Content Warning:

Discussions of wartime violence. Swearing. Hints of depression and contemplated suicide (not from George).

PREFACE:

It's been nearly two years since I've posted a story on this site. So much has changed since then...

A few of you might remember me as ''Vagabond Scribbler''. Under that name, I posted a story called ''The Soldier and Winifred'' in September 2019. After these two years, my stories changed drastically. For one thing, I decided to leave the Harry Potter fandom. This means that Matilda of Hogwarts is now firmly in the ''Cancelled Project'' category. Still, out of respect for the readers who liked Matilda of Hogwarts, I intend to post Chapter One (''Matilda's Red Ribbon'') and expand it into a longer one-shot (without the Potterverse stuff). The one-shot will be posted in January.

As we enter the year 2022, my focus is now on my Original Fiction: I want to be a published author of science fiction and mystery novels. In other words, fan fiction will always come second to my primary ambitions.

Admittedly, I'm not as into the Wonka fandom as I once was, either. Still, I wanted to rewrite ''The Soldier and Winifred''. I finished the new content in a rush, so it's a bit disjointed and maybe doesn't flow that well: I might come back and edit it later. So I apologise in advance for any grammar mistakes or awkwardness in dialogue.

THE STORY of GEORGE BUCKET

Original version ''The Soldier and Winifred'': published Sep. 2019

This version published: Dec. 17, 2021

When the Second World War ended, George Bucket was still quite young—especially compared to his age in the 21st century. However, even if he was only in his mid-thirties, George had now witnessed so much cruelty, so much of the world's ugliness, that in his very bones he felt older than ever.

Even as a boy, George knew that life was no fairy tale. Born to an angry, alcoholic father and a cranky, nagging mother in the slums of Edwardian London, George learned from boyhood that he must rely on himself.

He considered himself fortunate that he was on friendly terms with Joe Bucket, a third cousin. After the war, George and Joe, along with their wives Georgina and Josephine, moved together from London to the little town of Greysbury. George and Georgina lived in a small apartment on Lime Street, while Joe and Josephine lived on Lemon Lane (their apartment was equally small). After arriving in Greysbury, Joe began to work nine hours a day in a canning factory, but he still found time to chat with George over a cup of tea. Joe liked to talk about his grand dreams of a new life here in Greysbury. Meanwhile, George complained at length about the town. Still, he grudgingly admitted that he preferred Greysbury to London.

''It's quieter here,'' said George. ''Unless you count the racket caused by the bloody neighbours when they're drunk—if I had my way, they'd be in prison, with the key flushed down the toilet! You can't argue with me about that, Joe. Still, I ain't such an ungrateful bastard that I don't appreciate being in a place that hasn't been touched by the bombs.''

That was the true reason why he preferred Greysbury to London—it wasn't as if the United Kingdom's capital had a shortage of annoying neighbours. Greysbury was a small town, far enough from London that the residents were lucky enough to have never seen bombings, or mangled bodies, or German war planes streaking through iron-grey skies. Unlike in London, no firefighters rushed to vanquish roaring flames from explosions. Greysbury—filled with ordinary people, going to ordinary jobs, and talking about everyday subjects—provided George Bucket a different world from the one he left behind. A world unaffected from the insanity that was World War Two.

George hated his nightmares about the time he served in the army. The dreams were identical: he soared among the clouds in a fighter plane, wearing his uniform and goggles, grasping and pressing at flight controls in desperation as countless enemy planes surrounded him. The clouds closed in, melding together to form an ominous dark thing. It got more and more difficult to see. Sweat erupted from his body; his heart hammered painfully in his chest. Then, KA-BOOM! The enemy hit the plane, which burst into flames, and he fell down, down, down...

Then his dear Georgina would wake him. She held him tenderly, telling him that it was just a nightmare. It was all over; he wasn't in the army anymore. And George insisted that he was fine, and he'd get ready for work.

In order to forget the awful memories, George Bucket poured his energy into working. Six days a week he arrived at the office, no matter how much he hated his stuck-up old prig of a supervisor. George worked with all his might to keep himself and Georgina off the streets (their landlord kept threatening to kick them out). The world was filled with cruelty and hardships. Idealism had no place in George Bucket's cynical, practical mind. Even as a child, he never believed in the ''Happily Ever After'' endings of fairy tales.

On an August afternoon in 1948, two smiling dunderheads bumped into George without looking back or apologising. He glared daggers at the young couple, but they went gossip-gossip chat-chat-chat down the lane, oblivious to anything but their stupid conversation, which involved some dinner-party they planned on attending.

''Kids these days,'' muttered George as he kicked an empty can out of the way and continued walking. ''Not a damn ounce of respect for other folks whatsoever...''

The two smiling dunderheads consisted of a fat teenage boy in a posh navy-blue suit and his makeup-covered skinny twig of a girlfriend (who wore a fancy dress). Why, even their shoes looked expensive—not just their clothes! And all they worried about was whether the next party had good food, or if their clothes were fashionable. They strutted around the corner and into the next street without a care in the world.

George came here because he wanted to forget about the war. And yet whenever he saw the townspeople (or at least the more fortunate ones) talking about leisure and fun as if nothing horrible had happened, a stab of anger pierced through his mind. How dare these fucking bastards bury themselves in their own bubbles of happiness and normality and act like nobody was suffering in the world?! The nerve!

George knew that his mind contradicted itself in terms of wanting to forget, and not wanting to. But he simply couldn't help it.

Grunting in annoyance, he walked on. It was a chilly afternoon, and George had just got away from the longest day of work ever. Mr. Piker wouldn't stop hollering about the most minuscule things, which made his ears hurt; and then a clumsy co-worker tripped over the floor and spilt tea all over Mr. Piker, who blamed it on George, since he was unlucky enough to be ''in their way''. If George didn't calm himself, he'd explode like a bomb, so he chose to simmer down in the local park. Better return home late than end up taking out his anger on Georgina. She had enough to deal with, managing the household on her own.

Very few outsiders would call Greysbury a lovely town. The buildings were grey-brick, identical, and boring. Most of the grown-ups obsessed over conformity and frowned upon anything unusual or outstanding. Unless it was an outstandingly expensive car, or perhaps an abnormally large salary. Not that most people could afford such things: only the well-to-do (like the two smiling dunderheads from earlier) had such luxuries. The rest of Greysbury could only work, work, and work their heads off to pay the bills. Sometimes, George worked so much that he nearly forgot his name.

Therefore the Park served as a splash of colour upon the boring town. Green grass covered the ground; jade-coloured foliage blocked the cloudy sky. George might be cynical, practical, and not a romantic (unlike Georgina), but he did enjoy trees and flowers and the gentle song of birds. Miserable creatures these birds are, thought George. Living in a ruddy place like this. Still, birds could always fly away. People had no such luck.

As George pondered these things, he noticed a young girl sitting on his favourite park bench—the one between two towering maple trees, surrounded by grass and August wildflowers. Either thirteen or fourteen, she looked to be. With her dark hair trimmed into a sleek bob-cut and her pale skin like porcelain, she looked like an oversized china doll. Unlike Georgina's favourite dolls, however, this child didn't wear nice clothing. The material of her dress looked rough and poorly-made, its boring grey colour a stark contrast to her face. She wasn't like the typical young ladies in town, but she had a unique charm of her own, something odd and ethereal that George couldn't quite put his finger on. She reminded him of Snow White. This child had a pleasant face, but all the same, she was a bit strange. Perhaps it was because she kept whispering odd words as she stared at her shoes, or because she clutched a battered toy monkey in her hands despite being too old for stuffed animals. She also had a worn-looking diary placed on her lap, and a rucksack behind her.

Or perhaps it was because George didn't expect a teenage girl to be sitting alone with a toy and a diary instead of doing... whatever it is that teenage girls liked to do on summer afternoons. This particular girl kept whispering her odd, foreign words while staring downwards. Perhaps she was mad?

Well, insane or not, George preferred not to be rude to a young lady who did nothing to annoy him. So he cleared his throat and spoke up.

''Pardon me, but do you mind if I sit here?''

The girl started. Her right hand shot towards the diary as if to hide it, and her gaze went up. She saw the plainly-dressed man standing next to the bench: he didn't look angry. She visibly relaxed.

''No, it's alright.''

George sat down, placing his things beside him. The dark-haired girl put her diary away before continuing to stare at her shoes. She stopped muttering nonsense. And when she spoke to George, her voice sounded sane. Perhaps she wasn't crazy.

A bag of brightly-hued sweets peeked out of her dress-pocket. George raised his eyebrows.

''Those aren't Slugworth's candies, are they? The morning paper says that Old Slugworth puts disgusting chemicals in his products. You'll make yourself ill.''

''What?!''

The girl stared at him like he was the crazy one.

''You've got to be joking, mister! The Slugworth family supported the war. Besides, Mr. Slugworth's gobstoppers taste all disgusting and coppery, like rusted metal!''

She spoke with a fiery passion that George had never seen in a Greysbury resident, especially not a girl. She mentioned the war, too. How unusual. George decided that he liked this odd child.

''Well, good for you. You'll live a longer life than those greedy brats who fill up their pockets with Slugworth's rubbish. I hope his factory closes down! Why, the day that son of his—Jim, isn't it? The day Jim Slugworth inherits his father's factory, I hope he either reforms the business, or puts an end to it. Now, young lady, where did you get your sweets, if not from the barmy old codger?''

''I made them myself,'' said the girl, a small smile showing. It was a beautiful smile, one that showed her dimples and made her eyes shine with sincerity. Her eyes appeared to be a dark brown, almost black; and she had wonderful dark eyelashes.

''I really do like cooking. Especially desserts. It makes people happy, and I've met people who needed a good cheering up. Even Miss Blackburn likes my candies, and she doesn't like anything else about me.'' Her smile faded slightly.

''Is Miss Blackburn your teacher?'' George inquired.

The girl hesitated. ''Not really. She's more like my legal guardian. But she always says I'm odd. Not that I mind.'' Her expression indicated that, as a matter of fact, she did mind—very much. ''I live with Miss Blackburn in Tattengrove City, you see. We came here in her brother's automobile. They're visiting some friends, so I'm waiting here until the dinner-party's over. They didn't want me to ruin it.''

George found this unsettling. It wasn't responsible behaviour to leave a young girl alone in the Park after dinner-time. ''You don't live with your parents?''

The girl went quiet. Then she said, ''I never knew my father; I only heard that he was horrid. And Mother died from the war. Her entire face was blown off from her head.'' She clutched her toy monkey a bit tighter. (Was it a childhood toy, purchased by her mother once upon a time? George decided not to ask.)

''I'm sorry.'' What else could he say?

The girl merely shrugged. ''I can't change the way Mother died. All I can do is what she would have done. I want to make people a bit happier, as long as I'm alive. That's why I made these.'' She removed the bag of sweets from her pocket, inspecting them critically. ''I might need to make these a bit bigger. D'you reckon they're too small, Mister...?''

''Bucket,'' said George. ''I'm George Bucket, born in merry old London, if you could call it merry: I certainly don't. Never liked it there, but I suppose a fellow can't truly forget his birthplace. Your sweets look alright,'' he added.

''Thanks.'' The girl looked relieved. ''I can't give the kids in the orphanage bad candy. They'd get sick, and Miss Blackburn would explode. I'm Winifred, by the way. Winifred Wellington.''

So Miss Blackburn is the matron of an orphanage, thought George. And Winifred obviously lives there. George didn't remark on this. Instead he said, ''Pleased to meet you, Miss Wellington. Now, if you don't mind me asking, why did Blackburn bring you here if you're not invited to the stupid party?''

''Oh.'' Winifred made a face. ''Well, two hours ago, Miss Blackburn took me to a gentleman's house in this town. He and his wife were looking for a girl to adopt, but they didn't really like me. I guess they chose me from the photos because they liked my face, but when they finally met me...'' she trailed off. ''I guess most grown-ups think I'm too weird. Especially Mr. and Mrs. Piker—they wanted a proper little lady, not me.''

''The Pikers!'' exclaimed George. ''Good heavens! I don't know why Old Piker is looking for a girl instead of a boy to continue his business, but you can't live with him. I know him well, and he's the meanest bastard I ever had the misfortune to meet. And I've known many bastards, mark my words.''

Winifred laughed. ''Don't worry, Mr. Bucket. The Pikers have no intention of having me as their daughter. It's back to Tattengrove for me, and I'll stay in the orphanage until I'm old enough to move out and work. Someone's got to protect the younger kids from Miss Blackburn. I'll just avoid being adopted. I can pretend to be weirder than I am already, and nobody would want me.'' She added in a softer voice, ''It's not like I really want a new mother.''

George frowned. ''I'd be careful, young lady. Don't let that Blackburn woman or one of her associates put you in a hospital for the insane.''

''I won't over-do it,'' Winifred said, equally serious. ''I know very well what you're implying, Mr. Bucket. But thanks for reminding.''

They sat quietly for a while, enjoying the scenery, feeling the autumn breeze upon their faces. The leaves rustled gently, and squirrels chittered from one branch to another, hunting for nuts. A blackbird was singing somewhere. Winifred and George talked some more. Surprisingly, George found himself talking more about the war: how he still remembered the bombs and dead bodies, and how he thought he might die and never return home to Georgina. He mentioned how he came to Greysbury, hoping to leave those memories behind, but the dullness of his routine was sucking the life out of him and driving him insane.

''It's pathetic,'' said George. ''A war just ended, and we're all expected to act normal, like nothing happened. Sometimes I'm so angry that I wish I were dead.''

''Do you really wish that?'' asked Winifred.

''No, I suppose not.'' George shook his head. ''I bloody well hate life, though. Other than my family, there's nothing in my schedule that doesn't make me tired or angry. And I'm sick to death of the nightmares.''

''Obviously I didn't fight in the war like you,'' said Winifred. ''I won't pretend that I know what being a soldier is like. I've never worked in an office, either. But I do understand how it feels to want an escape from daily life. The orphanage...'' She shuddered and took a deep breath. ''It's no place for children at all. I just tell myself to take one day at a time, and appreciate the nice things around me. This park is nice, for instance. I also get along well with most of the younger children at Miss Blackburn's—I play with them, and they're always happy to eat the dessert I make. And I still have Mother's diary to read. It's these things that keep me going.''

''You're quite sensible for a girl your age,'' remarked George.

When it was finally time for him to return home, he couldn't help but worry for Winifred's safety.

''It's been nice talking to you, Miss Wellington. It's hard to find decent conversation in this blasted town, so... thanks.'' Slowly, George got up from the park bench.

''You're welcome.'' Winifred smiled. ''Thank you, too.''

''Are you sure you'll be alright here, by yourself?'' George asked skeptically.

''Don't worry, Mr. Bucket. I have my ways of self-defence. If someone bothers me, I'll turn them into pieces of fruit.''

''That's impossible. And not funny at all."

''I mean it, really. Don't worry about me,'' insisted Winifred. Then, she took four pieces of candy from her bag. ''Here, Mr. Bucket. These are for you and your family. Hope you like 'em.''

George took the candies and pocketed them. Unlike Joe Bucket, George didn't like sweets very much (other than chocolate, which Winifred didn't have). Still, it would be nice to give Georgina two sweets.

Mr. George Bucket decided that although he might never fully recover from being a soldier, and it would be decades before he could retire from Piker and Cotterale's, at least he could appreciate being alive in one piece. Unlike Winifred's dead mother, his face wasn't blown off from his head. He didn't lose any limbs, unlike many of his fellow soldiers. And despite his nightmares, the German war planes didn't actually kill him, thank God for that. And his family would always be there, no matter what.

He felt considerably better than he had for months.

''Thank you, Miss Wellington. Do take care,'' said George. ''It'd be a crying shame if something bad happened to a clever child like yourself. Don't listen to whatever Blackburn spews out at you, by the way. Only a dummy would allow some nasty, miserable person to grind them down. Are you a dummy?''

''No, sir,'' said Winifred.

''I thought you weren't.'' George nodded in approval. He grabbed his hat, umbrella, and briefcase from the bench. ''Goodbye, Miss Wellington.''

''Goodbye, Mr. Bucket.''

And so Winifred went back to Tattengrove. She never saw George again. The years passed, and the world changed. Cities were rebuilt, televisions became commonplace, and new people came into existence. Politicians and celebrities came and went. In America, the Civil Rights Movement began, and Martin Luther King's name filled the newspapers. Hats and gloves slowly became less popular, while denim jeans and artificial fabrics were introduced to the market. Meanwhile, in the town of Greysbury, George and Georgina had a daughter, born in 1960. The next year, Joe and Josephine had a son. None of the Buckets could afford their apartments anymore, so they moved out of Lime Street and Lemon Lane, relocating to a ramshackle hut on the edge of town. The Buckets became the poorest family in all of Greysbury, but they loved each other dearly, and that was more than enough.

Winifred Wellington grew up. The orphanage closed down. Miss Blackburn died in a car crash. The younger children went to foster homes. In the following years, Winifred was all alone. Being female, her job choices were limited, and her employers weren't always friendly. She couldn't turn them into stone or pieces of fruit like she wanted to, either. That would get her into such trouble. So one fateful day, Winifred was so lonely and desperate for affection that she agreed to marry a man who had fancied her for some time.

Dr. Wilbur Wonka seemed like a nice man. He listened to Winifred's troubles. He took her to dances and dinners that she could never afford on her own. Not that Winifred enjoyed fancy and crowded parties, but she appreciated how Dr. Wonka chose her to be his companion, of all people. He also praised Winifred's dishes, saying there was no finer female cook in the English-speaking world, and that she would make an excellent housewife (though he refused to touch her desserts or her candies, insisting that as a dentist, he must keep his own teeth in perfect shape).

Winifred married the Dentist. They had a little boy in January 1967. Dr. Wonka insisted on naming his child Wilbur Wonka the Second, with hopes that the boy would follow in his footsteps. Not liking her son's official name, Winifred nicknamed him ''Willy'', a subtle honorific for her late mother (whose middle name was Wilhelmina). The nickname stuck; nobody called Winifred's son anything other than ''Willy Wonka''.

The Wonka household was among the well-to-do of Tattengrove, but the atmosphere of the house was anything but happy. A few months into their marriage, the old Dentist realised how different Winifred was from the perfect housewife he expected. Dr. Wonka couldn't stand Winifred's eccentricities, nor her interests. She was a foreign being to him, and he cursed himself for being bewitched by her beautiful face and otherworldly eyes.

Many strange things happened. In time, fellow dentists began to shun Dr. Wilbur Wonka; for surely he must be insane to have married Winifred Wellington. As far as people were concerned, Winifred was either a madwoman or a sorceress, or both. This made Dr. Wonka furious, and he began to punish his wife. But neither beating her nor locking her indoors cured her from her oddities. So the time came when Dr. Wonka decided to get rid of his wife. So in 1974, Winifred Wonka died. (The story was that she hanged herself in the kitchen, even though it was far from true.)

Seven-year-old Willy Wonka felt like his world had ended.

The next few years were difficult. Willy was tightly under his father's control. The poor boy wasn't allowed out of the house. He wasn't even allowed to go to school. (There was one time when Dr. Wonka allowed Willy to go trick-or-treating with the local kids, but that was only so that the candies could be burned in the fireplace before Willy's eyes afterwards.) And one day, in December 1978, Willy Wonka had enough of this caged-in life of harsh rules and psychological abuse. And so Winifred's son ran away from the house that had, long ago, became a prison. In early 1979, when he was nearly twelve years old, he shivered in the cold streets while eating a piece of old bread he found in a trash bin.

Luckily, a kind old lady by the name of Mrs. Charlotte Vincent took Willy Wonka in. Charlotte was a retired inventor who lived in the great Clock Tower on the edge of town. Her abode was filled with marvellous machines and materials, and also had a small kitchen suitable for making candies. While living with Charlotte, young Willy was allowed to let his imagination soar. He tinkered with machine parts and fashioned new inventions. He bustled around in the Clock Tower kitchen and created dozens of new candy recipes.

Willy Wonka lived with Charlotte Vincent for nearly six years—until the kind-hearted Inventor died from old age in October 1984.

In the end, as we all know, Willy Wonka achieved his dreams: his legendary candy store was opened on December 25, 1984. Not only was it Christmas, it also would have been Charlotte Vincent's 100th birthday. The Inventor never got to see the Grand Opening of Wonka's Candy Shop, but her kindness and legacy did not go unacknowledged by her young friend.

And by 1985, Willy Wonka became the town's greatest candy-maker. His fame spread worldwide, and to this day his creations continue to delight children of all backgrounds. In 1989, he opened his Chocolate Factory.

As the years passed by, Willy never forgot Charlotte. Neither did he forget his mother. He often recalled conversations that Mum had with him, in those long-gone boyhood years. Winifred often talked about her own childhood, and so Willy knew that his mother once met a war veteran in Greysbury who gave her some excellent life advice. (Many decades had passed since that encounter, the war veteran must be quite old by now. Or perhaps he'd already passed away?) Either way, Willy respected this man, whoever he might be: not only did he survive the war, he was also kind enough to overlook a young girl's eccentricities and talk to her like she was a fellow human being, not a freak. And Willy Wonka took that unknown man's advice to heart: he did his best not to let any hurtful comments bring him down.

Even in 1992, when Jim Slugworth sent in spies to steal recipes, before convincing the world that Willy was the thief instead, it never occured to Willy Wonka that he should bring to reality that brief mental image of ending his life right here in the Factory. Instead, Willy Wonka sneaked out of the Factory after he had closed it down, and he travelled to Loompaland on a magnificent hot-air balloon. No other human had ever visited the Island of Loompaland, with the exception of Liesel Wellington—Willy's grandmother—who discovered the place in 1922, and wrote about it in her diary. Because of Liesel's writings, Willy was able to find the island: there, he met the Oompa-Loompas.

The large tribe of tiny people became his close friends, and back to the Factory they went with him. The Oompa-Loompas lived with Willy, and became his new workers. In 1994, the Factory was running again. Willy Wonka was still a recluse, living in complete secrecy as far as outsiders were concerned, but he was selling his candy again, and children were glad about it.

The Golden Ticket tour happened on February 1, 2005.

Out of the five children who won the Tickets and were allowed to tour the Factory, Charlie Bucket won.

And despite Willy Wonka's uneasiness around other grown-ups in general, especially parental figures, he allowed the whole Bucket family to move into his Factory. When the Great Glass Elevator crashed into the Bucket family's ramshackle hut and landed on the grimy wooden floor, Willy took one glance around the house and felt sorry for the Buckets. His original plan was to only allow Charlie to move in the Factory to be an apprentice, while his family would be sent money and supplies, and granted VERY occasional visits; but Willy remembered the stories that Charlotte Vincent told about her own childhood experiences with poverty, how she also huddled with her parents and grandparents in a terrible hut that looked straight from a Dickens novel. Charlotte went to University at the age of 18 to study science, and while she left home, her family missed her terribly. The worst thing was that all four of Charlotte's grandparents died before she graduated.

As Willy remembered all this, he changed his plans. He might be a loner and an oddball, and he might not be fond of most grown-ups and their rules, but he wasn't heartless.

And therefore, February 1st was the day that the Buckets left poverty behind, and became residents of the great Chocolate Factory.

Sometimes, Willy Wonka caught George Bucket glancing at him with narrowed eyes and a thoughtful look. For the longest time, Willy asked nothing about it, until one day George asked him:

''Is your mother Winifred Wellington?''

A long, shocked pause followed. Willy turned around, eyes wide, staring at the old man.

''What did you say?! Whizzing whangdoodles, George Bucket, how in the world did you know that?''

George smiled and crossed his arms. ''I knew it. Ever since your crazy Elevator crashed into my old home and you walked out, I knew that Winifred Wellington had to be your mother. You, Wonka, are the splitting image of that girl.''

Willy stood there, mouth wide open for a few seconds. Then he calmed himself and sat down on his favourite armchair, his dark eyes never leaving George's blue ones.

''You're that man who fought in World War Two. You met my mother when she was fourteen.''

''Yes, I did,'' replied George.

Willy's purple-gloved hands trembled slightly as he poured both George and himself some tea. ''Three months. You and your family have been living in my Factory for three whole months and I didn't even... I don't believe it! All this time, it was your grandson who... great heavens! This is unbelievable! Incredible!'' Willy paused, just for a while. ''You didn't know about me being Winifred's son BEFORE the Great Glass Elevator said hello to your family three months ago, now did you? I mean, obviously I never liked showing my face in public, so nobody in town or in the whole world really knew what I looked like, so I assume...''

''Wonka, my good lad, don't you realise you're rambling? No need to be nervous, good fellow.''

George had barely finished his sentence, when Willy raised his eyebrows in mild confusion.

''Nervous? Me? Well, heh-heh,'' he chuckled, a bit awkwardly. ''I suppose I got a bit flustered. My mother told me all about you, see—and she always saw you as a sort of hero. I've looked up to you for decades without knowing it, and I never thought I'd actually meet you.''

Both men sipped on their tea. Willy sat in his armchair, half-nervous and half-excited; while George leaned back in his wooden chair, looking thoughtful.

''Now, Wonka...'' George trailed off. ''I don't want to pry, but I've been overhearing conversations between you and Charlie. So it's true that you and your father aren't on good terms? And that your mother is... gone?''

Willy forced a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. He turned his head away, just slightly. When he spoke again, a sadness tinged with bitterness filled his tone.

''It's a long story and not a happy one. I'd rather not talk about the details concerning my childhood years. The only reason why Charlie and I were talking about it was because he read about my father in the newspaper. 'Dr. Wilbur Wonka, famed dentist, living alone outside Greysbury, sues wealthy 50-year-old patient for negative review'. Charlie asked me so many questions about my father: 'Why, Mr. Wonka, is this Dentist your father? What's he like? Don't you visit each other sometimes? How can you NOT visit him? Isn't family the most important thing? Just because he was strict doesn't mean he didn't love you. Surely he MUST love you; just TALK to him and all shall be happy-happy, super-duper, yippee-hooray.''

Willy blurted out those last syllables with a harsh irony. He put his half-empty teacup down on the small table between him and George.

''I respect you a lot, sir,'' said Willy. ''But don't you start calling me anti-family or cold-hearted or any of that nonsense. I've tried and tried to talk to my father over the years, don't think I haven't tried. Nothing works. Whatever I try to say, he mocks me or insults me in response. Even when I send him Christmas presents, he just sends them back. Only five months ago, on New Year's Day, I visited him: things started out okay at first, and he actually liked the sugar-free desserts I brought. But then he started insulting my mother for reasons I don't care to repeat. I've stopped trying to connect with him ever since.''

George opened his mouth, then closed it. He lowered his gaze. ''I'm sorry to hear that.''

Willy couldn't help the relief that washed over him: George Bucket wasn't judging him for being a bad son. George seemed to understand. So Willy ventured to go on:

''My mother was never happy in her marriage. I don't like to mention the details... but I think she missed her childhood, even if those days weren't a picnic either. But at least Miss Blackburn was nowhere as awful as my father was. He treated her very badly. And you know what's worse? He treated me the same way, but I kept trying to reconcile with him even in my grown-up years. My mother told me stories about Dad being so nice to her at first, and also very nice to me when I was a baby. There's a part of me that wishes... oh, I don't know what I wish, not exactly. But sometimes, I have these dreams that I visit my father, and in my dreams he's secretly proud of me and so he covers his sitting-room walls with clipped newspapers about my shop and my Factory. In some of those dreams, Charlie is the one who helps me reconcile with Dad. Charlie tells me that I'm wrong about my father... and it turns out I am indeed wrong. But that's not right, isn't it? Not in reality.''

Another long pause.

And then George nodded solemnly and replied, ''My dear fellow, thanks for telling me all this. Now listen: Charlie is a good boy, but he's a bit naive when it comes to these issues. He's grown up with a family who loves him, and I don't think he understands that not all parents are like his Mum and Dad. Considering what you just said... don't blame yourself at all, Wonka, not for a single second. Your father, that Dentist, doesn't seem like the type who changes for the better. So nothing that happened is your fault. You know what I told your mother back in the day? I said to her, 'Only a dummy would allow some nasty, miserable person to grind them down'...''

''...Are you a dummy?'' Willy finished the sentence with that one question. He smiled sadly. ''I sure hope I'm not.''

George rarely smiled, he wasn't smiling; but there was a kind look in his old blue eyes. ''Wonka, you're not a dummy just because you've got a bit of wishful thinking in regards to a lousy family member. When I was a boy, I also hoped that my own father and I would get along fine someday... and that day never came. His terrible anger still hovers in my memory, not quite as awful as my wartime experiences, but still bad nonetheless. I don't allow his words to grind me down, though. Haven't allowed that for over eight decades. So just forget what your father said.'' George's kind expression turned to anger as he thought of how Wilbur Wonka must have treated his wife and son, for things to have become this way. ''I must say, how could anyone in their right mind mistreat Winifred? She was such a wise, lovely child.''

Willy shrugged. ''Maybe some people just aren't in their right mind at all.''

George snorted with laughter. ''Amen to that, Wonka. Amen to that.''

Willy smiled. ''Thanks for everything, George. I mean it, really.''

''Oh, don't mention it, Wonka. I ought to thank you for lifting my family out of poverty. And in case you worry about it: I'll have a talk with Charlie someday about what we said, or at least I'll correct him on his belief that all parents are saints. I apologise if Charlie upset you.''

In the next minutes, Willy Wonka and George Bucket chose a nice bottle of red wine and proceeded to share their drinks while sitting in the same chairs from earlier, chatting about everything that came to mind. A part of Willy Wonka's mind still wanted to love his father, no matter what kind of a monster the Dentist really was; but George's wise words reminded Willy that even if Dr. Wilbur Wonka never changed for the better, it was never Willy's fault. After all, there was no need to let a nasty, miserable person crush one's spirit; and life goes on.

George Bucket raised his cup and toasted. ''Here's to Winifred!''

Willy agreed. ''Cheers to Winifred Wellington.''

THE END