Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters which belong to Roald Dahl, Warner Bros. Pictures and Tim Burton. There is no intent to gain anything or anyone.
CatCF (movie) Alternate Universe
choc·o·ci·ol·o·gy – n. 1. The study of human chocolate behavior, especially the study of the origins, organization, institutions, and development of chocolate society. 2. Analysis of a chocolate institution or chocolietal segment as a self-contained entity or in relation to chocolate as a whole. o. from choco(late)- (Spanish, from Nahuatl xocolatl : xococ, bitter + atl, water.) + logy, study (Greek – logi see –logy) adapted from sociology by C. Bucket (see sociology)
(AN: I return having finished my Halloween story only just in time for the day. Whew! wipes brow If you should happen to be curious, it is actually crossed with CatCF, ever so slightly AUish due to the dates that I utilized for it. You can find it on my website. The author's name is Peggy – that's me by the way, the title is "Ghouls and the Ghouls Who Follow Them" and don't ask me why I chose that title. Maybe one day I will write the flip side and give a more CatCF/Charlie's point of view. And now continuing with our story…)
Chapter Five – Morning Surprises
Days started early at the Bucket household for Charlie's parents. His father rose while it was still very dark to go to work and his mother was awake as well to fix him whatever was available for breakfast. They had stayed up late last night discussing the 'friend' Charlie had told his mother about. Mr. Bucket had finally decided that Mrs. Bucket was right (As she frequently was.) and he didn't have the heart to forbid Charlie's exchanging waves with the stranger. He kissed his wife warmly and opened the door to leave for the toothpaste factory, only to stumble over a basket that lay just outside. It was a rather large basket. Curious as to what it could contain, he brought it back inside. (As Mrs. Bucket frequently pointed out, he was always early, so he had a bit of time to satisfy his curiosity.)
"What is that, dear?"
"I don't know," Mr. Bucket answered his wife truthfully. She turned from where she was working to come see what he had. The first thing they found was that the cloth that covered the basket was actually a blanket, a large, woolen blanket, very warm and soft and pink. Never had they touched such soft wool. As Mrs. Bucket rubbed her cheek against it, she discovered that it was not the least bit scratchy as wool frequently was. Beneath it was yet another blanket, just as big and fluffy and soft. It too was pink. There was a loaf of fresh bread, miraculously still warm, wrapped in a red and white checked cloth. Beneath that were several bags. The bags, they swiftly discovered, were full of vegetables and fruits – green beans and potatoes, tomatoes and onions, broccoli and lettuce, corn and carrots, oranges and lemons, apples and grapes, peaches and cherries, strawberries and raspberries and berries they had never seen before. There was not a single cabbage to be found in that basket. Under the bags was another bag full of small candies – chocolates and mints and toffees and taffy and caramels and sours and hard candy. There were jars of strawberry preserves and grape jam and apple jelly and peanut butter. There was a bag of nuts still in their shells - walnuts and pecans and peanuts and cashews and macadamia nuts. They found a tin of fresh baked chocolate chip cookies, also still warm. Next out was a small cloth sack full of flour, followed by a bag of granulated sugar, then a bag of powdered sugar. There was a tin of hot chocolate mix and another of peppermint tea and a long, thin one of spaghetti pasta. There was even a small bag of fresh ground coffee. No where did they find a sign of where the basket had come from, not a note or a single manufacturer's mark. It was mystifying to say the least.
"Where does one get fresh fruits and vegetables this time of the year?" Mrs. Bucket wondered.
"Most people get them at the grocer's, dear," Mr. Bucket answered, bemused by the sudden largesse.
"Mr. Bucket," his wife responded, "these are far too fresh to have come from any grocer's at this time of year." She knew that, it was as if they were just fresh picked from a garden. If she looked closely she felt she might still find dew on them, dew, not frost, as would be normal for the season.
"A greenhouse?" her husband offered.
"Do you know anyone around here with a greenhouse? A greenhouse that is large enough for all this?" She spread her arms wide to take in the bounty that covered their battered table.
"No," he responded, "I'm not even sure how they managed to pack all of it in that basket." He was right. The basket while quite large did not look large enough to hold everything that now lay out on the table.
Mr. and Mrs. Bucket exchanged looks full of bewilderment and wonder and curiosity. Now, the Buckets while poor were also proud. Part of that pride didn't want to need help from anyone else. They liked to make their own way and take care of themselves. However, they were also sensible people and there was nothing here that they couldn't use. Still, being proud, they wanted to thank whoever had given them such bounty. And there was nothing, not a clue, as to who they should be thanking!
Mr. Bucket shook his head, somewhat ruefully. "Well, must be off or I will be late for work!" With that, he went out the door again, only to return a second later. "It looks like I missed something." Indeed he had, for in one hand was a small basket covered with another red and white checked cloth which proved to be full of eggs and fresh butter and cheese. In the other hand was a small metal basket full of eight milk bottles, all quarts, half of them were regular milk and the other half chocolate milk. Nestled in the very middle was a tiny jug of fresh cream. They exchanged baffled looks and both shrugged.
"At least Charlie will have a good breakfast this morning," Mr. Bucket offered, then kissed his wife and left (again). This time, he didn't come back somewhat to Mrs. Bucket's relief. She really couldn't think of what else they might possibly need as she started to put away most of the food or where they could keep it if there had been more.
-W – C – F –
Charlie awoke to an assortment of most delectable scents. Surprised and curious, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes to peer over his bed and down to the kitchen. His mother was bustling around making toast and scrambling… eggs? Where did eggs come from? He didn't remember eggs. In fact, they very rarely had bread, they usually had cabbage and that was because for some reason cabbage grew like crazy in his mother's garden. However hard she tried, she couldn't seem to get tomatoes or potatoes or corn or anything else to grow as well as the cabbage. Yet there was the toast and eggs. Where had they come from?
It wasn't his parents' fault that all they usually had was cabbage. It was because his father's job didn't pay much. Before his mother had to take care of his grandparents during the day and so that was her job. Now, she took in laundry to help pay for things because she could stay home and do that. The expense of paying for enough for seven people had given way to paying for the expenses of four funerals. It was a good thing his mother could do the laundry, otherwise his grandparents would have pauper graves and that was something that none of them could have born. Charlie knew all these things even though his parents (and previously his grandparents as well) had tried to hide them. Little eyes and ears see and hear far more than adults could ever guess. (Which was why Charlie was so astonished that they had something besides cabbage in the house. He should have known!)
The boy quickly scrambled into his clothes for the day and skidded down the ladder. "Good morning, Mum!"
"Good morning, Charlie! Wash your hands and face," she ordered as she swiftly readied a plate of real food for her growing son. How many mornings had passed where she had wished she could do just this very thing?
"Where did this come from?" Charlie asked his mother, eyes blue and green with curiosity and joy, for how could he feel anything but joy as the food filled his senses. He ate with slow care, savoring every delightful bite. He took a sip from his glass of milk, a frisson of pleasure running through him as he realized it was that perfect temperature where it wasn't too warm or too cold, just this side of crystallizing ice.
"It was on the porch when your father left for work this morning," she answered quite truthfully.
"Did one of the churches give it to us?" He knew that they usually delivered baskets of food to poorer homes around Thanksgiving and Christmas. Of course, it was early for that, but still, it would make sense.
"We don't know," she answered as she sat across the table from him, "there wasn't a note."
Curiouser and curiouser, there was usually a note. People who donated to other people normally wanted them to know about their generosity. In fact, they usually wanted the whole world to know how generous and kind they were. He looked at his mother, his puzzlement obvious.
Mrs. Bucket nodded. "No note and nothing to say where it came from or anything else. There was a distinct lack of writing on everything." She reached over to the couch and showed her son one of the blankets. "Put this on your bed before you leave for school, Charlie."
"You need…" Charlie started.
"There were two blankets," she informed him kindly, "the other one is already on our bed." His mother ran her hand gently over the soft fabric. "They're probably the finest weave I've ever seen," she said, more to herself than to Charlie, "and not a sign of a tag or care instructions."
"It's pink," her son stated rather obviously.
"And very warm," she smiled. "I think its wool, but I've never felt anything like it. It's not mohair or cashmere." Those were two of the softest wools she knew and though she had never had anything made with them, she did know what they looked and felt like. This was decidedly not them.
Finishing his breakfast, surprised that the milk had not warmed up at least some (Perhaps it was because their house was cold?), and feeling pleasantly full for the first time in such a very long time, Charlie obediently took the pink blanket up to his bed. He stroked the soft fabric and sniffed it curiously. It smelled faintly like chocolate. His eyes rounded with surprise. In fact, it smelled exactly like Wonka's Chocolate Factory! He could have spent the entire day just standing there, taking in that marvelous aroma. Distantly, he heard a tower clock striking the hour and knew he had to hurry to get to school. As he tore down the ladder, the old leather satchel that served as his book bag over one shoulder, he got another surprise. His mother handed him a brown sack. He looked at the sack then up to his mother, his eyes full of questions.
"Peanut butter and jelly sandwich, an apple and a chocolate chip cookie," Mrs. Bucket informed her son cheerfully.
"Thank you, Mum!" Charlie kissed the cheek his mother bent over to offer him and tore out the door and up the road. He ran to reach the factory, wondering if he had imagined things or if the blanket did hold that magical place's scent within its folds. As he reached the gates, he almost slipped and fell, but a quick hand caught hold of a bar and steadied him. He fought to slow his breathing so he could inhale properly and then he grinned. The scent was exactly, absolutely and positively the same as that on his new blanket.
From a window, high above, a figure in a heavily embroidered robe with a rich purple blanket spread across his lap leaned forward to touch a purple gloved hand to the glass. Even though pain tugged at his eyes, the corners of his mouth turned up in a smile as he watched the boy at the gates. Charlie's gentleman stood, folded the blanket up and laid it on his seat. He had so much work to do. Several workers gathered round him as he picked up his cane. They had so much work to do. The man signed some instructions and then hurried into his bedroom to get dressed. He didn't have time to be sick; the week was going to be even busier than normal.