Leaping down the stairs in a way that suggested Willy cared little for his neck, he omitted the last three steps entirely, landing squarely on both feet, as if the boards needed subduing, his arms held up and to the side, at shoulder level.
"Sticks!" cried out Georgina.
"Stick the landing I did," crowed Willy, "Not from the landing, that'd be too high up, but what the hey? Ten points from the Russian judge! Ten points from everyone!" Waving his hands in the air beside his face—as well as he might, while holding his walking-stick—Willy proceeded to make a noise like a cheering crowd. "And the crowd are wild!" he commentated in a hushed tone; and then he grinned, and lowered his arms, and well amused with himself, laughed. Dropping the banter, he crossed to the table in the corner, the better to join the waiting Georgina. "I need a telephone, dear lady."
"Sticks!"
"Nah, sticks won't do. Tin cans and a string, maybe, but not sticks. I need a real telephone. You need real furniture. I agree there's not a decent stick of the stuff up there."
Georgina's ensuing smile was as broad as it was warm; Willy was such a dear! That was half the problem, and trust him to catch on to her way of saying it!
"Why don't you have furniture? You've had a whole day. What's Doris been doing? Did you talk to Doris?" Waiting, Willy cocked a brow, but Georgina failed to answer. The corner of Willy's mouth tightened. "Ya didn't talk to Doris."
Eyes wide, Georgina shook her head, affirming the negative.
"Humph; that'll slow everything down. Ya wanna lift? Cuz I'm guessing stair-sallying isn't on your list, either. I can have a lift put in. That will take a day or two; one of those sit-in-it-and-slide-along-the-stairs kind. I'm not too keen on doing much of a re-model; I just did one."
Beaming again, Georgina nodded, briskly affirming the affirmative, folding her arms across her chest with a smugness that put settled to the matter. The stairs were the other half of the problem.
"Ya know, we could go the opulence route," said Willy, sending up the idea like a trial balloon.
"What's all the ruckus?" barked a gruff voice from the other side of the room.
It was George, poking his head in at first, but then advancing, trying, around all the boxes, to catch what the pow-wow in the corner was about. Willy looked up, not altogether pleased.
"Jumping; jumping is the ruckus … Jumping and landing." Got a problem with that? "Gonna tell me I can't jump inside, are ya?"
Pure irritation was what George was hearing. "I wouldn't dream of it," he quickly rejoined. "It's only that one of the customers thought I should check to see that all is in order back here; something may have fallen over."
Willy snorted. "And you fell over for that? Your faller-fearer is probably robbing you blind in your absence."
George straightened. He agreed with Willy's assessment, and agreeing with Willy right off the bat always surprised him. "They were leaving. I waited until they were out the door. There's no one in the shop now."
Willy made a face. "We're in it."
George couldn't tell if Willy were kidding or not. He could never tell, and his creased brow and haunted eyes showed it. "I trust us."
Willy laughed. If not for the expression on his face, George might have been Terence in what he'd said, and in the dour way he'd said it. Georgina might know what she was doing, hanging with George, after all. "So do I. Getting a move on this project, I trust ya gotta telephone?"
"Are you asking if I have one, or if I have to use one?"
Wow, George could be a jerk, but he'd caught the ambiguity! Stifling his appreciative laugh, Willy steepled his fingers. "If you have one."
"You know I do."
"In this room?"
"You know I don't."
The bell over the door jingled, and George looked with annoyance to the retail side.
"Better go," said Willy, with a flutter of his hand, noting that George's annoyance wasn't always directed at him. "Ya got that same five-finger discount problem. I'll need the telephone, though. Will you bring it here, please?"
"At my earliest convenience," replied George, already on his way out to see to the customer. Leaving, he cursed himself for his haughty flippancy. What was it about Willy Wonka that made one want to crush him? Was it jealously? That irksome wave of his fingers that he did? Was it the thought that there was a chance, a good chance, that Willy Wonka was enjoying his life more—whatever the circumstances of it were—than you were enjoying your life? Whatever it was, George knew he'd have to pinpoint it fast, because this rudeness that reared itself in him whenever the candy-maker moved or spoke couldn't be allowed to go on. Hell, Willy Wonka's mere presence was enough to bring it on! Changing venues hadn't done the trick, as George had hoped it would; Mr. High-And-Mighty Wonka was capable of changing venues as well, and, George suspected, this visit was all about demonstrating to him that fact! Shaking the sour expression off his face—that would never do for retail!—George moved on to greet his customer.
With George a memory, Willy turned back to Georgina. "Where was I? Oh, yeah, opulence … Care to go for that?" Georgina's face made itself a noncommittal blank, and Willy chuckled. "Yeah, I know, simple is fine, but it will bug Terence no end if I bury his flat in splendor. He apparently thinks surplus Army/Navy rivals the Ritz."
Georgina gave a little start, because word around the dinner table was that Willy didn't think Terence was coming back. Willy, pretending to be lost in musings about stairs and lifts, drummed his fingers on the table.
Nurse Grimes eyed the staircase. It was a modest house she found herself in; nothing grand, nor opulent, nor quirky, nor colorful, nor anything whatsoever that would make one believe that someone like Willy Wonka had grown up here. Taking in the dreariness of the place, if not a dentist, Gertrude concluded it a far more likely place to raise a clerk. But this was none of her business, and she had a client to settle. Dr. Wonka, sitting in a wheelchair just inside the front door, was in a mood best described as 'cross'. It wasn't from pain—he was awash in painkillers—he was just grumpy, and not at all happy to be back in his home.
"They've set up the hospital bed in the living room. Does that suit you, Dr. Wonka? Obviously, stair climbing is out of the question." Gertrude hadn't explored the house yet, but she assumed the kitchen to be near the living room, and that would be convenient.
"If it's obvious, then why say it, you—" Battling the cottony feel of his tongue, Dr. Wonka choked back the word 'ninny' before it could trip him up. "If you must know, it doesn't suit me." Fighting the painkilling fog that he do-si-doed to disadvantage with within his head, he summoned up the energy to snap out the words. "Not in the least!" The effort took its toll. Short of breath, Dr. Wonka paused, taking his time to line-up his next words in the correct order. "Have them set it up in the surgery, next to my examination chair. I will not have my parlor turned into a sick room! The surgery … will do."
Gertrude signaled to the orderlies, who stopped what they were doing.
"It's through here," said Dr. Wonka, his tongue like burlap now, his hand feeling too heavy to lift. "Wheel me; and have them put that furniture back where they found it!"
"Yes, doctor," said Gertrude, obliging the curmudgeon. As directed, she wheeled him along the corridor, to a room at the back of the house. As she entered, her eyes roved the room, and upon seeing the far wall, she gasped, and at her gasp, Dr. Wonka smiled thinly, his mood improving, the fog dissipating.
It was a wall of newspaper clippings that greeted Gertrude's gaze: carefully framed, each frame held one or more clippings, as the clipping's size permitted. They were hung in no particular order, with the largest clipping—unique for its sea of black ink—at the center. 'Sabotage Within Wonka Factory' the white-on-black headline screamed.
Gertrude let her eyes fall from that eye-catcher to the others. Every one of the clippings was a report on Willy Wonka's doings, and in the seeing of this shrine Dr. Wonka had made to his son, Gertrude felt her heart softening towards the prickly man in the wheelchair she was pushing. Tucked into the right-hand corner, strewn with albums that overflowed with more clippings, a small table sat beneath the barrage, and seeing that, Gertrude's softened heart began to melt, as she realized this homage to his son was, for Dr. Wonka, an ongoing labor-of-love. Why, Dr. Wonka must have been doing this for years! Overawed, the fingers of Gertrude's right hand fluttered to the locket at her throat. There was more. The framed clippings spilled over onto the adjacent wall, and even, the window interrupting, onto the wall next to that! Taking this in, despite the instructions Dr. Wonka had specified for his hospital visitor's list, Gertrude was convinced that this misconstrued father must love his talented son very dearly indeed! Why, Dr. Wonka had probably left his son off the list to spare Mr. Wonka the anxiety of making a public appearance! Land sakes! Could Wilbur Wonka be any more thoughtful?
As she paused in her pushing, with that same sly smile still in place, Dr. Wonka imagined his nurse's thoughts, and what he knew her to be thinking pleased him mightily. He sensed her body relax against the handles; felt her hand disappearing from one of them, and in his delight he found his hands in his lap finding each other, and having brought them together, he rubbed them against each other, as if they were lovers. This silly nurse accepted this display as the measure of his devotion to his dear, tormented Boy, as Dr. Wonka meant her to. Everyone reacted this way to this wall. It was why he had made the effort, one of the reasons at least, and his inward gloating warmed him more throughly than could the morphine. As if on cue, a tear sprang into his eye. Had she noted the photographs? She would; it was only a matter of time. The photographs were perfect: sweet Willy with such a sour look on his petulant face; such an ingrate! When she found them, he'd follow her gaze, and wipe the tear from the corner of his eye. Such theater! How he loved it! There were joys to be had, even at this late date, and more to come for The Boy, whether silly Willy believed that or not! A stab of pain struck him, and Dr. Wonka was happy for it: it kept him from laughing aloud. The orderlies shortly trundled in with the hospital bed, ogling the wall in their turn, and when Dr. Wonka had decided there had been enough ogling to cast the proper spell, following his drug-blurred direction, next to his examination chair as he'd wanted it, he had them set about setting up what would surely be his death bed.
"Why didn't cha—haven't ya—talked to Doris? Don't ya wanna be comfortable? Yer spouse knew there wasn't much here. Did I not say, in perfectly plain English, when I found out about this scheme, 'do anything you'd like to the flat' … That includes a lift, by the way: 'anything' covers 'anything', I should think… 'at my expense; see Doris about that' … Do you not know who Doris is? I'm sure you do, and if you don't, you coulda asked anyone… And though I did say 'not to touch a stick of furniture in Terence's room', that would apply to Terence's room, and not to the other rooms. Don't cha think?"
Willy's pout at the end of this speech would have been funny, had he not looked so sad. Georgina reached out a comforting hand, but Willy took his hands and forearms out of reach by removing them from the table to his lap. He can touch you, but you can't touch him, Georgina sang to herself, her heart aching at the wounds that must hide.
"We didn't want to impose," Willy heard from behind him, and for once, Willy was glad of George's entrance. Willy hadn't meant to whine so, but it did seem that when it came to outsiders—those tour children popped into mind—he was often talking to the wall, with this failure to follow explicit instructions by these others, more of the same. He thought he spoke understandably; why was it so often that no one heard him? Or hearing him, ignored him? Was his name Cassandra? It made him feel awkward, and awkward, when it came to feelings, wasn't at the top of his list.
"I've brought the phone. There's a jack around here somewhere."
Willy rose to take the phone and plug it in, but George waved him back to his place. "I can do it," said George, kindly, and in two shakes of a lamb's tail, it was done. "Have I missed something?" Willy, the ever-cheerful, wore a face that looked as if he'd learned that, while he wasn't looking, bulldozers had leveled his Factory. A glance Georgina's way earned only a shrug of her shoulders. She had no idea. George may as well ask. "You look sad, for you. Is there something we can help you with?"
"Me?"
"You."
"How 'bout," Willy paused, as if what he were about to ask for was too much to hope for from parens, even once removed, and not even his, "compliance with commands?" The jaunty grin he ended with was overboard, and so was the sharp-edged glitter of his eyes. Their blank stares were his not-unexpected answer: he was talking to walls. "Forget it. I came here to—"
The phong rang. The three stared at it, and then at each other. The bell rang again. George reached for it, but Willy grabbed for it, and picking it up, said... nothing. George mouthed 'hello'. Georgina grinned a toothy grin. The woman on the other end of the line coughed with nervousness, venturing a 'hello' of her own. Willy found his voice.
"Mrs. Stemple! Whatcha got?" The others could hear tinny sounds over the line. Willy nodded. "Gotcha; got it. See ya. Gotta go." He let the phone drop into the cradle with a sigh of delight. Grabbing from his coat pocket the notebook he was never without, with the pencil nested in its spirals, Willy scribbled a note. Grabbing the coachman's hat he'd laid on the table, he returned it to his head, and popped up to go.
"...Get that phone call," Willy brightly chirped, as if there had been no interruption. "And now I gotta go." His face fell. "Except I gotta check: long way, or short way?" Sinking back into the chair, he picked up the phone, and dialed. Down the line, it rang. Someone answered. "Hi ya; it's me. Is the coast clear?"
The bell on the door jingled, and George, rolling his eyes at the interruption, left. Willy's attention left the call.
"Does he often roll his eyes?"
Georgina nodded. "He's an eye-roller. The world disappoints him."
"Huh; ya don't say." Willy's attention went back to his call. "Ya do say… It is? 'Kay, then, don't go way, I'm on my way." Ending the call, Willy rose again. "I thought it was me that made him do that."
Georgina grinned up at him. "You're not that special."
Giggling, Willy lowered his head, his eyes sparkling as he caught Georgina's. "Touché," he laughed. "I gotta go."
"Are you sure?"
Willy bowed. "Gotta wait until the coast is clear here, though. This place is hopping with George running it. It was a tomb when Terence was here. Are ya sure ya wouldn't prefer living in the Factory?"
"Once a day... I love the Factory, but I love George more—"
"Give it time," deadpanned Willy.
"—and George," Georgina wouldn't be stopped, "wants to be like you."
"Like me?" Willy took a step away from the table.
"Yes, like you," insisted Georgina, "a success."
"As hard as that may be for you to believe. Running this store is my chance to be that," said George, returning. "It was your idea; you told me to take it over."
Startled to find George so close behind him, Willy slid a step over, bringing both into his line of sight. "So I did."
"Why?"
So, my dear exiles, Charlie would have a safe place to duck into if he couldn't make it to the Factory! If someone were after him, or if he were scared for some reason! Duh! That oldster in the shop; the one who collapsed; that's the man I'm thinking of. Even dying, he's dangerous! Do you not understand that? Do you think I would leave my Factory, if he weren't? If I didn't think, that even dying, he's a threat? Can you even imagine what it takes to motivate me to leave my Factory? How much I hate being away from it? But it's one thing to talk to walls, and another to waste one's breath! You won't listen! Why should I bother? You don't listen to the fun, simple, stuff, like get yourselves some furniture!
"Outbursts!"
The men turned as one to Georgina. She nodded, frowning with concern. She knew that Willy, growing paler, his fingers fidgeting, his lips a narrowing line, the hand on his walking-stick a fist, had been talking up a storm in his head, and planned to keep it there. She, herself, did it often. The deceptive silence, with its deadly undercurrent, needed ending.
"You're saying something," she coaxed. "Say it to us. We're listening."
"You're listening? Really? The way you listened about the furniture? Are you spies? Wanting to come and go? That's what spies do, you know." Willy's eyes narrowed accusingly. "They come and go, and take my secrets with them."
The bell jingled: more customers.
"Hang them, they can wait, or steal me blind, or both," said George. The flip of subjects in midstream was suspect. Why mention spies, which Willy knew they were not, unless to bring up the subject of secrets? George pounced. "We're not spies! We'd sooner have our tongues cut out then spill your secrets."
"You don't know my secrets," said Willy, with a bitter laugh. The sound of it scared him, and he sought to distance himself from it. "Terence kept the shop closed when I dropped in."
"Retail wasn't his priority," snapped George.
"You can say that again." Expressing the agreement had an effect. One agrees with allies, and like Mrs. Stemple, the Bouquets would better serve as that. The ratcheting tension in Willy drained away. He went on, calmly, to everyone's relief, including his. "Terence is the worst at retail. I told him so. Go see to your customers. I'll wait."
George left. Willy remained standing, planting his walking-stick before him, his crossed hands upon it. "Tell me. George, Georgina?"
"He was always an employee," confided Georgina, "the first to be let-go, if letting-go was in the cards. He rolled his eyes a lot—expressed his opinion—and the bosses didn't like it. Being let-go on a regular basis makes it hard to scrimp together enough to open one's own shop. What was in that candy you gave me?"
"An elixir of my own invention. Are you well? Any ill-effects?"
"Only the desire to speak in complete sentences more often."
"My apologies; I thought it would help you with stairs and such."
"Do you want us to stay here?"
"Someone, yes; it doesn't have to be you."
"Must it be me?" George was back, the customers sorted. "I closed the shop."
"You needn't have. I'm leaving, and no, it needn't be you. I'd rather it were Terence, but I suspect he's dead, so it's just us chickens, and there's a fox about."
"Dead!" the two gasped in unison, their hands separately finding their hearts.
"Yes," said Willy, making his way to the door that led to the shop. "Dead; D-E-D, and ya know how I know? Do ya? Do ya? Cuz no one would leave a Square Candy behind, and wait this long to come back for it, were they alive. So look alive, you two, because that geezer, that relic who collapsed in this very shop, is … the man who married my mother … and he's gunning for me, and that's not to be taken lightly, cuz ya never know with him, he may come after Charlie to do it, and that I won't have—"
"Charlie!" Hands over their mouths joined hands over their hearts.
"Yes, Charlie, and you can all bail now if you want. I can put you up anywhere, buy you property anywhere, you'll never see me again ... If that's what you want."
"No!" came the chorused shout. They were out of hands.
"Of course not!" shouted George, coloring. "That's the last thing we want! The last thing Charlie would want! We'll protect him!"
"I'll protect him," said Willy, in a voice so silky it sent shivers up their spines. "Don't doubt it, but you two, this shop, are a part of it… If you're up for it."
"We are!"
Georgina smacked the table with flat hands, raising dust, and George balled his hands into fists. And then he relaxed. "The man who married your mother… That was your father? I saw him collapse, with my own eyes. You asked me to tell you about it…" George's eyes were bright. Things were falling into place. "So that's why you asked about that… Your father… He tried to say, 'Wonka'. I thought he thought he was you. He was trying to tell me who he was." George paused, trying to understand. "Willy, I saw him. That man is ill; very ill." Having said Willy's name, George met Willy's eyes, and Willy allowed it. "Rumor has it, your father is terminally ill."
"Rumor is right, but rumor doesn't know the Pater." Willy held George's eyes, because this was crucial. "Terminal will slow him down, but if he has a scheme in mind, it won't stop him. So be on your guard, and keep this a safe haven for Charlie, should he need one."
Quiet filled the room. Feeling not at all himself in these awful clothes, and wishing he could be more confidant, Willy could think of nothing else to say to this aged pair of imploring, loving, disbelieving eyes. They wanted more from him, he knew, but he couldn't give it. Willy's family didn't work the Charlie's family did. Willy couldn't explain it to them any more than he could believe Charlie's family was truly any different. It felt wrong to leave it like this—the way it felt when a recipe was missing an ingredient … a critical ingredient—but Willy had no idea what the pater's nasty, wretched, miserable, unthinkable scheme might be, so this was as far as he could take it. No words he could think of would change this feeling in him, these facts, and that was the worst of it. Eyes downcast, at a loss, and wishing it were otherwise, Willy shrugged. Having dedicated himself to the sweet, bitter notes like this didn't sit well with him, and his pater was ever a bitter note. A mumbled, "I'll show myself out," was the only way Willy could think of to end this, and, believing he'd made a miserable hash of it, with a whirl, he made good his promise.
Stupefied, the Georges, —e and —ina, watched the flying hem of their benefactor's coat disappear. Sinking down in the chair vacated by the lately left Wonka, George took his wife's hands in his, clasping them tenderly. They gazed, stricken, into each other's eyes. "Doesn't he know…" began George, his voice trailing off.
"That this is his haven, too?" finished Georgina.
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!
There are echos of The Island Hopper in this: In her story Ordinary Phantasticus, Willy became a clerk, and in Cell Block F, the Factory was leveled.
Once again, allow me to thank my reviewers: The Silly Storyteller: Thanks for the confetti, it was very cheering. I'm glad you liked the chapter, and hope you like this one. Squirrela: The emotional landscape continues unsettled, I fear, and I thank you for your review. Linkawonka88: The short answer? Because I'm first and foremost a fan of the book. :-) JD as dark is the conventional wisdom, but I find Depp/Wonka a sweetie, and Wilder/Wonka chilling. Now, Dr. Wonka... I find him chilling, and in both cases when using the 'c' word, I don't mean relaxing! Thanks for your review. XXCandyLoverXX: Yup; it is a shocker. Perhaps Willy will see to it that the Georges rectify the omission. Thanks for your review. Sonny April: I'm glad to be back, and glad to hear from you. It has been awhile. Thank you.
