Back in the Television Chocolate Room, only the remaining Buckets, Doris, and Eshle stayed to see the sickeningly sweet, bitter ending, and counting Georgina among that lot was iffy, as her gentle snores had added themselves to the sound track shortly after screen Grandpa Joe and Charlie had made it back to the floor of the Fizzy Lifting Drinks Room. Veruca's production number in the Golden Geese Room was enough to clear out the remaining Oompa-Loompas.
"Little Miss Demolition-Demander gets all that, and we get chants?" they'd muttered.
"That's enough! I want out now!" howled one, and up he jumped, and off he went, and quick as could be, his compatriots followed his lead. Doris and Eshle were inclined to join them, but as close to Willy as they were, they stuck it out. He'd want to know what happened. As the last scene faded to the credits, the two exchanged a glance, with Doris shrugging, and Eshle raising a brow.
"Anyone you know in that... whatever-it-is-they-called-it?" she asked.
"Nah-uh," he answered, shaking his head with eyes closed.
Before the Buckets could scrape their chins off their chests at the film's ending and add their comments, the two had slipped from their perches, and were halfway to the door. Mr. Bucket felt his family abandoned, but he understood their haste to leave. The final scenes were … disconcerting in their unexpectedness.
"Shall we get the lights?" he called out after them.
"Sure," returned Eshle, without looking back. "Last one out, blah-de-blah."
They left, the credits ended, and before the next movie could start, Mr. Bucket pushed the power button. Deprived of life, the picture shrank into a pin of light and vanished. The lights in the room were already low, and the furthering darkness as the screen faded to black made the room eerie, the ensuing silence emphasizing its vastness.
"It's just us chickens left," whispered Mrs. Bucket, shell-shocked by the emotional roller-coaster of those final scenes. Her words melted into the shadows, echoing softly back. They faded to nothing, and a few minutes after that, George spoke up.
"It's no chicken who can watch that movie to its end."
"Knowing, if they do, anything about who we really are…" muttered Charlie.
The spell broken, the torpor clearing, Mr. Bucket leapt to his feet, and clapping his hands together, encouraged the others. "What's say we chickens get ourselves back to the coop? How about that for more fun?"
As one, they nodded. Nodding back, he led them to the Great Glass Elevator, by far the most efficient way to get around the Factory, and doubly so when the grandparents were involved.
Back at the coop, er, the house, they opened the door to find the hanging scent of Butterscotch filling their nostrils. There was no fire in the grate, but a nightlight by the door at floor level cast enough light for them to see Grandpa Joe asleep at the dining table, his arms folded, his head tucked upon them. At first Charlie thought they'd woken him—he was mumbling something—but as Charlie and his father, with fingers on lips to quiet the others, moved further into the room, they realized that Joe was talking in his sleep. Charlie moved opposite to his grandfather, the table between them, while Mr. Bucket moved to lay a gentle hand upon his Dad's shoulder to wake him up.
"They killed my boy," moaned Joe, still in his dream.
"They didn't though, Dad, I'm right here."
"They did, they did," Joe plaintively cried, stirring. "I saw it! With my own eyes … They said he was gone! Dead…" His voice trailed off, barely a whisper now, "...gone."
"I'm not gone, I'm not dead, I'm right beside to you."
"Wha...?" Joe was awake now, tears wetting his cheeks.
Mrs. Bucket picked up the mug near Joe's elbow. "Butterscotch, dear?"
Peering in the direction of the voice, Joe's sight cleared of sleep, and before he could answer, he recognized his son. "You're alive! You're alive! Oh, thank God!" Turning from the waist, Joe threw his arms around his sons hips, hugging him from where he sat.
"Sure, Dad, alive and well… that's me. Wouldn't you be more comfortable in bed?"
"Comfortable? In bed?"
Mr. Bucket extricated himself from his father's embrace. Joe took the arm his son offered him, rising on unsteady feet. Josephine hovered at his side, the frown she'd put on not enough to mask her concern.
"I'm a cad, son … A heel! … Why should a cad be comfortable?"
"You're not a cad, Dad, or a heel—"
"I am, I am! I'm so glad you're alive!"
"And this is why I am not a fan of Butterscotch," opined George, listening to the maudlin claims.
Charlie had bent down, reaching under the table. "What are these?" The group turned with interest to see. "Grandpa Joe," Charlie's brows knit together, "why are Willy's shoes underneath the table?"
Georgina perked up, a happy smile on her face to think that, perhaps, attached to his shoes, they'd find Willy Wonka under the table.
"They're not underneath the table, dear, they're in your hands."
"Mum!"
Georgina shook her head sadly.
Joe focused on the problem. "I'm a heel! That's why!"
"I don't see what that—"
"I'm trying to tell you 'what that'," said Joe, with infinite patience. "You interrupted. We were talking about… about that… celluloid… and I was telling Willy that movie made me a heel. He said I wasn't; that I shouldn't worry about it. He said he had it worse. He said it took away his soul. I said, 'That's not right.' And then I said, 'You have a sole. Your foots," Joe stopped; thought; reconsidered; "feets have soles.' And then Willy said, 'That's a—"
"Did he giggle?"
"No, he didn't giggle! You've done it again, Charlie… You're interrupting. Nothing good ever comes from interrupting. I said, 'Your feets have soles', and he said, 'That's a feat', and then he took off his shoes. And then he said, 'See? I'm right. No soles; no soul'—"
"Did he giggle then?"
"No, he didn't giggle! Do you think going around without a soul is a giggling matter? And then he told me to take off my shoes, because then I wouldn't be a heel, or even twice a heel, and so I did, and then he told me I wasn't a heel anymore, and then he left, and then I went to sleep."
Charlie was at a loss. Was it possible? "Willy was drinking with you?"
Weaving his way to his full height, leaning against his son to do it, Grandpa Joe mustered all the aplomb he could. "Of course not. Willy doesn't drink. Everyone knows that." With Willy's honor properly defended, Joe let himself slump. "He was drinking chocolate. Best darn chocolate you ever tasted."
Now that his grandfather mentioned it, Charlie noticed a curved glass on a corner of the table containing a film of chocolate. Taking a swipe, he sampled the dregs with his finger. Joe wasn't kidding, and for not the first time, Charlie wondered if, when it came to this Factory and his future, he were in trouble.
His mother caught his look of worry, and misread it. "Don't worry, Charlie, dear, Willy will be by at breakfast. We can return his shoes, then."
Charlie turned the shoes over, the golden 'W's etched into their soles staring back at him. There'd been no giggles. As his parents occupied themselves with his grandparents, Charlie set the abandoned shoes and their twin soles by the door.
It was a somber group around the breakfast table next morning. Willy was not among them, which was weird, Willy nearly always joined them for breakfast, but with last night in mind, the family thought they had the explanation.
George was in a foul mood. "Did you see the way they portrayed me?" he asked no one, buttering his roll so savagely he tore it. "Blind as a bat with no sonar, and not two brain cells to rub together."
"You don't know that," reproved Mrs. Bucket.
"Judging by the pithy lines they gave me…"
"And the screen time," Joe chimed in.
"Don't talk to me, Joe Bucket! You left! Turned tail and ran like an antelope on the first day of hunting season."
The table went quiet. Unsaid, floating in the air above them like an old, dead goose hanging over their heads was the thought: 'so did Willy'. It made them nervous, and nervous, they studied their plates.
"Leaving was the sensible thing to do," Joe finally said.
"Not if you wanted to see the film," snapped George.
This was too true to be contradicted, and Joe held his peace. Holding his peace, he wondered, and wondering, he asked aloud his new peace. "Did it get any better?"
Georgina sniffed.
George scowled.
Josephine looked away.
Studying their folds, Charlie pushed his scrambled eggs around his plate. He zeroed in on a grain of salt, and watched it dissolve.
Mr. Bucket shook his head.
Mrs. Bucket sighed. "Not for you, it didn't."
"For Willy?"
"Not particularly," said Mr. Bucket.
"I won the Factory," allowed Charlie, hoping that observation would salvage the mood. Alas, it didn't.
"How bad did it get?"
"None of your business," spat George, his scowl deepening. "We had to watch it! If you want to know what we know, watch it for yourself! By the way, how's your head? Drink any champagne during your pity-party last night, did you? Because that would be life imitating art! Pass the salt, please."
Champagne? Notes played in Joe's head. He hummed the words to himself: 'Tiny bubbles...' That's what made champagne, champagne. He'd have sent a scowl George's way were he not unsure that that might do him harm. What was George getting at? Tiny bubbles were life imitating art?
Mr. Bucket rose from the table. "Time I got going."
And that, thought Charlie, was why Willy normally came to breakfast, and not normally to supper. Breakfast ended punctually. As the others stirred, there came a rap on the door. Before anyone could call 'come in', with a resounding creak that sent Joe's hand to his head, the door opened.
"Did y'all think I'd miss this?" Willy quickly took in the emptied plates. "Cuz I think I have. Hmm... I had to pussy-foot over here ya know, and ya know, that takes time." Willy beamed one of his stunning ersatz grins at the blank faces staring back at him, and turned away, looking searchingly at the floor. "Oh, wonderful, my shoes!" Pouncing on them, he sank to the bench by the door and slipped them on, slipping his pink, kitty-faced slippers—complete with kitty ears at his ankles, and whiskers where they ought to be—off. "Y'all die-hards enjoy the rest of the show?" The blank faces staring at him morphed into a study of varied reactions. Willy raised a brow. "Really? That bad? What happened?"
Silence greeted him. George made a noise in his throat that everyone, hearing it, were sure they were glad hadn't been a word. Joe, a beat later, cleared his throat.
"I asked that very same question."
"And?"
"I was told if I wanted to know, I'd have to watch the rest of it."
"Eww."
George, having turned away, turned back, and opening his mouth, came face to face with Willy's eyes, icy slits, daring George to say what George was clearly thinking: 'and so will you'. George decided salvation lay in silence, and closed his mouth.
"Humph," humphed Willy, as he surveyed the others. "How daunting. Should I?" Willy's piercing eyes had landed on Charlie. Having no wish to presume, Charlie kept quiet, the silence lengthening.
"It appears the jury is out. I'm out, too, and it looks like you are also, Mr. Bucket. Going my way?" Mr. Bucket nodded, and Willy swung back to Charlie. "When are you out, Charlie?"
"Out?"
"That was the question."
Mrs. Bucket stepped in. "I think Willy is asking you when you are leaving for the new term."
Charlie bit his lip not to bark at his mother. He knew full well that that was what Willy was asking him, but had hoped that this was the term where the subject wasn't brought up. That this would be the term when this term of exile was ended.
Willy, twisting his walking-stick in his hand, and seemingly about to speak himself, twirled on his heel instead, joining Mr. Bucket at the door, and leading the way through it. Once through it, he dropped the slippers he carried into the hands of a waiting Oompa-Loompa, who scurried away. Then, checking the direction Mr. Bucket took, Willy went the opposite way.
Charlie saw it all through the open door that Joe was now closing. The others took to their accustomed places, and with a sigh, Charlie helped his mother to clear the table.
"He didn't wait for my answer."
"You can tell me, dear. When are you going back? And where is 'back', this time? Paris, again?"
"I don't think so," said Charlie, picking up a tea towel, while his mother filled the sink with soapy water. "I thought maybe Florence, or Venice this time; get into the art angle a bit more." His mother handed him a dripping dish, and he dried it. "This globetrotting was fun when it started."
"I remember you thinking going to university was a bad idea."
"I did, Mum, but Willy was right. The world is a big place, and I ought to have seen it some before I settled down here forever." Charlie dried another dish, the frown on his face deepening. "But it's been three years now, and I have seen it. No offense, Mum, and I don't mean to sound ungrateful for the opportunity, but I'd rather be here."
Mrs. Bucket dried her hands on her apron, and touched her son's elbow. "I know, dear, but Willy must know that, too. I'm sure it won't be for much longer."
"I wonder. Do you know what I've learned so far out there?" It was a rhetorical question, and Charlie didn't wait. "I've learned that Willy hasn't told me anything about candy-making or chocolate-making that the world out there doesn't already know. It's true that what he's taught me is top-of-the-line, but it isn't what he knows." Becoming despondent, Charlie remembered the chocolate he'd tasted last night, in that glass abandoned on the table. "Is Willy ever going to teach me that?"
Mrs. Bucket handed him the last of the cutlery, and untied her apron. "I'm sure he will, dear, when he thinks the time is right." She paused as she watched her son dry a spoon, and then a fork. "Charlie?"
"Yes, Mum?"
"Just then, you sounded as whiney as that Charlie in the movie."
"I did?"
"You did."
"You did."
"You did."
Her response cascaded, as George and Josephine and Joe chimed in. Charlie had to grin. There was no expectation of privacy in this house!
"Kooties," crowed Georgina, while Joe nodded.
"Fair enough, everyone. I'll try not to let 'whiney' rub off on me." Charlie began to sort the cutlery into its drawer, while his mother put away the plates. "I wish we'd watched Young Frankenstein last night."
"That was the plan," agreed Joe.
"Best laid plans…" said Georgina.
Charlie leaned against the worktop, staring at the door. "Did you notice? Willy didn't giggle this morning, either." That was true, and nods all around confirmed it. There'd been no giggles. "I hate it when Willy acts old," said Charlie, forlorn, and although until Charlie had said it, they hadn't given it much thought, with solemn nods of their heads, the others silently agreed.
Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films. I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended. If you recognize the phrase 'This was too true to be contradicted' it's because you've read Emma, by Jane Austin. I love that phrase. The song mentioned is Tiny Bubbles, by Don Ho.
XXCandyLoverXX: Or, a story where Mr. Wonka goes for suga-rey? Wifi is line of sight, so, with the Factory as much underground as it is—all those rock walls, tunnels, and such—I'm thinking routers every eighteen feet, and then I'm wondering about the security issues, so, no, I'd say internet yes, but wifi maybe not so much.
Verucabeyotch: I know what you mean, but I gotta say, I like the 2005 backstory: it has those references to Mr. Dahl's own life about it, and, significantly, I don't believe Mr. Dahl ever forgave his father for leaving him when Roald was three years old. Thanks for taking the time to review.
Squirrela: I like best that the litany of faults are voiced by the characters in the 1971 movie themselves: saves my characters the bother. Something they can agree on? :-) I'm going to take exception to your 'copy' comment, but not in any meaningful way... Thanks for your review.