REVIEWERS:
Fine, review-ER! But, that just means she gets all the glory.
DEMI-DEVIL, OMG, I LUUURVE THAT DRAWING AHHHHAHAHAA!
That's darling. By the way, thank you for being my, cough-ONLY REVIEWER LATELY- cough, as the rest seem to have thinned drastically. And if you actually like my story, that's even better! giggle So here, so sorry this chapter took so long. (And Happy Halloween everyone! -If anyone went trick or treating, good for you, because I couldn't. :sheds a tear: AND I AM NOT YET TOO OLD.)
Chapter 4
Water Glasses
Willy Wonka sighed, and pulled off his hat and jacket, hanging them drearily on the red wood coat hanger by his door. He trudged over to his little desk that sat in front of the enormous circular window and planted his hands on the top, supporting his weight against it. He was suddenly very tired.
Out the window behind his desk, he could see it was snowing. He walked around the table and plopped himself in his wheelie chair, spinning it around to face the glass, then leaned back and laid his arms at his side lifelessly.
The snow outside fell steadily, creating a thick cloud of darkened white in front of the window so that just the silhouette of a little town peeked out from behind it. Wonka kicked off his shoes and crossed his legs. He put two fingers against his temple and rested his elbow on the chair side, wrapping the other arm around his waist, and exhaled. He had a lot on his mind.
The fact was, he wasn't sure if it was good or not that Charlie had brought up his father. It was probably good, he supposed, or else he wouldn't have thought about it again. But now that he did, he realized that he really wasn't sure about the matter. True, everything had gone well when he'd gone to see his dad last week. Great, really . . . much better than he thought it would . . .
Wonka swung himself out of the chair and walked back around his desk, knowing he'd nod off if he stayed there. He stopped in the middle of the room and folded his arms.
Then Charlie had asked if he wanted to see his dad again. And he'd nodded. It was the truth, after all. He did want to see his father again. Yesterday had reminded him how much he'd really missed him . . . That wasn't the problem. He just didn't know if Dad would want to see him again. . .
Wonka gently yawned, covering his mouth with a purple hand politely in spite of his lack of company, then folded his arms tighter against himself; he was chilling up again without his jacket. He gently swung his leg above the floor for a moment like he was kicking rocks that weren't there, then went over and plopped down on his bed. It was king sized, and the quilt was a dark royal blue velvet. He ran his fingers over its soft material thoughtfully.
Everything had gone well . . . but that may have been inevitable. Now that he thought of it, he didn't know what he'd been expecting. He hadn't really been expecting anything. He felt like no sooner had he mentioned his father (he still wasn't sure why he even had) that they were on his doorstep out in the middle of a cold unwelcoming nowhere.
He hadn't had time to expect anything. He'd never thought of it before. Never had he thought he'd ever be going off to see his father again. And yet . . .
Wonka glanced at his door, mentally looking through it at the elevator doors that stood waiting in the hallway.
He'd put that button it. Wonka groaned miserably and fell back onto his bed with a bounce, planting his fists against his forehead, and wondering why he did this to himself.
He'd named it perfectly, too.
Why did he put that button in? He didn't even remember building it into the wall, but neither could he remember a time when it didn't exist!
He continued to play with the comforting velvet on his bed spread. He supposed it didn't matter. It turned out he'd needed to use it after all. But would he ever be able to use it again?
Dad had seemed . . .
Was happy the word? Well, definitely not unhappy to see him. They'd been able to talk to each other. He'd actually . . . hugged him; something he'd almost never done before, and had taken Wonka by surprise . . . - but that could have just been the initial reaction of euphoria. He didn't think it was enough to make him want to see Willy again.
And even after this ice-break, Wonka still had that mild sense of terror when he thought of seeing his father again. His insides twisted and he couldn't help but feel nervous. It had been the first time he'd seen him in fifteen years, after all. Actually, even longer than that; the first time since . . .
Wonka rolled his shoulders back comfortably, and released a soft sigh.
Still . . . he wouldn't . . . really mind . . .
"Come class, settle down. . ." The teacher tapped her ruler impatiently on the top of her desk, and the children all scrambled to their seats. She sighed and mentally cursed whoever made Wednesday the middle of the week. "Alright, to start off, everyone promptly get out your books." She began writing the daily essay on the board with a squeaky piece of chalk, and the pupils all scribbled in their notebooks studiously.
Charlie Bucket sat in the fourth row back, dully jotting down his assignment. He glanced up, seeing that his teacher was still writing, and put his chin in his hand. He gazed out the thick-glassed window and through its aging-rings, into the snowy outside world.
Past the blur of snowflakes, he could see the top of Willy Wonka's amazing chocolate factory. Charlie grinned, and remembered just last week when he'd sat in this same spot, looking at the same thing, filled with amazement and wonder.
Charlie was a good student; he always paid attention in school and received good grades. But never was there a day he forgot to spare a moment to glance out the window, up at the extraordinary factory. He was always fascinated by it, wanted to know everything about it. And every birthday when he received a Wonka bar, he always stuck the wrapping against the wall next to his bed, just as a reminder that that factory was there. No matter how bad things had gotten for his family, as long as that factory still existed there was always hope in Charlie's mind.
Now, hope wasn't needed. There wasn't anything else he could hope for. Everything imaginable he'd ever even dreamt of was right there, patting him warmly on the shoulder. Charlie shifted into his seat tiredly, still looking at the factory. The funny thing was, no one else knew about it.
". . . I know, they said they were mutated afterwards or something . . ."
". . . But they didn't die . . ."
Charlie glanced over at a couple boys in the row next to him, whispering back and forth to each other. The rest of the room had finished their assignment as well, so it was filled with the soft murmurs of people's conversations as the preoccupied teacher continued to screech away on the chalkboard.
". . . and he came out made of fudge!"
"Phbsshh, that's a bunch of rubbish. . ."
"-Could that really happen . . .?" (Another boy eagerly joined in the conversation.)
Charlie's eyes grew a little and he turned around to listen, scooting a bit closer in his chair.
"Well I heard that little rich girl was attacked by wild animals while she was in there!"
"Why would animals be in there?"
"He could use them for labour . . ."
"What about the fifth, what happened to him?-"
"They never found out who he was, did they?"
"Naw, I heard the last kid found the ticket just before the tour, so no one knew who they were-"
"Well whadd'about the kid that's twenty feet tall now 'cause they put him in one of those torture devices where they stretch you!"
"That'd break his back, not just make him taller, dummy-"
"And how would you know?-"
"Oh! I heard that that girl that had a million trophies turned into a giant raspberry!"
"-Blueberry," corrected Charlie from in his seat. The three boys turned around to look at him. Charlie closed his mouth and slid into his seat so not to be noticed any more.
The teacher exhaled and turned back to her class, rubbing her temple. "Alright everyone . . ." she began to the noisy class. No one noticed her. She sighed and slapped her desk with the yard stick for attention. The students quieted down and turned to her.
"I'm going to be right back, so behave yourselves while I'm gone. . ." Her pupils all looked at her obediently, and she wrote a page number for them to do in their workbooks on the board, then retreated out of the classroom to get herself an aspirin.
As soon as she was out of sight, the hot shot of the class jumped out of his chair and snatched a little black remote control that rested on the wall shelf.
"Let's find something interesting!" he said in a loud, hotheaded tone, turning on the dusty television that sat in the high left corner of the wall, and began flipping the channels. Due to the school's control over the television programs each classroom got, 'interesting' was simply the least dull thing that happened to be on.
And this time, it happened to be the news, which miraculously seemed to be very interesting at the time. Someone in the class shouted, "Stop there!" The boy with the remote dropped it clumsily on the teacher's desk and slowly sat back down on the top of his own. The rest of the children scrambled up so they could get a closer look at the television screen, followed by lots of "Ohh," and "Shhhh!" and other murmurs of the sort.
Charlie scooted up so he could see what was on, peering over the heads of his classmates. On the bottom of the fuzzy screen, the program read, "Little League's Gymnastics' Competition", then faded away. A little girl in a white sport's leotard was standing at the end of a padded court, preparing for her act. But there was one odd thing about her; she was blue. Her skin was blue, her hair was blue, and when her close up came, her eyes and even the roots of her hair were blue.
". . . and last up, we have . . . Miss Violet Beauregard. This young lady's working her way to the top at a fast pace and doesn't seem to have any intention of slowing down. . ." Just then the girl took a few steps forward and took stance, but instead of running, did front-flips at the speed of lightning towards the bar!
She flipped over and over like a runaway slinky, then did one mighty flip up onto it, catching it in her hands and spinning herself round and round. She let go, flying into the heavens, and did a triple-summersault followed by a spin in midair, landing with a cartwheel on another pole.
She caught her balance as the audience "Ooh"ed and "Ahh"ed in awe, and jumped off the pole, doing another summersault where she fell back to grip the third and highest pole, likening in appearance of some breed of monkey or a living rubber band.
She spun three, four, five and six times in one hazy blue and white blur, then let go, spinning back into the air to the point where it seemed she'd never come back down. The blue sphere of a girl spun in mid air as she reached her peak, then plummeted back to the ground like a bouncy ball, landing feet first, perfectly poised. There was a dangerous silence, then she held her shoulders back and raised her arms in the air with a bow. The crowd went wild.
"And that was absolutely amazing! Never seen anything like it Bob!"
"Me neither Jim . . . Let's see what the judges say." The crowd turned to the judges, who glanced at each other, then each held up their sign. Every single one read, "10". Once again, the crowd screamed with applause.
"And we have a winner! Violet Beauregard is the new champion of the Youth's Olympic Series!" exclaimed the speaker as the audience stood up and hooted wildly. Violet bowed again and flipped off the court, where her mother brought her up a white jumpsuit coat (she was wearing a matching one like it) and squeezed the daylight out of her in a hug.
When she was free, Violet was seen to reach onto her coat pocket and pull out a little stick of gum, popping it into her mouth. Dozens of reporters dashed up to the couple, flashing cameras and holding microphone under their chins. One butted his way to the front.
"Violet, what will you do now that you've won the Little League Gymnastic competition?" The camera drew a close up of the pair. Violet grinned at the reporter, chewing her wad of gum happily.
"I guess I'll keep going for the top, ya know? I was thinking of goin' to the World Olympics, the real thing!"
"And what exactly happened at Wonka's factory tour?" he asked, eagerly jutting the microphone under her chin. "Has the industrial-accident affected you in any way besides your appearance?" Violet just laughed and shrugged.
"I'm pretty flexible." Another bust of reporters trying to ask questions, this one to her mother.
"Miss Beauregard, how do you feel about all this?" The lady put her hand on her daughter's back.
"Well I knew my little Violet could do it. She's just so determined and talented. But no matter what happens, I'll always be proud of her." She nodded, and Violet looked up at her mother happily, gnawing her gum at full strength. Mrs. Beauregard smiled down at her daughter, then clamped her mouth shut in a demonstrating manner. Violet's eyed widened attentively, and she shut her mouth to chew, smiling back proudly at the cameras. Another reporter scrambled his way to the front of the crowd.
"Violet, is there anything you'd like to say to the world?" Violet turned her dark blue eyes from him to the camera excitedly.
"Well yeah. Just that, always work really hard and you can do anything, always go for your goal. A-and always be confident, 'cause confidence, it's key." She nodded. The reporter began to move the microphone away, but Violet's mother quickly drew the attention back.
"A-and . . .," she nodded to the camera, then straightened her shoulders and patted down her hair. "Eh- single mother looking for a man. Someone who likes to be active and is supportive, who'll take care of us." She looked down at her daughter and smiled back at the camera. "Someone who'll take good care of my little Violet here."
The smiling blue girl leaned into her mother, who wrapped her arm tightly around her daughter. Violet popped a bubble. The reporters all flashed wildly at the pair, smothering them with questions.
The entire class was now watching the show with great interest, and didn't notice their teacher trudge back into the classroom. She held an ice pack to her forehead, and sighed when she saw her class sitting on desks and anything that was near, watching the television. She grabbed the yard stick and smacked it down on her desk loudly.
"Alright, back to your seats," she said as all the children hurried back to their assigned desks. She clicked off the television and sighed, glancing at the remote on her desk. "And who turned on the tellie?" The group was silent, but slowly the shabby little boy in front stood up.
"Mum'," he said guiltily. The teacher let out another tired breath.
"Jeremy Welkins, you need a hair trim," she said as she went back to sit at her desk. The class tittered and little Jeremy grinned sheepishly.
Willy Wonka took a big single step out of the glass elevator and into the Chocolate Room. He paused, admiring the scene for a moment, then released a big "What a beautiful morning" sigh. The waterfall seemed to be bubbling and brewing quicker today, and the light coming from the little circular windows in the ceiling sent a shimmer across all the candy plants, looking like someone had just gone around and polished every one.
The swudge field looked perfectly green and freshly-cut, and even the candy scented air had a clear, crisp feeling. Wonka grinned and looked down the center at the little Bucket house. He tilted his head to the side, happily deciding it didn't clash at all with the rest of the room. In fact, it looked kind of cool there. He was about to take a step forward when he heard his stomach give a little grumble. He glared down at his waist.
"Oh hush," he said, annoyed with it for bothering him with such silly little things, and started his way towards the cottage, one foot in front of the other, cane in front of his foot. With his standard long strides, it didn't take him long to reach the front of the house, but before he could get to the door, it swung open as Mrs. Bucket popped out, sweeping the doorstep.
Wonka gave a little gasp and stumbled back. He straightened his hat and mounted his cane back into the ground for support, scolding himself mentally. He'd really have to learn to get used to seeing other people every day from now on. Mrs. Bucket looked up from the front step and smiled.
"Oh, Mr. Wonka, good morning," she said cheerfully. Wonka grinned and tapped a finger to the rim of his hat in his customary way.
"Morning, Mrs. Bucket," he said, restraining a nervous giggle, and stepping closer to the house, "Just here ta . . . pick up Charlie!" he smiled brightly.
"Oh, I'm sorry dear, he and my husband just left for the day, you just missed them," she said kindly, sweeping around the edges of the doorstep. Mr. Wonka cocked his head to one side. Mrs. Bucket looked back up and smiled. "For school," she clarified.
"Oh! Yah!" he laughed, rolling his eyes and tapping the side of his head in a forgetful manner, "I just can't seem to keep track of things lately. Well, I'll be going then, sorry to bother you . . ." He turned around to start away.
"Oh, wait . . ." Mrs. Bucket quickly glanced back up and trotted out on the doorstep. "Mr. Wonka, come in for some breakfast," she insisted, setting her broom back inside the house. Wonka turned halfway back around and hesitated.
"Well, I really shouldn't," he said after a moment, "I . . ." What did he have to do? Today had been planned with Charlie; he didn't have anything else that needed to be done. "I, eh-" He cut off with a sharp breath intake as Mrs. Bucket nabbed the sleeve of his maroon coloured coat and dragged the wide eyed chocolatier towards the house as he faltered in his steps behind her.
"No no no no no, you got away before dinner last night, you really should have something to eat," she insisted as she pulled him through the front door. Wonka grabbed onto his hat so it wouldn't fall off and stumbled in after her. Once inside, she spun around and tugged his coat straight, then suddenly took up both his arms. He glanced at them, wondering what she was doing..
"Look at you," she said with a voice of mild dismay, holding his slender limbs up by the wrists in a scarecrow position. She turned to the grandparents in bed. "Needs more nutrition, is what," she said nodding to them, then let go of his arms and measured his waist under his coat with her fingers. Wonka let out a startled little squeak. Reflexively wrapping his arms around his midriff, he squirmed away, turning a pale shade of cherry and drowning in unsuccessfully stifled giggles.
Darn his ticklishness.
Mrs. Bucket chuckled under her breath, then walked over to the table and pulled out a chair. "Come on," she said kindly as she headed over to the stove. Wonka tried to quickly recompose himself, hung up his hat on the coat hanger next to him, and hesitantly but obediently sat down. Mrs. Bucket was multitasking in the kitchen, seeming to cook every part of breakfast at once. She looked back at him.
"How would you like your eggs, Mr. Wonka?"
He glanced up. "Eh . . . s-scrambled . . . please . . . ?" he stuttered, successfully remembering only one way to cook eggs, and making it sound like more like a question than a reply. He shifted in his seat and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. He looked around the house and over to the beds where the grandparents were doing their daily reading, knitting, sitting. Grandpa George glanced over at him, and Wonka gave a polite little smile. The man just glared back, and the chocolatier's smile nervously faded away as he turned to face the table again.
Suddenly a plate was set at his place with a soft clunk. Mrs. Bucket served breakfast to the four in bed, then sat across the table from Mr. Wonka with hers. He looked down at the platter; it had sausage, bacon, scrambled eggs and a big stack of pancakes, not to mention mug of juice next to it.
Wow, that's a lot, he thought. But once again, his stomach grumbled, and he realized he didn't know when the last time he'd actually eaten a meal was. Even the night he'd had supper with the Buckets, he'd been too preoccupied with his anxiousness to actually eat, and had only played around with his stew until the meal was over. He was usually too busy, however mentally or physically, to bother with things like eating.
His stomach grumbled again, and Wonka reluctantly gave in, carefully taking up the fork next to him. He was hungry, and he probably shouldn't be going so long without food anyway. It could be unhealthy or something. Besides, what was he planning to do, stare his meal out of existence?
Maybe.
He cut off a bite of sausage. Mrs. Bucket poured syrup onto her pancakes, then slid the pitcher over to Wonka.
"Here you are, dear," she said as she passed it to him. He took it gingerly.
"Oh, A-and . . . Thank you," he mentioned politely, carefully nodding to his plate.
"Oh!" she said suddenly, "I would like to thank you for the map, as well as the key, you sent back with Charlie, by the way. They left right out the side entrance this morning. It was more than helpful." She picked something up with her fork. Wonka grinned and looked down at his plate.
"Well, you wouldn't want to get lost in here," he said, and hesitantly put a little piece of bacon into his mouth, recalling how to chew, and doing so rather awkwardly. Mrs. Bucket laughed softly and shook her head.
"I don't know if I'd ever find my way out." Probably not, thought Wonka. Imagine, if one day his heir's only mother went wandering around the factory, and all they ever found of her were her empty socks and shoes? Now how would he explain that to Charlie? He giggled under his breath.
". . . and I met one of the workers just yesterday . . ." Wonka realized she'd been talking to him and looked up. ". . . An . . . Oompa Loompa?" she asked, unsure. His eyes lit up.
"Oh, were they just wonderful? Brilliant little things, so very clever," he said excitedly. Mrs. Bucket grinned and scooted the food around on her plate with her fork.
"Yes . . . rather small, aren't they?" Wonka looked at her blankly for a moment, then suddenly let out a laugh.
"Well, what do you expect of Oompa Loompas?" he giggled. Mrs. Bucket wasn't quite sure. "They've gotta be small; how else do you think they'd be able to squeeze into those teeny weenie tree houses?"
"Tree houses?" Mrs. Bucket repeated, confused. Wonka rolled his eyes, and waved his hand like he was swatting at a fly.
"Well, not anymore," he said, "Now they live in towns, of course. I guess they could grow if they wanted, but the town fits them now . . . If they grew anymore, they wouldn't be able to fit in there either." Mrs. Bucket wasn't following at all, but was gaining more interest by the minute.
"Did . . . they used to live in tree houses?" she inquired. Wonka grinned even harder.
"Yah, in Loompaland!" Mrs. Bucket looked at him curiously, and he continued. "Yah, well, when I found 'em in Loompaland, they had to stay away from all of those Nornwogglers and Snozzwangers and Whangdoodles and all the other nasty things that lived on the ground. So they lived in tree houses."
"How'd you know they were in Loompaland?" asked Mrs. Bucket, not taking her eyes off of Wonka as she picked something up from her plate with her fork. Wonka's face was of one who was about to be very informative, and held his fork with an entire pancake hanging from it in the air as he talked, waving it around with his explanatory gestures.
"I didn't, I went there to look for new candy flavours-" He stopped suddenly, softly smacked his lips, and looked at Mrs. Bucket. "They weren't very good." He returned to his dazzling grin. "But the Oompa Loompas made up for all that- they were my best discovery yet!"
"How'd you find them?" Mrs. Bucket asked, fascinated. So Wonka went into his fantastic tale about how he traveled to Loompaland and found the Oompa Loompas. He told about how he offered them the job, and about how they always ate green caterpillars. And he told about how all they wanted were cocoa beans and so that was how they were paid. And he told of the things he saw in the jungle while he was exploring . . .
". . . and it came whizzing right towards me! So I lifted up my machete, and chucked it right through the bugger!" Wonka was now standing up out of his chair, which was askew to the side, re-enacting his slay of the Whangdoodle with an invisible blade (and an invisible Whangdoodle), as Mrs. Bucket sat in her chair listening, wide eyed like a child during story time. Wonka sat back down and nodded with distaste.
"It was pretty gross . . . and it didn't taste very good." He looked down and smacked his lips again. Mrs. Bucket let out a breath.
"Goodness," she said as she held her tea to her lips. Wonka nodded again. "Well it's certainly a miracle you're alright," she said with a relieved sounding laugh. Wonka picked up his cup.
"Huh?"
"You very well could have been killed! It's just lucky you're safe." she exclaimed, taking a sip of her tea. Wonka looked down. He never really thought of it like that. Loompaland was pretty perilous, but he never thought what could have happened to him on his exploration there. He flicked on a confused little smile and took a drink.
"Weird."
"What?" she asked. Wonka swallowed, and shrugged.
"Never thought of it like that." Mrs. Bucket put her hand on her chest and let out a breath.
"Never?" Wonka just shrugged again. "Well it really is to be grateful for that you're out of Loompaland and alright." She nodded. "As are the Oompa Loompas, here in the factory. They seem to like it here," she noted, stirring her tea. Wonka smiled, then hid his mouth behind a sip of juice he wasn't taking.
"How are . . . you guys liking it . . .?" he asked timidly. It wasn't something he'd planned on bringing up. In fact it was something he'd planned on avoiding. But he just couldn't help it; he really wanted to know. Mrs. Bucket smiled and let out a deep breath.
"Oh, it's just wonderful, Mr. Wonka," she said as she sipped her tea. Wonka's eyes lit up.
"Really?" he said as he scooted up in his seat. Mrs. Bucket nodded and grinned.
"Remarkable," Grandma Josephine spoke up from bed.
"Incredible," added Grandpa Joe.
"Delectable!" chirped in Grandma Georgina. The rest of the family just smiled and rolled their eyes at her seemingly ridiculous statement, but Wonka grinned and nodded delightedly to her. She nodded back and happily returned to her knitting.
"We're all so happy to be here," Mrs. Bucket continued. Wonka smiled and picked up his drink, trying not to show his relief.
"Oh good," he sighed. Grandpa George scooted a little higher in bed.
"Speaking of, young man," he began, "Why the change of mind?"
"'Bout what?" Wonka asked vaguely, taking a sip of orange juice. George frowned and peered at the back of the chocolatier.
"About letting Charlie's family come to the factory with him, that's what." Wonka choked into his cup. Grandpa George raised his eyebrows. "Seemed rather stuck to your decision when you made it . . ." he continued calmly. Mrs. Bucket shot a quick glare at her father, but remained quiet and sipped her tea.
Wonka swallowed, then cleared his throat and set down his mug, keeping both hands wrapped around it like it was a sippy-cup. He stuck on a fake little smile and shrugged his right shoulder, picking his cup back up again and putting it in front of his mouth.
"Charlie convinced me," he stated. He kind of tipped his head to one side like a child that's bending the truth and knows it. "I . . . bumped into him in town the other day, and decided to restate my offer . . ." Wonka took a drink so someone else could say something. Mrs. Bucket smiled and cast her father another look that read See? Nothing wrong with that.
"Hm." She sighed in an accepting manner, and smiled. She sipped her tea, and everything was quiet for a moment. Grandpa George continued to eye Wonka's back suspiciously, who just sat in his chair, gripping his mug and taking long-held little-gained sips from it. Mrs. Bucket suddenly set her mug back down with a soft clunk and stood up with her empty plate.
"I'll take that, dear," she said gesturing to Wonka's plate. He quickly nodded a thanks and politely slid his plate to her. He noticed, with some surprise, that is was nearly empty. He'd been hungrier than he thought. Mrs. Bucket picked it up, retrieved the empty dishes from the elders, and trotted over to the kitchen sink.
Wonka carefully stood up out of his chair and smoothed out his coat. He pushed the little wooden chair back in and turned around, wondering what he should do now. He wandered over to the center of the house near to where the old peoples' beds sat and glanced down at the floor, waiting for Charlie's mother to come back and say something. Grandpa George, who'd been watching him, finally let out a breath.
"Well, we are all happy to be here," he began respectively, "And whatever it was that brought in a new light," Wonka carefully looked up, "we are glad for it." He nodded. "No one should have to live without their family."
Wonka just stood there for a moment, then quickly nodded and pushed on a polite smile. George gave a curt little nod and went back to the book in his lap. Wonka let out a silenced sigh of relief. He looked over and noticed Mrs. Bucket in the kitchen working on the breakfast dishes. He grinned, and quickly began over.
"Oh, here! I can help with those . . ."
"'Kay, this is higher, try that one . . . yah. So this is like, C sharp or something . . .?"
"No, I think . . . G."
"Lemme see . . ." Suddenly Charlie burst through the front door, followed by his father. He hung up his coat.
"Mum, everyone, we're home!" Charlie dropped his backpack by the door, and trotted into the kitchen to see Wonka and Mrs. Bucket standing behind the counter, which had ten or twelve water glasses sitting on it. Mrs. Bucket licked her finger and slid it around the top of one, releases a soft ringing. She frowned and added more water to it from a pitcher next to her. Wonka jumped when Charlie announced himself. He quickly took his index finger off the water glass he'd been working on and cocked his head to one side.
"Charlie?" he asked perplexed, then made a face, ". . . does school end this early now and days?" Charlie looked at his watch.
"It's two fifty-three," he stated. Wonka frowned, fumbled into his coat, and pulled out his pocket watch. Two fifty four. His eyes widened. Had he been there that long? Mrs. Bucket rang one of the water glasses again and smiled. She turned to Wonka.
"This is C sharp," she said. Seeming to notice her son and husband were home, she straightened up and smiled.
"Oh, hello dear." She smoothed down her apron, and began collecting the glasses off the table. Wonka released a breath and walked around the counter.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Wonka?" asked Charlie, confused. Wonka opened his mouth, but Mrs. Bucket spoke up.
"Oh, he was just waiting for you, darling," she chirped, "He was here for breakfast. We've been bustling about the house; dreadfully helpful, he is." She nodded happily and went to the dishes. Wonka smiled, then turned back to Charlie.
"Well then, ya wanna head out?" Charlie grinned, then turned to his mother when he saw her open her mouth to object.
"And I've already finished my homework," he said, "I did it in history." Mrs. Bucket gave him a quizzical look. "We never do anything in history," he giggled sheepishly as he turned back to Mr. Wonka. Wonka softly shook his head and looked down.
"Never much cared for history," he murmured with distaste, then returned to his grin. "Kay! Well- . . ." he quickly gave a little "permission-to" glance to Mrs. Bucket, who smiled and nodded. Wonka grinned again. "-Well, let's get crackin' then!" He headed over to the coat hanger and nabbed his hat, followed by Charlie and the two began talking about what their plans were for the rest of the day.
The door gave a soft slam, followed by a squeaky reopening as Wonka popped his head back in and cheerfully added, "Thanks again for breakfast, Mrs. B.!" followed by another gentle slam. Mrs. Bucket smiled and went back to drying the glasses. Mr. Bucket grabbed the daily newspaper and eased himself down into his armchair.
"So, eh . . . what was Mr. Wonka doing here for so long . . .?" Mrs. Bucket was drying a plate.
"Oh, we just moseyed around the house, really. I-" Mrs. Bucket stopped suddenly, then turned around and saw her husband eyeing her suspiciously. "Ooh!" She let out a huffy little laugh and threw the towel at him.
"D'ya think it's the flavour?"
"We should try it with strawberry pie." Charlie grabbed a graduated cylinder filled with a thick red gloop and handed it to Wonka, who took it and poured it into the concoction. They were currently in the Inventing Room working on a newest creation; Willy Wonka's Meal Gum, a little stick of gum that was a three course meal all by itself!
It would be the end of all kitchens and all cooking. Just a little strip of Wonka's magic chewing gum and that was all you will ever need at breakfast, lunch, and dinner! But there had been a small problem that Wonka just hadn't been able to figure out yet. Something always went slightly wrong when it came to the dessert . . .
"Yah. . . " he said as their mixture turned a bubbly pink, "it might just be with the blueberries . . ." The two simultaneously tilted their heads to the side, looking at the concoction in thought. Charlie rubbed the back of his neck and turned to the chocolatier.
"Maybe it's the ice cream. Since it's the only thing that's frozen." Wonka's eyes lit up.
"Hey . . ." He began and he grabbed his notebook. ". . . Hey, yah!" he agreed as he started scribbling furiously, "Maybe it's the divergent temperatures that lob the chemical stability askew! Ya know, 'cause it's so cold 'n stuff . . ." Wonka finished writing, putting the pen to his chin, and Charlie waited to hear what he was going to say. But he didn't say anything and just looked back into the bubbling vat.
"Maybe . . ." he began, letting the word linger there. Charlie looked back into the mixture as well, putting his hands on the edge of the tub and standing on his toes so he could see better. He suddenly looked back up at Wonka.
"Maybe we should try margarine instead of butter on the potatoes?" Wonka's eyes rounded once again, and he made a face that clearly read, Why didn't I think of that? as he scribbled that too down into his journal.
"Geesh, you're pretty smart for your age. Am I lucky you found a Golden Ticket," he said with a light grin. Charlie smiled happily for the compliment, but shook his head.
"Mike Teavee was smarter than me-" ("Who?" asked Wonka.) "-Besides, I think I was luckier. I bought the winning chocolate bar after I found a ten dollar bill on the ground one day. I'd have never found the ticket if I hadn't." Wonka shrugged as he wrote.
"Could've bought another one?" Charlie just shook his head again.
"I could only get one a year . . . on my birthday. I really was lucky to have gotten another chance." Wonka blinked and silently mouthed the word 'birthday'. He turned to Charlie.
"Birthday?" Charlie paused for a moment, then nodded. Wonka glanced around, then back down to the little boy with a foggy look. "When was that . . .?"
Charlie counted in his head. " . . . About three weeks ago. January sixteenth. I found the ticket the day before the tour." Wonka raised his eyebrows and nodded blankly, looking back into the vat, as did Charlie. Suddenly he looked back up at Wonka.
"When's your birthday, Mr. Wonka?" Wonka opened his mouth as he picked up a test tube, but stopped midway to the bubbling pot and frowned. He stood for a moment, then, looking utterly perplexed, glanced around the room like he was doing calculations in his head.
He counted a few of his fingers, then froze for a moment. The chocolatier glanced out sideways at Charlie, and grinned with a soft, heartless laugh. He turned his attention sharply into the pot and poured in the liquid he was holding, stirring it carefully and looking very concentrated.
"Ehm . . ." He kind of tilted his head to one side as he stirred, "A-around, erm, around in a few months . . ." He let the last word linger, and Charlie stared at him.
He didn't know. Charlie looked at the floor. He didn't know? How could someone forget their own birthday? But as Charlie asked himself this, he suddenly wondered what he would do if he was ever alone on his birthday. Nothing. Willy Wonka had been, besides his little workers, alone for the past fifteen years. Not much reason to celebrate something, especially your birthday, by yourself. That explained it. He wondered what the chocolatier did about other things like that; holidays, Christmas? Did he even remember holidays? The oompa loompas didn't celebrate holidays. Not the human ones, anyway.
Charlie glanced back up at Wonka and felt a pang of repent shoot through him. He may have only gotten a single chocolate bar for his birthday every year, but at least he had one to begin with, along with people who counted down the days with him. Wonka was still stirring the life out of their mixture in silence, and Charlie, once again, thought it best to drop the subject. He reached over, picked up a test tube, and read the label.
"Here's the roast beef," he said as he handed it up to Wonka. The chocolatier looked down and took it with a grin. He poured it into the mixture, and it fizzed and popped and sparked and ended with a little poof of smoke, causing the two to take a little jump back. Wonka smiled and brushed off his hands.
"Well," he said, letting out a breath, "now it's gotta sit for a couple hours . . ." He began walking in another direction. Charlie trotted behind him.
"How come?"
Wonka faltered in his steps, paused, then continued walking. "You know, you should really speak up, my dear boy, you're voice is so quiet I can barely hear a word you're saying." Charlie continued behind the man at a quick pace.
"Mr. Wonka, where are we going?" he asked. Wonka glanced back at the little kid behind him, and suddenly felt a vibe of unfamiliarity run through him. Boy, was it going to feel odd having someone following him around and having to explain things to from now on. But Wonka smiled nonetheless, and slowed down just a smidge so the breathless boy could keep up.
"Well, where do you wanna go?" he asked Charlie as he gradually halted. "I know there're still lots of things you haven't seen in the Inventing Room. Take a pick, we can mess around a bit!" There was an almost eerie gleam of excitement in his voice. Charlie looked around the room. The machines were just so complex and strange, he had trouble deciding where one ended and another began, let alone picking one. Suddenly he heard a muffled little squeal from behind him.
"Wait, no! I know!" Wonka started, an enormous grin on his face. He bounced. "Just you go mess around!" he made a shooing motion with his hands to Charlie. "Go on! Go . . . play!" Charlie cocked his head to one side, about to ask what on Earth Mr. Wonka meant, but before he could, the chocolatier quickly waltzed away and up to another machine across the room. He picked up a wrench and twiddled it pointlessly in the air, then put his hand to his mouth.
"I'll be right over here!" he called, waving the wrench in the air, perhaps thinking it made him look like he was doing something. Then he turned back around and began inspecting the mechanism in front of him. Charlie watched him for a moment, but when he didn't look back, turned back around himself, hesitantly walking towards some of the other inventions.
Mr. Wonka said to play? Well, Charlie wasn't sure he should . . . play in a room like this (In fact most adults would tell you not to play, touch, breathe in a room like this!) but he decided to do as he was told and 'mess around'. He began towards the different gadgets, all tinkering and tankering on their wheels and doing whatever they were made to do. Suddenly something went flying over his head, and he ducked just a bit to dodge it. He looked back up and saw it had been some sort of swinging claw that rotated over and dumped little multi-coloured spheres into a yellow ooze filled tub with a plop-plop-plop-plop-plop!
Charlie walked up to a smaller invention. It was simple, small enough that Charlie could look down at its top, shaped sort of like a pear, and only had one button, a big shiny blue one. Charlie pressed the button with his palm, then noticed, as the little thing made a burping noise, a metal tube that went out from the back of it. He followed it up with his eyes, until he was looking straight up where it ended in a box that opened up and dumped out a flurry of white dust.
Charlie rubbed the powdered sugar off his eyes and blinked them open. He heard a distant laugh, and looked over to see Willy Wonka quickly turn back around to face the machine he was in front of. He transformed his giggle into a phony little cough, hesitated, then rotated something with his wrench.
Charlie smiled, rubbing the powder off his face with his sweater, then shook it out of his hair and quickly moved from underneath the machine. He brushed the remaining sugar off his shoulder, then glanced over and noticed a different machine across the room with lots of levers and knobs on it. He curiously made his way over.
It had lots of levers and knobs indeed. There were knobs and buttons and switches and keys and levers and handle and bars and pedals and anything and everything you'd ever need for any and every sort of machinery. Charlie looked at all of them with interest, then back at Wonka across the room, who was still messing around with his gadget, turning things here and there with the wrench he held. The boy faced back to the machine, and slowly reached out and pressed a red button. The machine gave a little groan and whiz, and some bubbles gurgled their way around inside a transparent part of its body, but nothing else happened.
Charlie tilted his head to the side, and punched another button. A few lights flashed, and he flicked a different switch. Pretty soon he was simply having fun activating all the little knobs to see what each did in reaction to the other, keeping the machine whizzing and whirling and flashing different colours. Charlie punched and twisted, then reached up and pulled down a big lever on the side. Suddenly the machine began to vibrate.
The boy took a step away from the enormous device as it continued to tremble and flash and make more ruckus than a baby elephant that's been spanked. It popped and cracked and banged and battered. It shook and shivered and quivered and quaked. It whirled and whistled and whizzed and fizzed. It burst and blazed and flared and flickered and flashed so much Charlie thought he might need a pair of goggles so he wouldn't go blind. He was sure it was going to explode, if anything ever was, when it suddenly stopped altogether, allowing him to look at it without needing to shield his eyes. It droned down to a soft buzz.
The buzz turned into a hum, the hum into a rattling, and the rattling eventually down to a gentle click as a little ball about the size of a grape rolled into a slot at the bottom of the machine. Charlie peered through the light cloud of smoke that had been given off during the commotion, and nearly had a heart attack when Mr. Wonka, who he thought had still been across the room working on that same contraption, brushed out from behind him and towards the now calm machine. He watched as Wonka reached down and delicately picked up the small sphere from inside the slot, then turned back to face him with a bright smile.
"Congratulations, Charlie . . ." he said with glee as he dropped the little ball into the boy's palm. Charlie looked from Wonka down to the tiny orb that had just come into existence. It had a red, green, and brown plaid design, and a warm sensation as it rested in Charlie palm. The boy looked back up at Wonka, who grinned even more excitedly.
" . . . You've just created your first candy."
Charlie and Wonka walked down from the Great Glass Elevator towards the Bucket house. The evening was beautiful. The pink and orange light from the sunset outside peaked through the few windows of the chocolate room ceiling, meeting wonderfully with the grass below. The house in the center made a lovely sight with the dawning night's glow. Charlie Bucket held a tight grip on a small candy happily, and, for the first time, Willy Wonka was working to keep up with someone else's pace.
The door to the little house opened up as Mrs. Bucket came out, having seen them through the window, and waved to the couple with one hand, holding a few heads of cabbage in the other. Charlie grinned and dashed up to her.
"Mum, look!" He skid to a stop on the doorstep, and proudly held up the little sweet that had been created that day in between his thumb and forefinger. She took it and examined it cheerfully as Charlie began the explanation.
". . . and it kept flashing, but then this popped out!" Mrs. Bucket was listening intently, and ruffled her son's hair affectionately when he was through.
"Sounds like an adventure, I'll say!" she chuckled. Mr. Bucket came out, and the little boy had another gleeful chance to initiate his tale of the day. Mr. Bucket wrapped his arm around his wife as their son talked.
So the three talked happily, and Willy Wonka watched from his distance. He giggled softly at Charlie's excitement, remembering he'd been the same exact way when he made his first candy, only having no one to tell, had simply pranced about in all his glory till more ado. He smiled, then looked down at the verdant ground and turned to leave. Mr. Bucket ruffled his son's hair as the boy darted into his house to inform the remaining family members of his accomplishment. Mrs. Bucket smiled and began in, but turned back around and noticed the chocolatier.
"Oh, Mr. Wonka?" she called with a smile. He turned halfway around at the sound of his name. "Will you . . . stay for supper?" she asked hopefully.
"Well I . . ." Wonka paused, looking towards the cold, clear glass doors of the elevator. He opened his mouth, but hesitated and looked down, after a moment, turning back to face the house and the remaining occupant in front of it.
" . . . Kay."
Author's Notes: Alright, well ya all know it took me FOREVER to get this chapter up, so there's no use in saying so.
"What about the fifth, what happened to him?-": Now, if you think about it, they wouldn't know yet, would they? I know in the book, the reporters came and they couldn't get them out of their house till midnight but this story is based off the movie, which is a bit different, no matter how true it is. (I mean, in the book Wonka had a goatee. . . O.o)1. The only people who had seen him with the ticket were that guy and gal in the candy store, and the shopkeeper, none who knew his name. Then Charlie ran home. 2. The tour was the next morning, so, even with the fact no one knew, there wasn't any time to interview Charlie. 3. All the ticket winners were standing in front of the gate the next day, so no one would have seen their faces. And 4. The Bucket's really didn't have any friends or neighbors, so when their house moved, no one would have noticed.
Violet's Aftermath: There's more to come of the rest of the kids before long. Please tell me what you thought of hers, please please please, so I can work out the others. Please?
". . . and it came whizzing right towards me! So I lifted up my machete, and chucked it right through the bugger!": Kay, this is about me, not the story, but OH MY GOOOOSH I had my own encounter with, I swear to you, a Whangdoodle. I was home alone, was talking to my friend on the phone, who heard the whole thing. There was this huuuuuge thing on the wall, we're not even sure it was a bug it was so big, it looked just like a Whangdoodle. I picked up a broom to kill it, but it came whizzing right towards me! I swung at it, and actually hit it, but it just hit the wall behind me and flew back up and perched on the original wall. I at last had to take this long stick thing that was being used to build a bookshelf and stab it right in the middle! It wouldn't die! And I tried poison and everything! I finally had to just skewer it, and it slowly sloooowly died. And get this; Its insides were, swear to you, green. I was tempted to lick my machete- I mean broom.
Mrs. Bucket licked her finger and slid it around the top of one, releases a soft ringing: This was how I spent my time at all the after parties and rehearsal dinners of my cousin's wedding over last weekend. I played Wonka's Welcome Song one night. Oh, it was fuuun.
Charlie's Birthday: That is accurate. Charlie Bucket's birthday is the sixteenth of January. I did my research. So you can all mark that on your calendars.
Chapter 5 Preview: A little later on, as everything is progressing. Things are clearing up. Charlie gets a bit of an ouch . . .