartedly and stepped out into the grey autumn landscape, smelling of wet cold earth and old vapid leafs.
It was a raw, damp day, and Ellen hurried her way toward the small town shopping mall. Hunger churned deep inside her, and she walked on, past the hideous and foul-smelling dirty factory. Leafs blew up from the side-walk, and danced around her feet in a sombre farewell to the short summer. Ellen looked at them, swallowing down a lump in her throat. She always felt sad as the days became shorter. The trees were naked, reaching with spiny dark fingers toward the iron grey skies. Some birds flew, high up on the winds, carrying them away to warmer grounds. She could hear their cries echoing sadly.
She tried to imagine she lived next to the fantastic and enigmatic chocolate factory, as she sped along the factory brick wall, and forced a smile as she saw the large brown chimney supported by bands of corroding iron. But her smile faded as she inhaled the thick, pungent odour emanating from it, and the mirage she tried to conjure up inside dissolved.
Some heavy trucks on their way from the Travemünde ferry passed on the watery street, and Ellen jumped closer to the factory walls, away from the side of the road to avoid the cold showers of water their large wheels stirred up. But she had moved to slow, and was splashed.
Well in the supermarket, she made her way to the grains and beans shelf, passing the candy section. It hurt to look at it, Ellen thought. But still she wanted to look. Mr. Wonka always made such beautiful wrappings for his candy, and it smelled divine to stand there, surrounded by all the goodies. She sighed as she saw the "Dear people" sign, and trudged along to collect her groceries, wishing she had received her welfare ticket.
The first child to find a welfare-ticket of Gold was indeed corpulent, his bulky flesh seemed to protrude through the TV-screen, like an avalanche of McDonald's-fat.
Eric, who sat close next to Ellen to keep her warm, gave a dry smile and nudged her arm, his emerald eyes still fastened on the screen in front of them, unable to tear his gaze off of the incredible lump of fat with a child's voice and a heavy German accent.
"Look Ellen," he said laughing dryly. " Your premonition was true, a German Dudley Dursley has won the first ticket!"
Ellen laughed.
The boy did truly resemble the fat and greedy fictional character from the books of Harry Potter.
He stood blocking much of the surrounding view. After some minutes, and when the camera zoomed out, Ellen understood he was inside a butcher shop. Hams dripping with fat hung abundantly from the beautifully raftered ceiling, sausages in every size and texture lay displayed behind a polished glass counter, and various cutlets, pork chops and filées lay neatly stacked in another glass covered display.
A blonde female reporter stood reluctant next to the boy who constantly stuffed his face with ever disappearing Wonka-bars. "This is Amanda Tillerman reporting to you live from Düsseldorf, Germany." She said to the camera matter of factly
"The first Golden Ticket was found today by young Augustus Gloop, the town butcher's son." Behind the boy, stood a bald corpulent man with a reddish walrus-like moustasche. He was smiling widely, nodding at the camera while working with a string of sausages, and wiping his hands on his white butcher's robes. If it was not for the fact that the first winner made Ellen feel nauseated, she would have liked the shop. Seeing all those savoury sausages made her mouth water, but it quickly stopped as the TV-screen was filled to bursting-point with the boy's reddish face, his tiny but watery eyes fastened to the camera, his large, smiling toad-like mouth smeared with a brownish substance Ellen hoped to be chocolate.
"Tell us, Augustus, how you came to find your ticket" the reporter said while she bravely approached him with the microphone in hand.
"I find ze golden ticket, ven I'm eating ze Vonka bar" The boy slurred. "… I get zo very happy!" The camera zoomed outward and located the now greasy ticket in the boy's bulky hand. It dangled and flopped as the boy tried his best to wave it in the air. And I taste zomezing zat iz not shokolate, or coconut, or walnut, or peanut butter, or nougat, or butterbutter, or caramel, or sprinkles." He paused and seemed to think very hard. "…Zo I take one ozer bite, and ze bar ztill taste funny, zen I look, and I find ze Golden ticket!"
Ellen could hear her friend's sharp intake of breath as he watched on with trepidation, he never liked absurdly overweight persons, and he liked them even less when they were unsanitary.
The female reporter backed away from the boy as he waved the ticket in her direction, her face bearing the expression of someone longing desperately to go home and have a long, cleansing shower. Another reporter took his opportunity to interview the first lucky contestant. He leaned in over the assembled photographers and journalists and smiled.
"Augustus How did you zelebrate?" He called, and the boy moved his massive head in his direction, the flesh of his neck quivering like that of a champion walrus. His watery blue eyes focused on the blonde journalist. "I eat more candy!"
Eric shuddered beside Ellen on the sofa and made a retching sound. The boy on the screen began looking through his enormous pants for something. He rummaged through his pockets, and finally found a Wonka bar that looked dwarfed in his fat hands. He ripped it almost barbarically, and started grubbing away at it. Ellen was thankful when the camera zoomed in on his mother. Mrs Gloop looked like a kind and caring woman with plump red cheeks, smiling eyes, a reddish sixties beehive hairdo, a double row pearl necklace and a knitted jersey. She stood on her son's left, next to an old, beautiful cash register. If Ellen had believed in Santa Claus, then this is what his wife would look like.
Ellen decided she liked her.
"We knew Augustus would find ze Golden Ticket. He eat zo many candy bars a day, zat it was not possible for him not to find one." Mrs. Gloop smiled at the camera, and patted her son's giant shoulder. The sound that filled Ellen's little room was that of someone patting an elephant's backside.
The journalist also known as Amanda Tillerman leaned into the picture once more, and started walking out from the butcher shop.
"So…" she stated. "The first Golden Ticket has been found in Düsseldorf, Germany. Where will the next one show up? Now over to Mike with the latest stock market news." Eric turned to face Ellen, who sat next to him, he was looking at the screen with a disgusted expression.
"Well…" he said, in a comforting tone of voice, shrugging off his grimace, "It was close to Sweden, but no cigar…" The picture changed and Mike, the stock market whiz appeared.
He too seemed entranced by the contest, his face was shining as if he was a five year old kid at Christmas. "Thank you, Amanda!" he said, and a picture of the stock market roller-coaster appeared beside him, while the news rolled past on the lower portion of the screen, telling everyone the invasion of Iraq was going well, and that the president of the United States was very pleased indeed. "Well!" the excited Mike said to his viewers. "The first ticket claimed, and only four to go. This craze is spreading like a wild fire, people are buying candy as ever before. The Coca Cola company stocks are falling, no, plummeting to new records, and rumour has it that Mr. Wonka will buy the entire enterprise. The NASDAQ started on twelve percent plus today, the Tokyo index is also rising. Is this just a lucky turn of events, or are we facing a global improvement?
Ellen shrugged her shoulders and raised from the sofa, leaving for the kitchen. She tried to conceal the disappointment lingering across her tired face, but it was obvious she was not happy. From the cold and poorly lit kitchen with it's empty cupboards, she could hear the TV chattering.
"I guess," she said from the small ill-designed kitchen as she opened their barren refrigerator to look for something edible, "that Europe has lost it's chance of finding another ticket, now that the other ones probably will end up on the other continents…" As she returned to Eric's side with a bowl of cold leftover macaroni and sat down, looking at the screen, she could hear him muttering something about the theory of Chaos. He took a sip of his weak and tepid Earl Grey, picked up the remote and zapped, the sound of the Discovery Channel filling the stale air.
The streets were dark and empty as she paced through the thick layers of musty fallen autumn leaves on her way to the supermarket. The chill of the damp autumn evening tinted her cheeks in a rosy hue and entered her thin winter coat. Inert street-lights illuminated her thinning form, their light falling on her, casting her elongated shadows upon the dull walls towering above her. She felt so small, so insignificant, so… dead. As always, she had searched for an occupation the entire day and was now tired and cold to her very bones. With one hand, she clutched a Swedish One Hundred crown bill, wishing she had the equivalent in US currency; eleven dollars; instead, since that meant she was there, in the Land of Opportunity, of Milk, Honey and Chocolate, and not in this hopeless dead town of southern Sweden.
It was late evening and the shop was almost empty when Ellen entered, walking tiredly past the shelves stocked with expensive food items she could never hope to buy. Ignoring them, she made her way towards the grains and beans shelf, silently summing the price in her head to make ends meet.
Some chattering and excited school children stood gathered around a cylindrical shelf, stuffing their trolleys full of chocolate bars, their faces full of expectation and wonder. Ellen instantly recognised the golden swirling trademark "W" on each bar, and on a cardboard commercial plaque fastened on top of the shelf, which was nearly emptied due to the " World Wide Wonka Craze" as the newspapers had named it.
Ellen stepped closer to the shelf, stopping in front of it, looking at the bars lying there, once neatly stacked, now knocked aside and over by the greedy hands of the more fortunate ones.
Ellen began putting the bars back in place, a habit she had had for quite a while. She felt almost sorry for the bars as she carefully picked them up and put them back on the shelf in order, the tips of her fingers tracing their contours.
Closing her eyes for a moment, Ellen quietly sensed the contents of the precious chocolate bars, wishing her means were not as limited as they were, so that she too could; however briefly; fool herself into believing that she actually had a chance at winning a golden ticket, and if not, at least being able to taste a piece of heaven wrapped in Mr. Wonka's logo.
"Are you going to buy that, miss?" A man's voice startled her, and she looked up into the pale eyes of a business man, holding a fat wallet. Ellen silently shook her head and put the bar back on it's shelf and began backing away.
The business man gave her a long look. "And don't you try to steal chocolate again, do you hear?" Ellen felt his words sting like acid, and swallowed hard. She had never tried to steal anything, but if she would try, then Mr. Wonka was the very last person she would ever steal from. She hurried away from the business man, and glanced over her shoulder at him. He stood cramming the remaining bars into three full plastic bags, with a satisfied smile across his face. Ellen did not linger. She withdrew, concentrating on overpowering the burning tears of indignation that clogged her throat. When she finally had managed to suppress them, she tried to return to her shopping. She didn't want any trouble. Of that, she already had quite enough.
Eric sat at the table when she huffed the door open, and stepped inside, smelling of outdoors.
"Did you buy one?" He asked, his emerald eyes glittering with anticipation.
Ellen slumped. "No."
Eric rose and pushed his chair back. "Why not? I gave up smoking so we could buy one."
"I know." Ellen sighed, not wanting to talk about it. "Some rich fellow took the last one." She hung off her damp winter coat in the hallway and started removing her shoes, which were wet and partially covered in dark decaying leaves.
"I guess," she said as she started unpacking the scarce contents of her red and white plastic shopping bag onto the table to sort it into the cupboard, "it was for the best anyway. Chocolates aren't a necessity, don't you agree?"