I remember it being the holidays, November, I think, and I walked into a wooded glade to pick some boughs for a garland. The light became strangely bright, and then strangely dim, and I sank down at the base of a hemlock. The birds went silent, the forest tomb-like. The boughs surrounded me, and on that soft-needled floor, I sank into a deep sleep. When I awoke, the tree was gone, the forest was gone, my hair needed cutting, and it was February. Sorry for the delay folks; voici le chapitre prochain.
The walk down the hill to elude the piranha did him no good. With every step, Willy felt as if he had turned his back on his Factory, and in the literal sense, he had. Jaw tensing, lips thinning, with defiant resolution Willy tightened his grip on his walking-stick. It did him no good. He felt cold, reptilian, with a hollow sensation flowing from where his heart should be. The sensation grew stronger with every step he put between himself and his Factory, as if the steps he were taking away from his home were injuring him. While the subterfuge aspects of his lately school excursions had held their amusements, the appearance of pressing piranha on the scene had snapped those to an end, with the resulting reality horrific. This reality ... He'd have to face them. Had there been some other way? Willy shook his head: Terence, Dede … They were the ones who made this so.
Craning his neck to see behind him, the sidewalk held no evidence of the drain Willy felt as his confidence ebbed away: grey and ordinary, Willy saw no signs of blood; no signs of tears. Grey and ordinary, dreary was all the cold concrete offered him back, and Willy had had enough of dreary and cold for today: more than enough. The entire morning had been a bummer, with no improvement brewing. Willy knew, deep in that growing hollow space where his heart should be, that the newspaper people lurking behind him at the gates—his gates—wanted him cut down as surely as the school had wanted those trees cut down. He'd read the articles those scribblers had written about the Golden Ticket Tour: sensational, self-serving columns of claptrap they were, and nothing but! Returning his eyes to forwards and down, Willy watched the toes of his boots meet the concrete, and listened to his boot heels clicking as they landed. Their Morse code clicked out a message to him: leaving behind what you live for is a mistake. Danger lurks. Dede lurks. Dede has decamped for his dwelling, but Dede is deceptive; Dede plans.
Lifting his eyes in time to dodge a distracted pedestrian coming at him, Willy allowed that there was an easy fix to this distress: deep-six the gadding-about! Shelve the shirking, and get back to his Factory! Back to the place where he belonged ... Back to the place where he felt a-okay. George was perfectly capable of fielding Mrs. Stemple's call; he might even be capable of relaying the message—though that was a failing of George's—and Georgina, well, he would miss Georgina's wrinkled, shining face and shrouded wit, but he could live with that. He could even live with not finding out why they had returned to the Factory last night. When you thought about it, where they were was inconsequential if Charlie were safe in the Factory. Factory; shop; where they were, who cared? Not him! Well, maybe he cared about as much as Charlie would wish him to.
With that, the depressive clouds lifted a notch, and a ray of sunlight warmed Willy's heart. Tout suite, he'd scamper back home! The hollow sensation was leaving him, his heart, with his decision, where it should be again, beating blissfully. It'd be easy! As almost there as he already was, he'd breeze by the shop—with no one the wiser—take the first turning, head up the hill, sneak in the back, and finish, in twenty minutes time, as snug as a bug in a rug! Yay! Feeling laughter about to bubble, Willy hunched his shoulders and quickened his pace, and almost ran into…
"Once a day…"
Georgina! She was sweeping the sidewalk at the shop's door. Admirable, but…
"All day long…"
Georgina had stopped her sweeping, delivering the second line with her eyes boring steadily into him. There was no use pretending; he was good and caught. Tag, yer it, and darn it all! Sheepishly slowing, Willy focused on the song. He knew it. Between the stretches of time he sometimes had on his hands, and the proclivities of his workforce, Willy knew a lot of songs. It was plain Georgina was croaking this ditty specifically to him. It would be rude not to respond, if only to get her to stop staring at him. Backatcha oughta work.
"And once a night…" Willy muttered, but carrying the tune.
Beaming, Georgina hurried towards him, afraid he might bolt back the way he had come, all the while brandishing her broom, as if Willy were a page of balled newspaper that needed clearing. She'd sweep him into the shop! Strands of silver-grey hair peeked from under her wool cap, flying helter-skelter as she worked her design. Her coat swung to and fro in a rhythm of determination. "From dusk till dawn…" she sang out merrily, seeing her scheme was working.
The paren of afore-times having maneuvered around him, Willy saw nothing for it but to acquiesce, more to escape the stares of the passers-by than for any other reason, who, had Willy but known, were counting their blessings that they were not him, while ducking their heads and hurrying out of range, as, with hooded eyes, they watched a mad scarecrow of a crone pursue her prey.
"…The only time…"
Georgina was still singing, but Willy was through the shop's door, leaning a hand on the door knob as he found himself laughing. The look on George's gaping face was worth the indignity of Willy's entrance, and then some!
"Outta my way," said Georgina, the broom pushing at Willy's heels. "It's cold out here."
Willy obliged, feeling decidedly cheered, and Georgina resumed her serenade.
"…I wish you weren't gone…"
The lone customer in the store, clutching the package George had lately rung up, sidled past the screeching biddy as he scooted out the door, and beaming at that, Willy, for George's benefit, decided to do it up right. Taking Georgina's non-broom holding hand in his, they finished the song together.
"Is once a day, every day, all day long!"
Willy dropped Georgina's hand, rounding to face her and show his approval. "Did ya miss me?"
"Once a day," Georgina smiled back. "All day long."
It was too much, the way it always was when Willy Wonka was involved. "Are you ever in your Factory these days?" sighed George, rolling his eyes.
Behind the dark lenses he wore, Willy's eyes snapped like a summer storm. "I'm there now," he replied, his patience thin, done with the disrespect, and not at all amused at being reminded that this was not his first choice of locations. Removing said glasses, Willy sauntered further into the shop, the better to pin George. "Can't cha tell? And while we're on the subject, why were you back in my Factory last night?"
There was a set to Willy's jaw, and an edge to his voice that George had never seen or heard before: determined, and hard, with not the slightest hint of fun in it, and it was in such contrast to the giggles just ended, that it gave George pause; serious pause. The piercing stare thrown his way was unexpected as well: so not the 'happy-go-lucky-chocolatier' persona usually presented by this person. Open warfare wasn't what George wanted. The flip answer he'd had ready on the tip of his tongue died there, and letting his inclination take him, George took a half-step back. He knew why he'd returned to the Factory last night, but George was so used to dealing with Willy using the acerbic, that his brain was having trouble telling his tongue to speak the words in the way a friendly person would. It was most embarrassing, and George blushed red, as his lips moved, but no sound came out.
"Sticks and stairs!" crowed Georgina from behind the counter, where she'd set the broom.
Willy broke his stare with George and turned to her. "Sticks and stares?" he asked, not wanting open warfare either, and wondering if that were what Georgina was getting at. Truth to tell, Dede had Willy more on edge than he'd have thought possible.
"Sticks and stairs!" said Georgina again, shaking her head.
"I think you mean sticks and stones," offered George, grateful to have found his voice.
"No, no, sticks and stairs!" Georgina gave a nod in the direction of the back room, where a set of stairs led to the flat above.
"The stairs?"
Georgina grinned as if she'd won the lottery. Willy got it, as she knew he would! "They can be treacherous," she breathed, nodding sagely.
At that moment, the door opened, the bell jingled, and in that same moment, with adroit aplomb, Willy made his way around the counter and into the back room. George intercepted the new customer, and Georgina watched Willy's back as he entered the room. Safe, he turned back to her, and she waved her hand, to shoo him up the stairs. He'd see what she meant. With a tilt of his head, and a heft of his walking-stick, he obliged. Fondly, Georgina watched her new pet recluse climb the stairs. These were treacherous times for him she sensed; changes past the age for changes of this size... savior for them, disruption for him, and she doubted Willy would ask for help, any more than Nora would. Willy was like Nora in that way, and Georgina could only shake her head at the heartache that that sort of stubbornness brought to its owners, and worse, to those around them. Rising, knowing there was little she could do, with gentle reverence Georgina closed the door that Willy had left open.
'The stairs can be treacherous'.
As he climbed the worn boards, Willy repeated the thought. Stairs ... Forget stairs, the world can be treacherous. The Factory was a so much safer place: safer for him; safer for the Oompa-Loompas. Safer for… Willy reached the landing and let his thoughts fade. Breezing his way into the sitting room, he took up new ones. Sharp-eyed, he found it home to a chair, a table, a lamp... each of them hailing from a different era of cheap. A short stack of books sitting on the floor next to it kept the chair company. Willy twirled, leaving. The second bedroom was bare, with the kitchen boasting not much more. Drawers, cupboards, closets, Willy went through them all. Terence was no cook, nor entertainer, either; at least, here there was no evidence of that. There was little in the way of food to worry about going off; nothing fresh in the refrigerator; crackers and popcorn in the pantry ... Oh, dear: no caramel for the popcorn! Deplorable!
Emerging back into the hall, Willy considered going back downstairs. He took Georgina's point: there wasn't a decent stick of furniture in the place. Of course they had returned to the Factory! The lovely Factory, the heavenly haven for their crooked little house, where all was snug and safe! This house was positively antiseptic in its lack of personalization. Terence was without doubt a man of no roots. No roots. Forget comet: Terence was a tumbleweed. No way anyone can stay put with no roots ... No way anyone with roots that go deep can roam. Willy's rock candy mine flashed into his thoughts; ten-thousand feet deep! That's deep. Shrugging, thinking, 'different strokes for different folks', and not making more of it, with a flutter of his fingers Willy let the comparison tumble away as he moved along.
Having said it was off-limits, he cracked the door of Terence's room to be sure his edict was being observed. Dust motes floating in shafts of sunlight were all that greeted him; silent dust motes. But there was furniture here; more than in any other room. There was the well-worn wing-backed chair Willy had so lately sat curled in, cajoling Terence to move the Bucket house for him. There were the blankets he had flung the handful of Square Candies upon. Had it been a month since then? Not even, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. Willy pushed the door further, and took a step in. This was the only room Terence had personalized, really, probably because it was the room he spent the most time in, sleeping, and wasn't that a hoot? The room that Terence had lavished the most attention on was the one in which his eyes were mostly closed! Ha! But even this room had gotten short-shrift: Terence, Willy decided, didn't stay anywhere for very long, for any reason. If he had left, it was nothing personal.
Mission accomplished, taking another step forward to twirl and leave, Willy's heel tapped on the wooden floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a tiny movement. From long habit, Willy froze in place, and shifting his eyes only, he looked for the source: and found it! Striding over to it, he laughed as he picked it up. It was a Square-Candy-That-Looked-Round, a straggler from the thrown handful it must be, and how long had it been since Willy had played that game? Eons! Eons and eons! He turned the candy over in his hand, and doing it noiselessly, the eyes turned away with it. Placing it back beside the clock on the nightstand where it had lain, Willy clicked his tongue. The eyes turned back, the tiny smile painted below them hopeful. Willy laughed to see it, and realized: poking one's head in the door does not a complete search make! He'd missed this morsel the last time he'd been here. How lackadaisical! How slipshod! Terence adored these things. He ate them by the handful, and with his eyes open, bleh! How had Terence missed this one?
And then it occurred to him: contemplating that lonely candy, an idea bubbled up; an idea that lightened Willy's mood considerably. In that lightened mood, he wondered that all around him had become so serious. He was serious, the Oompa-Loompas were serious; Terence had gone all serious, and left ... the Buckets were serious ... But Willy knew precious little about the Buckets ... Maybe they were naturally spring-loaded to the serious position... If so, no wonder Georgina liked to play nuts! Someone in that family had to cut all that pall. It was all so much like... so much like... Willy's mood darkened again as his brain fought the realization: it was all so much like his childhood. Serious, and bitter ... The way his candies would be, if he tried to make any at this moment. They'd be as bitter as the tears he'd shed when no one was looking, all those years ago... when that one who had gone home today hadn't cared to look...
Seizing the candy of less-troubled times back from the table, Willy turned to go. Thoughts like these weren't conducive to creativity, or even to feeling competent. Willy's brows knit together darkly, the summer storm returning. This was Dede doing this; always Dede! Wouldn't the Pater be delighted to know the complications he was creating? Well, yeah, Willy wouldn't let the Pater have the satisfaction. He'd not let the pater ruin it all! He'd carry on, as he always had! With new resolve, Willy turned back.
With a nod to the absent Terence's cot, Willy flipped the candy he held high into the air, and stepping underneath to catch it in his mouth, Willy did catch it, and crunched it, grinding into it as he'd like to grind away the specters of his sad memories. He crunched it quickly, with his eyes closed, feeling its hard outer shell crumble, as the Pater's plans to keep Willy from his dreams had crumbled. As the candy's innards spread across his tastebuds, the soft goo of its pea-sized brain was as scrumptious as ever. Willy felt renewed strength. Another thought bubbled up. Terence had been doing this with the Pollens… catching them in his mouth and crunching them to bits. Willy wondered what the G-men had made of the colored spots Terence had no doubt developed ... But that recipe still wasn't right: it doesn't do what I want it to do… Tapping his index finger on the top of his walking-stick as he contemplated, Willy ended his musings. If his thoughts were turning to problem-solving candy issues, whatever dear Dede might wish, all was not lost. It was time to rejoin the world.
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, reviewing, clicking favorite or follow, or any combination thereof, you betcha!
Fans of Young Frankenstein will recognize 'The stairs can be treacherous', uttered by Frau Blücher as she admonished her listeners to 'stay close to the (unlit) candles'. I thought I'd throw half of the line in here, as that half fit, and I think that line is hysterical. Or maybe that wasn't why. Really, though I'm not a fan of Mr. Wilder's Wonka, the man, Mr. Wilder, has been haunting me lately, and I thought I'd throw him a bone with that.
Fans of Connie Smith will recognize the lyrics of Once A Day, a song that debuted in 1964, the same year that book Charlie and the Chocolate Factory debuted.
My heartfelt thanks to my reviewers: Sonny April; Squirrela; The Silly Storyteller, et al.; and notcardinalrichelieu. It's been a long time, and you've all been great.
