Dinner; an invitation to dinner… No, an invitation to dinner was not on the agenda… Well, the invitation was, cuz it was already done, but accepting it wasn't. How to say 'no' to such a hopeful face as Charlie's? He couldn't; he wouldn't; he would. His grip tightening, Willy's walking-stick felt his tension. Charlie looked on, Willy studying the toes of his shoes as they walked.

A stride or two taking; a debate in the making; Charlie still waiting; the decision deflating; an answer impending, this dilemma unending… Aha! The phrase of the mater would end this pertator, of the hotter-than-lava variety. Willy's walking-stick gave a little jump in the air at the solution.

"A very kind invitation, my dear Charlie, but please tell the issuer, not you, that I'd rather accept for dinner tomorrow, or for some other night, but not for tonight. I'm sure they'll understand, especially if you say it that way."

Charlie did understand, and hiding his disappointment, he wondered if he'd become a bridge between people who spent their time declining each others' invitations. It would be a strange way to live, he reflected, but not any worse than the way he had been living. Charlie took what comfort he could in that, and volunteered to find his own way back to the Chocolate Room. Willy would have nothing to do with that idea, and dropped Charlie off at the door. By this time, it wasn't far.

"Tomorrow, then," said Willy, when they'd reach it. "On your way to school."

Charlie nodded, but Willy was already on his way.


It was just as well Willy hadn't come to dinner. George had a bombshell to share, and no one was sure Willy would like it.


In the morning, the family had reason to wonder if Georgina had liked it. Georgina was gone.

"Where is she?"

"When did she leave?"

"Why would she leave?"

"Don't look at me!"

"I didn't see her go!"

George was distraught. He started to look around the Chocolate Room, but gave up in despair before he had really begun. The Oompa-Loompas George had ignored up until now, ignored his shouted queries, and the room was too overwhelming for George to explore on his own. When he spied Willy approaching from the direction of the chocolate fall, George ducked back into the house, mortified he'd have to ask the man he thought the oddest on Earth, for help, but knowing he would do it.

"Morning, Buckets!" came the ebullient call, in Noah's voice, as Willy swung open the door. Three wrinkled Bucket faces, and three smoother ones, turned up to stare at him. Stricken they looked, and Willy, pausing, could only shake his head.

Noah, relieved to see the one person who knew every nook and cranny of this Factory on their doorstep; the man with the resources to find anything, sighed, and found his voice. "You're a scary guy, Willy. Please don't go opening any accounts over the telephone in my name."

"I'll do my best not to, Mr. Bucket." With a conspiratorial nod to Charlie, the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, Willy continued. "Where, oh, where, is my dear friend, Mr. George? There you are! And what—it's high time I know it—is your last name? You know mine."

"'Bouquet'," replied George, reddening as he sidled out from behind the dinner table. "It's pronounced, 'bucket'."

Throwing his head back, Willy giggled like a banshee. Josephine swallowed her suggestion that Willy knock next time, and Charlie grinned. Willy had threatened that yesterday, and here he was today, doing it.

"Of course, it is," said Willy, between breaths. "How did I not guess that? Your darling wife—"

"I love rose hips!"

Georgina, just outside, held up a handful of rose hips, the only thing the crowd could see of her.

"What took you so long, my dear? I thought you were right behind me. Mr. Bouquet," Willy pronounced it 'bouquet' and lost himself in giggles again, "your darling wife, kindly informs me—"

With a nod and bow to Georgina, Willy stood to the side, interrupting himself to allow her to pass, and as she did, her family could see that her steps were now more spry than George's.

"—that you wish to leave my lovely Factory, and take up residence in Terence's shop." Willy's light tone changed from mirth to meaningful in the space of a breath. "Any truth to that?"

Georgina, having reached George's side, returned Willy's bow, and took George's hand in hers, smiling. George, sensing a conspiracy that appeared to be going his way, nodded.

"Then wonderful, do get on with it. Terence will be glad of the coverage, I shall be happy you are happy, and also in the doldrums knowing that your better-half is departing, which should make you happier still, making me happier still… Hmm… Maybe not! Do anything you'd like to to the flat—at my expense; see Doris about that—but don't touch a stick of furniture in Terence's room, for any reason whatsoever. Capiche? That's his room, and he keeps it."

His jaw slack from surprise, George nodded, flabbergasted to think that he and Willy might agree on something, with no discussion needed.

"I caaan't hear youuu!" Willy had cupped a hand to his ear, singing every word, in a most unflatteringly way. "Capiche? Savvy? Savvy? Capiche? Pick one, either will do; snap, snap!"

"Capiche and savvy," said George, untying his tongue and getting the words out.

There was silence, with Willy's violet eyes pinning George's, making sure there'd be no misunderstanding. Satisfied, he turned to Charlie. "Fantabulous! Ta! I'll see you on the way to school!"

The door closed with a smack, with glances exchanged in the aftermath seven ways to Sunday.

"There goes the whirlwind," summed up Noah. "I'll get ready to go myself."

"Next time," Josephine insisted on huffing, "he better remember to knock!"

George was thoughtful. "If that ditzy chocolatier thinks Terence isn't coming back, why can't I touch Terence's room? It's the largest."

"He's not ditzy!"

"Sorry, Charlie, he is. Anybody got an answer?"

Georgina gave George's hand a pat. "Comets are unpredictable, Mr. Thorn. Everyone knows that."

"Balderdash, they're not unpredictable, they're—"

"Don't spoil it, dear," interrupted Georgina. "This Factory is far more interesting than that shop will be. Why, everything here interests me, and the only thing there that will interest me, is you."

Her feelings expressed, Georgina beamed at her spouse of decades, and he, taking a breath, beamed back, humbled by the sentiment underlying the compliment. He quickly gave her a sidelong hug, planting a peck of a kiss on her leathery cheek.

Nora, wondering what the whirlwind was thinking, couldn't wait to get herself lost later that day.


Dr. Wonka couldn't wait to get out of the hospital. One more day should do it. His ravings about The Boy's visit had set him back, and rubbing his nose in it, The Boy, as useless as he ever was, had sent the night nurse flowers! Candy flowers! Elaborate, gorgeous candy flowers, easily mistaken for the real article! It was enough to make a person sick. Dr. Wonka's eyes narrowed at the thought: under the circumstances, that would be more sick…

'My, what a sweet son you have,' she'd gushed, bringing the bouquet in with her to show him. 'Would you like me to leave them by your bedside? And such a caring note.'

'Note?'

'Why yes, thanking the staff, well,' she blushed around her middle-aged cheeks, 'me, in particular, he sent them to me, but he pointed out it would be so much less disruptive to see you when you return home. Now I understand why he hasn't come here himself; so thoughtful, really… Thinking more about the hospital than himself; not turning it into a media circus…'

She looked a little wistful, as if the center of a media circus were a place she could happily imagine herself being. Dr. Wonka bit his tongue, not to snigger. Without his help, she roused herself from her fantasy.

'Shall I leave them for you to enjoy?'

'May I see the note?'

'Certainly.'

Dr. Wonka scanned it, concluding her conclusion as to its meaning wasn't accurate. In it, The Boy made an observation, not a promise. It was subtle, and misleading, and for a moment Dr. Wonka felt a father's pride. Then he saw the flowers again, and it was all he could do not to sweep them to the floor. What a happy disaster that would be, the flowers breaking into a million little pieces, the way Dr. Wonka would break The Boy's defiance into a million little pieces. He might still do it, if he could only get out of here: sweetness, sweetness; sane and reasonable: that was the ticket… bah! Ticket!

'They are lovely, but I'm afraid that sugary smell is a touch too much for my sensitive system. I fear it is making me a touch nauseous.'

'I'm so sorry! You are so right!'

Was that a smile Dr. Wonka was seeing, as she gathered the flowers back to her bosom? He was describing the right symptom, for the wrong reason—so believable—but was that making her happy? As she fairly danced out of the room, he decided it was.


Nora didn't get lost that day. That day, as she walked, she heard soft swooshing sounds, most often before, but sometimes behind her, and try as she might, she couldn't see what was causing them. If she sped up, they sped up; if she slowed down, they slowed down. For long stretches of time, she'd hear nothing, no matter her pace. Giving up, she adopted a leisurely walk, resigned to the one fact she was sure of: today, she was being given no choices. The corridor stretched out before her, curving this way and that, but with no forks in it.

Nora followed obediently, finding all the doors she passed locked, until she reached a room whose door was marked 'Library'. Standing in front of it, deliberating whether or not she should find out if it were locked—so many locked doors had become depressing—the cause of the sounds was revealed to her. Thirty feet from her right, a barrier, identical to the wall of the corridor, lifted from the floor, blocking her way. Thirty feet to her left, another did the same.

"Hmm," said Nora, suddenly knowing how a rat, trapped in a maze, might feel. "I guess this is where I find the Big Cheese."

The portal-like door gave easily, and stepping in, Nora found the library a vision. She had never imagined that a room in Willy Wonka's Factory—not having to do with candy making—might be this grand. Taking it in, like a tourist new to New York, she looked first up and down the spacious central aisle, and second at the maze of stacks leading away from it, her head swiveling like an owl's. The swiveling stopped when to her left, her eyes caught Makila rising from her desk, giving Nora a friendly wave.

"My!" Nora wasn't sure if her exclamation were for the room, or for the surprise. "I don't mean to disturb you."

"You haven't," said Makila. "Willy said to expect you, though he didn't say when. I'll let him know you're here."

"He's here?"

"He's often here."

A voice from the ether startled them both.

"And here, as you've heard, I am."

At the sight of the burgundy frock-coated Wonka, in matching top hat, materializing from the stacks to her right, Nora agreed with her husband. "You're a scary guy, Willy Wonka. Do you always sneak up on people this way?"

"Not always this way; sometimes it's that way."

With a smile directed at the floor, Makila reclaimed her desk. Nora recovered her aplomb, and with it, her manners.

"Your library is amazing!"

"Ya like it?"

"I'll say! Please don't show it to Noah. He reads all the time. If you show this to him, I'll never see him again."

"He does? No guarantees. Do you?"

Impatient, her curiosity ascendant, Nora brushed the question aside. "My mother was holding rose-hips this morning. Did she go all the way to the Caramel Lake Room to get them?"

"That answers my question, how?"

"And what about the doors I saw rising from the floor? Is your Factory a maze?"

"I have a maze, and I think it does amaze, and you just said this room is—"

Nora shook her head. She'd trip over herself with questions. Remain calm, she told herself: one thing at a time. "Where did my mother get the rose-hips?"

"From the glade, of course. Where else would she get them?"

"The glade? What glade?"

Willy could sense Oompa-Loompa ears pricked, and though they probably knew all about the glade he spoke of, Mrs. Bucket's barrage of questions was likely to devolve into subjects other than what he'd prefer to so publicly discuss. It was time to move on.

"Shall we see the library, or see the glade? You expressed an interest in seeing the library. That's why I had my fire-doors make sure you got here. Aren't they neat? The glade is in the Chocolate Room."

Nora now sensed the surrounding interest herself, and could see Willy's point. In a Factory so large, there was, in fact, very little privacy. A legacy of the spies? It was a sad one, if so. But perhaps it was only the nature of running a very large Factory, with thousands of workers. She took a breath, and smoothed her skirt.

"I'd like to see the library."

Willy led the way, and as they walked, he talked.

"Your mater, dear offspring-of-same, pioneered getting lost. She got herself lost the morning after I moved your house. I found her in a glade I like to visit, near the chocolate fall. She admired the flowers there, and so for fun, in case she visited again, I decided to have the flowers changed every day. As you told me the story of the rose hips yesterday, last night the change was to rose hips."

"So that's why she said buttercups turned into bluebells! And bluebells into daisies!"

"She mentioned it?"

"We all thought she was being crazy."

"The fate of many a person who has on hand more facts than the others have. Look at Galileo. My turn's over; now it's your turn: Do you like reading?"

"Reading, as in, other than directions? I can't sit still long enough. I'd rather be doing something. If I had my wish, it would be something outdoors, like gardening."

Hearing her words as Willy must hear them, Nora colored a little. Perhaps she should have thought before she spoke, but glancing at him, Willy seemed unperturbed by her honesty. The Factory had little to offer in outdoor activities, and the one that came to mind, walking Charlie to and from school, Willy had usurped. In the silence, unbidden, Nora's trampled cabbages rose in her mind's eye: flecks of runny green, overcome by clods of brown, at the bottom of the hill she now lived at the top of. Their fate made Nora sad, and she wondered why she kept returning to the sad, green, blobs. They wouldn't leave her, always lingering below the surface, and why that should be so, escaped her like a dream on waking.

The feeling of sadness, like a growing tendril, uncurled around her, reaching across the space. Willy must have felt its touch, because she saw that kindness in his eyes again. Did he understand? Did she want to be understood? Nora looked away.

In the flit of melancholy he saw cross Nora's face, Willy thought of all the indoor—not outdoor—taking care of oldsters Nora did, and wondered how that fit in with her asserted love of being under the open sky. He remembered the carefully tended cabbages he's seen before they'd taken on the mashed form more common to the Oompa-Loompa's beloved-and-hated revolting green caterpillars, and knew what she was saying was true. "There's little lurking in the way of appeal for you in this room, then," he said, with a brightness that dispelled the spell. "And so, therefore, this literary tour is forthwith endeth." That Nora spent her time doing other than what she liked doing, was worth glossing over at this precise moment, and perhaps worthy of providing for her a change. "Let us journey elsewhere. Do you care for trampolines?"

The room that Charlie had regaled the family with in the lead up to dinner last night? Nora wondered if Willy were serious, but found his smile wide. Not knowing what else to do, Nora nodded, and Willy was off.

"Wait!"

Willy turned.

"Charlie told me about that room. Why is the button that takes you there labeled 'Check'?"

Willy grinned. "Because checks—rubber ones at least—bounce, silly, and so do trampolines! If it makes you feel any better, we're not really going there. You're not dressed for it! I'll show you something else instead, which you might like better. Shall we?"

Nora nodded, and Willy was off again.


The 'bouquet'/'bucket' pronunciation play herein, turns the running joke on the television series, "Keeping Up Appearances" on its head. It seemed apropos in this context as well. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its many forms, and there is no copyright infringement intended. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it, and thank you reviewers, oh, so much.

Sonny April: I'm glad you liked the room. I liked your observation, as well, and I personally believe that Willy has loads more rooms in his Factory devoted solely to fun; it is very him. Conventional wisdom would have us believe that an adult mind is mutually exclusive of childlike qualities, and that the two cannot coexist, but I, for one, don't believe that. I'm glad that Willy doesn't either, though I expect it has a lot to do with the life choices one makes. :-) Squirrela: I'm glad that you, too, liked the room. It was a fun room to write. It's too bad Charlie didn't enjoy it as much as he might, but I'm sure in future he will. Thank you also for your insight that that admission was a difficult one for Willy. I suspect, like a leak in a dam enlarging, with trust, subsequent admissions may come more easily for him.