Charlie's frustration mounted with the sun, beginning with his sleeping through its rising. With jet-lag, forgetting to set a wake-up call, and an unreliable alarm, he had slept half the morning away. Hastening to pack, and rueing that he hadn't done that in the hours before dawn when he couldn't fall asleep, he called down to the concierge and arranged for a limo.

The traffic was murder. They crawled past Hyde Park. Start. Stop. Start. Stop. He hadn't thought so, but the Tube would have been faster. His chin in his hand, Charlie stared out the window. Having made his decision, he was eager to get on with it.

At the airport, it was more bad news. He'd missed the first bank of flights, and would have to wait for the next. Drumming his fingers on the counter, he asked about chartering a plane.

'I'm sure I wouldn't know, sir,' said the slim woman helping him. 'That's not our line. Shall I enquire for you?'

Charlie considered. Doris would have his head. 'There's plenty of money,' she was always telling him, 'but none to waste'. The first time he'd heard it, he'd frowned, shifting his weight to his other foot, but she was having none of his tacit skepticism. 'What would happen,' she'd said, putting her pen down carefully, and staring him in the eye, 'if there were, say, a pandemic, and we needed the capital to get through it?' Charlie had to agree with that. Mr. Wonka wouldn't mind a chartered jet, he was all for sparing no expense, but Charlie had to live with both of them, and he took the middle path.

'No, thank you. What's the next plane I can get, first class?'

She'd booked him on the noon flight, and he'd gone to the gate, boarded with the others, and with the others, listened to the captain announce that the plane was on a mechanical delay. Technicians were looking into it, but it would be a few minutes before they'd be on their way. A few minutes? A few minutes in airline-speak could mean hours. Discouraged, Charlie looked out another window, and for the second time that day, saw that he was going no where fast.

'Don't tell a soul' in the Chocolate Factory had to be a joke, and Grandpa Joe paid the admonition no mind. He did keep one of the facts to himself.

'I've had enough of this mystery,' he'd told the rest of them at dinner. 'I'm going to find out for myself what you won't tell me.'

'How?' asked his son.

'I'm going to watch it!'

'When?'

'Tonight.'

Mrs. Bucket frowned, and then smiled. 'You don't have to do that, Joe. We'll tell you what you want to know.'

'No we won't,' insisted George, striking the table with his fist.

'Tell what?' chimed in Georgina. 'I don't remember seeing anything worth telling…'

'Mother!' Georgina ducked her head. Mrs. Bucket let the various emotions around the table settle. 'Would you like us to go with you?'

'NO!' cried Joe. All eyes were on him like hungry pigeons waiting for cracked corn. "I mean, no, you've seen it, it's my turn, I'll go by myself.' Grandpa Joe held himself at the ready to counter any other logistical sallies, should they come, but there was silence while the group digested what he'd said, and weighed the verve with which he'd said it.

'Suit yourself,' said Mr. Bucket with a knowing smile, in a mild tone that nevertheless told the others to let the subject lie. Satisfied they had, he excused himself from the table, picked up the book he'd been reading, and promptly forgot about them.

The lights were dim when Grandpa Joe arrived at Television Chocolate, but he could see that a lumpy bean-bag chair had been placed slightly forwards and to the left side of the semi-permanent armchair stationed for watching. Inching his way into the room, Grandpa Joe discovered that he was not the first to arrive, as he'd thought. One of the lumps making up the lumpy bean-bag chair rose to greet him, and the lump was Mr. Wonka.

"Grandpa Joe, sir, right on time. Come forward, take this chair, and we'll begin."

Mr. Wonka, dressed in a mauve and silver brocade lounging robe, over black trousers, a white silk shirt, with his 'W' brooch at his throat, waggled the remote in a silver gloved hand, as proof of his statement.

"That chair?" With outstretched arm, Mr. Wonka was indicating the central chair, the one he had occupied at the aborted viewing. "But—"

"No 'buts'! We're both getting the treatment in this movie, but as far as you know, I'm younger than you, and it's age before beauty. Sit there, sit down, be comfortable; I have no intention of sitting up for this shellacking, and plan to lounge for the duration, as you can see."

"I can see," said Grandpa Joe, not knowing whether to cower or laugh at Mr. Wonka's intensity. His lips were tightly pressed into an unconvincing smile, his eyes wide, and his eyebrows raised. His hair shone like tempered chocolate in the faint glow of what light there was, with his top-hat no where in sight. Mr. Wonka held his pose of invitation, and Grandpa Joe, deciding he'd do neither, took the offered seat.

"Good," said Mr. Wonka, plopping himself down on his chosen support. "We can start."

Settling back, closing his eyes, steeling himself for the worst, Grandpa Joe waited. And waited. There was no sound. No sound at all. He'd planned to open his eyes when the television came to life, but it remained lifeless. He opened them now. Mr. Wonka, leaning his right shoulder against the side of the chair Grandpa Joe sat in, was holding up the remote as if it were a brick he were about to drop. He had his finger on the correct button, but he wasn't pushing it. "Are we going to start?"

"I'm thinking."

"What are you thinking? Do you want me to do it? I can. I will."

"I'm thinking: Do we want to review? Or take-up where we left-off?"

How bizarre! The chocolatier wanted to see what he'd seen over again? Grandpa Joe gave a frisson of a shudder.

"I'll take that as you voting to take-up where we left-off, but we left-off at different places, which is what made me think of this in the first place."

A-ha! Not so bizarre. "I don't want to see that tunnel again."

"Yeah, me neither. I did get into that rowing jag in Loompaland, but I don't remember writing it down in my notebook, and how Mr. Wilder got his hands on that little ditty of mine would keep me up at night, if I hadn't seen first-hand what spies can do." Mr. Wonka hit play. "I guess we oughta see where it's stopped."

It was stopped at the end of the Inventing Room scene.

"Isn't that thoughtful? Don't you just love them? Aren't they wonderful?" Mr. Wonka was alive with delight. "They've cued it in just the right place for me!" And then he grinned, nudging Grandpa Joe in the shin with his elbow. "But ya know what? We're gonna review."

The tape sped back to Mr. Wonka making his entrance. They watched the halting steps and finishing shoulder roll.

"See that?" crowed Mr. Wonka. "I can do that! And I did! This morning!"

Grandpa Joe laughed to see Mr. Wonka's glee.

"Ya know what else? That was sporting of him. It gave them fair warning he can't be trusted."

The tape sped to the hand-hangers, and there Mr. Wonka let it play.

"Little surprises around every corner, but nothing dangerous."

Talking over it, Mr. Wonka let the movie play. "The sillies … He's just shown them he can't be trusted. If I were them, and I'd seen his entrance, and heard him say that, I'd have felt the way I'd feel if I were back in Loompaland with Whangdoodles about to swarm."

"Concerned?"

"Darned tootin', and on my guard. Watch this contract stuff."

"Violet? You first. Sign here."

"See that? He's deliberately pushing Veruca's button. See how she grabs the pen from Violet? It worked." Mr. Wonka hit fast-forwards. "We'll go to where you left. You may as well see what went on before I left. It's atrocious."

"That contract was pointless."

"That contract, Mr. Mike Teavee wanna-be, was as pointed as it gets. It told Me-wanna-be everything he needed to know about everyone. He'd decided who he wanted by the end of that scene."

"But—"

"'But'? Again? Keep it up and I'll have to butt you. He couldn't very well call off the rest of the Tour, now could he? They might complain they weren't getting their chocolate bar's worth. Worse than that, he might be wrong. I've never said I was perfect. As you well know. I make mistakes all the time."

With letting Charlie leave the other day your most recent, thought Grandpa Joe, watching blurred images tumble over each other.

"I just don't leave them mistakes."

We'll see about that, thought Grandpa Joe.

"Oops! Too far!" Mr. Wonka went back to the start of the Inventing Room scene. "See?" he grinned. "That was one!"

Taking in the mess, the clear signs of ancient explosions, left as a record, the visual puns that were anathema to health standards, Grandpa Joe's eyes were like a cat's pupils on a black night, large and round. "You left when you saw this!"

"Nah, I stuck it out."

A shoe went into one kettle, and an overcoat into another. "Why, if you're doing those things, do you care that Augustus was putting his hands in your river?"

"Why indeed," agreed Mr. Wonka. "Forget the overcoat, heaven forfend the filth on those sneakers. They don't look like they're right out of the box. Augustus was a tidy tyke in this movie. I'll bet his hands were cleaner than those shoes.
"It's a double standard I have here, but remember, we already know that I can't be trusted."

Mr. Wonka had straightened up, folding his arms across his chest, his jaw tightening as he finished speaking. His eyes had narrowed, and Joe could see the injustice he felt at the thought that he was being portrayed as no more trustworthy than the spies who had sought to destroy him. This was a betrayal, and by his formerly favorite actor.

"Watch this!"

Grandpa Joe turned back to the screen. Mr. Wonka's former favorite was handing out multi-colored objects that looked like a mashed coronavirus. He'd seen one in a science textbook somewhere; maybe Charlie's. They had spikes sticking out of them, which made them different from other viruses. "He thinks a person can suck on those with all those spiky angles on them?"

"Already been covered by your relatives, that point, ha, ha, but I don't mean that, watch this. See? He gives one to everyone but Charlie."

Ha, ha had been said, not laughed, and Grandpa Joe was beginning to wonder if Mr. Wonka would ever laugh again. It was so … odd, and … awful. All those giggles, all those years, and now, their lack was more chilling than any annoyance they had ever caused. "Why is that important?"

"Because, my dear Grandpa Joe, if Charlie doesn't have one, Charlie can't betray him to Scarface with one. Easy. He decided at the contract that Charlie would be the one he chose, and not giving Charlie one clinches it."

"Eh, what about Charlie?"

"Looks like I'm foiling the plan."

"And one for Charlie."

"Looks like you are. Look how reluctant I am, though I'm pretending it was an oversight." Mr. Wonka sighed, and sat back. On screen, his alter-ego had started the Three-course Gum machine. Mr. Wonka turned away from Grandpa Joe and the screen, putting his hand against his cheek lest his peripheral vision betray him. "Let me know when it's over. I'm not looking."

"When what's over? Violet as a blueberry?"

"Not that. You'll know it when you see it."

Grandpa Joe turned back to the screen, watching intently. A button was looked for, and found. A gum making machine began its operation. Steps were shown. Reactions were given, and then, Grandpa Joe saw it and gasped, his hands, white-knuckled, clutching the arms of the chair, as Mr. Wonka's had done when he'd seen it. "You look… you look…"

"Demented. You can say it. Is it over?"

"It's over. Is that when you left?"

"Nope." Mr. Wonka turned back, and having moved his fingers over both eyes, took a peek between them to be sure. The gum was produced, and he was holding it. "I was too horror-stricken to move. That look would frighten a serial killer. I waited until the end of the scene. Look at how curious Charlie is."

"What's it taste like?"

"Isn't that a good quality to have? Curiosity?"

"I think so," said Grandpa Joe.

"Me, too," said Mr. Wonka, wistfully.

They watched in silence until Violet rolled away.

"Well, well, well … Two naughty, nasty little children gone. Three good, sweet little children left."

Mr. Wonka shifted a bit. "I think he's trying to warn them again. You know, the contract … accidents he wrote, but after that face he made, I can't be sure. He looks like he's into this."

"These things happened on the tour you had."

"Yeah, but I was hoping they wouldn't, and they upset me; not lots and lots, but some, and I don't like being upset. Okay. Lickable Wallpaper is next. Doris and Eshle told me."

Grandpa Joe and Mr. Wonka watched the scene unfold.

"They look silly doing that."

"I think so, too," said Mr. Wonka.

Sudden light filled the Bucket house. A carry-on suitcase clattered to the wooden floor. "I'm home!"

George slept on. His snoring was louder than Charlie's announcement. Georgina lifted an eyelid, peered through her lashes and murmured 'hooray', turned to her husband's side, and nestled against him, returning to sleep. Josephine was dead to the world, but that was only a phrase, and she wasn't snoring.

Mr. Bucket looked up from his book, the circle of light illuminating it reflecting off Charlie's features. "Good to see you, son. Was it Florence, or Venice?"

"It was London, and I saw a musical."

"Any 'pure imagination' in it?" asked his father, straight-faced.

"You'd be surprised, Dad."

Mrs. Bucket stood in her robe, finishing belting it, bringing herself back to wakefulness. "Who's…" Mr. Bucket pointed. "Charlie!" She ran to him and embraced him as if it had been a decade, and not a few days, since she'd seen him. "You're back! Did you hear from Mr. Wonka?" Charlie shook his head. "I don't care! You're back! It's so late!"

Josephine was up now, positioning herself against the headboard.

"My flight was delayed, I missed the train I wanted, I had to wait for the next one, and here I am." Charlie took another look around. "Where is Grandpa Joe?"

Mr. Bucket had gotten to his feet and given his son a hug once his wife had made room for him to do so. "He's watching the rest of the Wilder Chocolate Factory movie."

"We wouldn't tell him what happened in it," croaked George, his voice not waking up as quickly as he.

"Still?" said Charlie, alarmed.

"Still," said Josephine.

Mr. Bucket smiled, laughing softly. "If you find that alarming, Charlie, I believe he is watching it with Mr. Wonka. He wouldn't let any of us share the adventure with him tonight."

"Not nobody! Not know how!" quoted Grandma Georgina.

Mrs. Bucket nodded. "We did offer to go—"

Charlie put trembling hands on his mother and father's forearms, whether to steady himself, or them, wasn't clear. "He's watching it with Mr. Wonka?"

"That's my guess."

"Oh, my God!"

Charlie's back was all they saw as he headed across the Chocolate Room to call the Great Glass Elevator, by far the fastest way to get around the Factory.

Mrs. Bucket went to the abandoned suitcase, tsked at its lying on its side, bent down, picked it up, and held it, both hands gripping the handle. "Do you think he's jealous of Joe spending time with Mr. Wonka, or afraid of what they'll both see?"

"Hard to say, dear," said Mr. Bucket, unconcerned, and he put his book away.

Quoted material in italics are direct quotes from the 1971 and 2005 films, and, in this chapter, a phrase the Cowardly Lion spoke in The Wizard of Oz. I still do not own either of anything of the Chocolate Factories ... wait; strike that, reverse it ... and there is no copyright infringement intended.

Ah, well, best laid plans... Everything takes longer than one thinks. One more chapter to go, and, for balance, I'll post it on an anniversary common to both films. Stay tuned. :-) Squirrela: Thanks for your review. At this point, I think Charlie is in worse shape than Mr. Wonka, but at least he's back where he hopes he belongs. Gs33022: Your observation about the grandparents is a pithy one, and I thank you for it. That hadn't occurred to me until you mentioned it. And I too, enjoy it when the grandparents get involved. Thanks for your review, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter.