It was movement in the early morning light that caught Nora Bucket's attention, and holding the handle of the steaming mug of aromatic, Lavender Bilberry tea she'd brewed for herself, Nora pressed her forehead to the window pane to see more closely what it was.
What it was, was who it was: Willy Wonka, walking as if his feet were encased in cement, crossing the street in front of his Factory, his friend Terence leading the way. Nora's other hand slipped around the smooth curve of the mug, cradling its reassuring warmth as she wondered again if moving into Wonka's Factory hadn't taken the family out-of-the-frying-pan-and-into-the-fire. The move had been sudden, and unexpected, and there was so much she didn't know about Willy Wonka.
For one thing, who—except Willy Wonka—would stock Lavender Bilberry tea as a staple? It was the only tea Nora had found in the suite's small, but otherwise well supplied kitchen. For another thing, Nora had known for years, in her deepest heart, that Willy Wonka was dead.
When the Factory re-opened, it was the only explanation that fit: some conglomeration had somehow wrangled control of the place, with some imported workforce brought in by the parent company to keep the secret and milk the benefit of the brand name. The story of Mr. Wonka's developing a case of reclusiveness was a good one—and necessary, since Mr. Wonka was long gone—but for anyone who knew him, like her father-in-law Joe, it didn't ring true: Willy Wonka, first, and foremost, was a showman.
Nora glanced back at the quiet living room. She was still the only one awake, and knowing she had some solitary minutes ahead of her, she turned back to the window. Terence had made it across the street, and without a key, had easily pushed open the small gate to Nora's right. She couldn't help but smile at that. That, at least, was one mystery solved: the trick to getting into the Chocolate Factory was as dead simple as the fact Willy Wonka lived: it was Willy Wonka wanting you in. If you had that going for you, getting in was child's play. Putting her fingertips to her lips, Nora smothered a laugh: she was discovering 'child's play' was more than an apt description for Willy Wonka.
Having gained the Factory grounds, and with the gate closed, Willy picked up his pace, but instead of crossing the courtyard, as Terence was doing, he hugged the wall to his left. Terence, noticing, altered course to join him. When he was certain he could no longer be seen from the street, Willy abruptly halted and got comfortable: leaning his shoulders against the wall, he raised one foot and placed it flat against the wall, as well. Though it was cold out, Willy, in his long, black great-coat, looked plenty warm, and like he'd be there all morning. Terence, standing with his back to the window, didn't look like he was in any hurry, either.
Nora wondered if she should keep watching. It seemed impolite, but even from this distance, she could see there was something wrong with Willy's hat. The brim wasn't symmetrical, and it was a bowler, not a top hat. She knit her brow in consternation. He also lacked the sunglasses, odd or otherwise, without which he never ventured out. Very weird, for Willy. Even what you thought you knew about the man didn't always hold true. Nora could plainly see the two were carrying on a conversation, and judging by the give and take, it was something important. Defiantly, for her, Nora concluded there was no expectation of privacy for conversations held in a courtyard, and anyway, she couldn't hear them, and they'd never know she was at the window. To make sure, she took a half-step back, but sticking to her decision to observe, the half-step was her only concession.
Watching the very much alive Willy Wonka very carefully, it was no mystery to Nora why she preferred thinking him dead all these years: he was the White Knight whose Factory had given the family its leg-up on the good times, and in her fantasies she'd always thought him the White Knight who would save the family from the bad times. There was no rhyme or reason for her thinking this, Nora knew that, but it had made her happy to pretend. In her idle dream, only death could stop him: so that was how, for years, she'd thought of him.
Nora looked again at her toasty warm, sumptuous surroundings, letting her eyes lose focus. Though the Factory closed, the hard times hadn't happened right away: Willy Wonka paid his employees handsomely, and although Joe didn't find another job—employers thought him too old to hire—his savings from his work at the Chocolate Factory, carefully hoarded, lasted an astonishingly long time. Her dad, George, had a good job then, too, repairing clocks, and her husband Noah's Smilex position promised a bright future: bright enough to have a child... and they had: Charlie was the light of their lives. Then, when Charlie was four, things took a turn: by the time he was five, things were worsening. Bit by bit, everything Nora thought solid turned insubstantial; jobs and futures disappeared. Like quicksand, the downward spiral was irresistible.
Through it all, Joe refused to let Willy Wonka die, and for Charlie's sake, Nora went along with the charade. Charlie loved the stories that Joe told about Mr. Wonka and his Chocolate Factory, and the family willingly indulged them, happily joining in with an 'oh' or 'ah' when called for: even, now and then, throwing in comments of their own. Everyone tacitly agreed it was better to play along with whoever was really running the place now, and keep Charlie's belief in the famous Chocolatier alive, because although someday Charlie would outgrow his love for the Chocolate Factory on top of the hill, until then, the stories were a harmless escape from an otherwise harsh existence.
Whoever was running the place… the thought was enough to refocus Nora's eyes, and burning with anger, she looked daggers at the Chocolatier in the courtyard. Charlie, on February tenth, not even three weeks ago, had brought home WHOEVER was running the Chocolate Factory, and it was Willy effing WONKA! He'd been here ALL the time, ALIVE, and he hadn't saved them! Every sinew in her tensed, like a bow pulled taut, in that split second before the arrow is let fly. Knowing it irrational—as irrational as her imaginings—and not caring, Nora was furious: the hardships of all those years, released at last, clouded her ability to think.
At that moment, Willy glanced toward the window, and Nora, brought back to her senses, quickly dropped her head to stare into the now cold mug of tea. When she looked again, a minute later, Willy, head slightly cocked, was thoughtfully contemplating Terence's upraised fist. Nora moved closer to the window, watching in fascination. Slowly, Willy made a fist of his own, and with it, delicately tapped the fist Terence held out. Terence immediately turned on his heel, grinning, and left as easily as he had entered. Nora felt the briefest frisson of unease at what she was seeing now. It was the trick to getting out of the Factory: Willy Wonka letting you go.
Feeling emotionally limp after her fit of anger, Nora watched Willy watch Terence go. With Terence surely gone, Willy slowly pushed off the wall with his foot, and standing now, he deliberately looked to the window—directly into Nora's eyes—holding them for a long minute, the dark violet of his inscrutable. When Nora was sure Willy would hold the gaze forever, she saw the wisp of a smile lift the corners of his mouth, and carelessly hefting his cane, he turned away, heading toward the loading bays, disappearing through a door at the end of the wing.
Freed from the mesmerizing stare, with a barely audible gasp, Nora hastily took two steps back. Shoving aside what her senses told her, she insisted to herself that couldn't have happened: it wasn't possible Willy Wonka knew she was watching. It was a trick: something the light, or her imagination, or this Factory, was playing on her. Anger flared again, the fingers of her free hand curling into a fist. None of this was fair. It was all unfathomable. Events were sweeping her along, taxing her ability to keep up, making her fanciful, and skittish. Nora prided herself on being none of those things, and her helplessness at finding herself in these circumstances threatened to blind her.
Charlie's joyful voice, as he scampered from his room, blessedly restored some of her lost equilibrium. "Are you up, Mum?"
"Shh, dear, I'm here."
Charlie dashed across the room, and threw his arms around her legs in a bear hug, almost spilling her tea. "Oh, Mum, isn't the Factory wonderful? Everyday I wake up I still can't believe we're here."
"Shh... careful, sweetheart, the tea!" The look on Charlie's delighted, upturned face made her laugh as her fist unclenched, and she wrapped her arm around her boy, bending down to hug him back. "Yes, it is, and I can't either." Steadying herself, Charlie reminded her just where she was, and taking a deep, calming breath, she let her anger go. Shame replaced it. She may have discovered Willy Wonka was no White Knight, but, standing as she was, with her family, in his Factory, undeniably, save them he had. Somewhat mollified, Nora still sagged under the weight of the frustration that clung to her: she wasn't an ingrate, but there was so much about Willy Wonka she didn't know.
The telephone calls Terence made after dropping Willy at his Factory, were to the University, two towns over. It had a renowned Archaeology Department that Terence figured was just what the doctor, er, Chocolatier, ordered. What wonderful practice it would be for the students, to get some hands-on experience on a bona fide dig. Of course it wasn't a dig, it was a dismantle, but the skills required in this case were the same: careful handling in dismantling the antique building, with meticulous cataloging and packing of same.
The head of the department, hearing Terence's proposal, didn't turn him down outright. It was Saturday, and Terence had managed to track him down at home: if Terence was a crackpot, he was a determined, resourceful crackpot, and the idea wasn't without merit. A detailed discussion ensued, this Terence fellow insisting on some particulars, two being foremost: the project must start right away, and be completed as quickly as possible. "There's the rub then," he told Terence. "The University doesn't do anything right away, and nothing happens quickly. But I have a colleague who might be interested, very familiar with digs, I'm sure he can help you. Strictly ad hoc, of course. I'll give you his number."
Undaunted by the setback, Terence went through his spiel again, with the interested colleague, who was interested: very interested in fact, when Terence sweetened the pot by including a grant to fund the professor's pet dig, in Mycenae, Greece, for another year.
"You're on Mr. James. I can have a team lined up and start Monday, bright and early," he said.
On his end, Terence smiled. "Terence is fine, and it's early now. How 'bout starting this afternoon?"
There was a long pause. "Okay, Terence— I hear you. This afternoon. I'll meet you on the site. Where is it?"
Terence told him, and hung up.
That afternoon found Terence at the Bucket house, in deep consultation with the learned archeologist, and the senior members of his team. Rounded up on short notice, with the mission outlined, the youngest spoke for all of them, when out-of-turn he dubiously blurted: "Seriously? Someone wants to keep this wreck?"
"Seriously. Someone does, and it's very important you don't make…" Terence was about to say 'hash', but he thought of Willy, and said instead, "kindling out of it."
Exchanging glances, the team nodded. A grant was a grant, and this project was a piece of cake.
By Monday, the project was in full swing. Archaeologists, and archaeologist wannabes alike swarmed the site. Trim was coming off the house, and the chimney and roof were losing components at a good clip. At this rate, with this workforce, the project wouldn't take ten days.
"Where do you want these crates stored, Mr. James?" asked a student, as the day waned, and it became late afternoon.
"Terence," answered Terence, thinking. It was a good question. Should he run them up to the Factory? In what? Wait till he had more?
Another student, as she finished nailing shut the top of one of the crates solved the problem. "Are you expecting a Wonka truck, Mr…," she caught herself, "Terence."
'Mr. Terence', thought Terence, and gave up. Willy was right. It is maddening not being called what you ask to be called. Terence turned to see what the student was pointing at with her hammer: a Wonka truck making its way to the site. "No, I wasn't," he sighed, "but we may as well use it, if its gone to all this trouble to come down here."
Like dominos falling, work suspended as each person in turn noticed the truck, until no one moved at all. The question of who would get out of the truck was too compelling to ignore: it might be Willy Wonka himself. The rumors of recent sightings of the man were rampant, after all. Terence was as transfixed as the rest of them: Willy was unpredictable, and sending a marked truck wasn't exactly low profile.
Maneuvering carefully, the truck parked within easy distance of the stacked crates. The door opened, and out jumped a warmly dressed, petit, middle-aged woman, with shoulder length, dark, curly hair, and no one else. With a collective sigh and their leader admonishing them, everyone—except the group around Terence—returned to work.
Nora made her way over to the group, taking in the scene as she did so. After the quiet of the suite in the Factory, the noise and bustle were disconcertingly welcome, and Nora was smiling with what she was seeing—the family's dilapidated house, being treated as if it were a rare and valuable artifact—and it tickled her no end. "It's nice to see you, Terence," she said. "This truck and I are at your disposal. He'd like the crates brought up at the end of each day, but we can load them as they're packed."
The students exchanged skeptical glances. He? A Wonka truck? Was this a Chocolate Factory project? Really? The connection was a stretch.
Terence stepped in, asking the question on all their minds. "Is he coming down?"
Nora laughed, a sweet musical laugh, making no effort to keep what she was saying to herself. Everyone nearby heard her, and passed it along. "No! Of course not! You know he never leaves his Factory. He sent me, and you're stuck with that." She laughed again.
"Hm." Terence was wary. Shrugging it off, he continued jauntily, "Right you are, then. Everyone, this is Mrs. Bucket, and this is the Bucket house we're taking apart, so stow any disparaging comments you may have about it while in this lady's presence. Okay. Have truck, will load. Let's get loading!"
The students moved off to get to the task, but Terence put a hand on Nora's arm to keep her from joining them. "Are you enjoying the Factory?"
"The Factory?" she murmured, coyly sarcastic. "I couldn't tell you. All I've seen of it so far is the entrance hall, and the corridors leading to the suite he's given us, until the house gets set up. Oh, and today I can include the loading bays." Her eyes clouded. "I think it's awful he's shifted the responsibility for this to you. You have a shop of your own to run, and he doesn't even care." Suddenly her demeanor changed, and she was all smiles. "Yes, everything is perfectly lovely!"
Terence, clued in, swung round to see Noah and Willy approaching companionably on foot from the direction opposite the Factory, Charlie with them, smiling as he contentedly held his father's hand.
"Who are all these people?" asked Willy inquisitively, taking in the bustling scene. "Am I bankrupt?"
Appreciative of Willy's well orchestrated misdirection, and always glad to see him, Terence resisted a bow, and settled for welcomely spreading his arms. "Not financially. These are the people making your dreams come true. They're students and professors from the University."
"Sure are a lot of them," offered Noah, rocking on his heels. Nora moved over to join him. Charlie ran excitedly over to the house, to get a better look at the goings on.
"Watch out, dear," called Nora, perfunctorily. She knew Charlie would pay attention.
Willy's interest was elsewhere. "Who are those people?"
Terence pivoted to take in the group Willy was discreetly indicating with the top of his walking stick. "Those would be the rubberneckers, gawking at the activity. Want me to get rid of 'em?"
Willy considered. "Yes." He didn't care about the people if they kept their distance, but he wanted to see how Terence would do that.
At the word, Terence strode purposefully toward the bystanders. "Hey! You folks!" he yelled. "I'm so glad you're here! We can sure use some extra help loading these heavy, awkward, splinter-y crates. So all y'all come on over, okay?" He matched his words with a 'come hither' arm motion. "The more the merrier!"
The knot of people broke into murmurs: murmurs expressing gripping reasons why they suddenly couldn't stay. Like a mist, they all but one melted away. That one, moved toward the truck.
Satisfied, Terence backtracked quickly to his little group, grinning knowingly to himself.
"Kewl," said Willy.
"Where do you get these hats?" asked Terence, still grinning.
Willy preeningly put a hand to his hat, and flashed a smile. "Like it?" It was a tan fedora. "It's a hat I don't wear: the color is terrible."
Nora rolled her eyes disgustedly at the illogical statement, a gesture missed by everyone but Terence.
"I have a whole room full of them," finished Willy, oblivious. "Hats I don't wear, I mean. Not hats like this one." Frowning to think he hadn't been clear, Willy turned back toward the house. "I wanted to see this," he said, wistfully. "I hope you don't mind."
Terence found the forlorn note in Willy's voice touching. "I don't, but you can't stay. Even with your wily hat disguise, it won't take long before these people cotton on to who you are, and after that, nothing will get done."
"We're done loading the crates that are ready," sang out one of the students.
"My cue to exit." Willy bowed his head. "It's too bad I can't stay. It looks pretty neat, when you're in on it, and it's not to hurt someone." Stiffly, he caught Nora's eye. "Shall we, chauffeur?"
Before she could move, Terence stepped forward. "Can Noah take you? I'd like Nora's opinion on some of the logistics. Charlie's too, if that suits."
Willy's face was impassive. "Noah, then. Nora decides about Charlie." Not waiting for any further comments, Willy made for the truck with his head bent, Noah at his side like velcro. No one would bother Willy Wonka if Noah Bucket had anything to say about it.
"Why did you want me to stay?" Nora asked, as she watched her husband, with her benefactor, make their way to the truck.
"There's something I need to show you, on the other side of town. Charlie should have the benefit, too."
"Why?"
Terence was tight-lipped. "Perspective— you've said some things today. And just now— he didn't mean someone. He meant him."
Nora looked confused. Terence sounded almost hostile.
Done with explaining, Terence did his best to rein in his impatience. "You'll get it when you see it."
At the truck, the lone remaining gawker hovered.
The long black coat, oversized sunglasses, stacked boots—with three inch heels—and the fedora, worn by the man getting in the passenger side caught a student's attention. Where had this guy come from? "Hey, dude!" the student called out amiably. "Rad hat."
Touching his hat, the man smiled and nodded back, but said nothing.
Inexplicably ticked off at the lack of an audible answer, the student was suddenly determined to make this guy say something. Most people would have answered him already. "What's in the cane?"
The question started a tug-of-war in the man's head, with the hesitation so long the student all but lost hope the man would answer: but answer he did— his voice high, the cadence lilting. "That's need to know, but if you need to know, they're Nerds, Nerd, and now you know." The man laughed as he slammed the door, and the truck backed away.
The student laughed too: not so much at the words he'd heard, but at the infectious waves of joie de vivre the man gave off, especially when he laughed. Shaking his head at his from-out-of-nowhere, sudden burst of good feeling, the student returned to his work, happily energized. An odd answer, from an odd man, oddly fun.
The gawker, taking it in, dug out a notebook, scribbling in it madly. Now he knew, too. The Nerds gave it away. He was sure he had just seen none other than Mr. Willy Wonka, and as a reporter, he'd share this lucky sighting—and all its details—with his loyal readers, in the very next edition of the local paper.
February Eleventh, hmm... another good day to update… thankfully, that's it for the anniversaries. Thank you gift-givers, for your reviews—for your reviews are, indeed, lovely gifts.
I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think.
