If Charlie thought the next few minutes would be devoted to argument—heated, blaming, or otherwise—dissecting the plan and its failures, he was mistaken. As the door clicked closed with that quiet, sighing thud, a sound heard only in the most expensively appointed cars, Willy said nothing. Charlie's father's voice drifted back to them: "Where to now?"
Willy, done with the parading on the sidewalk portion of the morning, perched now on the tuck-and-rolled, buttery-soft leather of the rear seat, chortled with the glee of a fugitive making it across the county-line ahead of the cops. "Home, James!" he crowed, and immediately fell to giggling, countermanding his own order. "Strike that! Detour it! You're not James! You're Noah." Willy took a gander out the rear window. "We're well ahead of the hoard. Get further ahead, will you, my dear Noah? Slip down a side-street, any side-street, and double-back to the school. We'll drop Charlie off, and head back to the Factory. I have some re-thinking to do; not much, but some."
Noah pressed the accelerator, the engine responding with a push on the occupants that encouraged Willy and Charlie to sink back into the upholstery. The trees lining the streets drifted by, metronomes of light and shadow as the car passed. Three sets of clicks from the metronome of the turn signaler, and the new scheme worked a treat. The Press were mostly gone; the children were mostly in class, and Charlie had no trouble sliding from the car.
"See you here when school's out," Willy said.
"Really?" asked Charlie.
"Really," said Willy. "The school is that way."
With a grin, Charlie bounded up the steps.
"Really?" asked Noah, as they drove out the drive for the second time.
"Really," said Willy, making himself comfortable. "What held you up?"
"Media people were already here, but mostly, it was the Principal. He lectured me on the disruptive nature of this car, which led him to the disruptive nature of yourself. He kept trying to see into the back. I think he wanted to give you what-for, personally. By the time he finished, and went up the steps, more Press had arrived. I thought you might not like the numbers, so I stayed."
"T'was a good thought, thank you. As for the Principal and his problems, principally, I don't care." Cupping his fingers and sliding his thumb back and forth against his index finger, Willy tightened the corner of his mouth. "If you weren't looking at the road, you'd see me, playing the world's smallest violin. It's a public school. If Charlie wants to go there, he can go there."
"Does Charlie want to go there?"
"I don't know. Why're ya asking me? Don't you know?"
Noah braked as the light ahead turned red. "Charlie has options now. Should he go?"
Willy shifted, not as comfortable as he had been. He'd heard Nora suggest Charlie be taught in the Factory, and certainly, that was possible, but… He crossed his arms. "Did I not say, 'not my department'? Cuz if I didn't, it's not my department."
Noah let it go. They were approaching the Factory, and pressuring Willy never seemed to work out. Through the gates, he crossed the courtyard, pulled close to the steps, turned the wheel left, and backed the car onto the hydraulic lift that was the floor of the niche on the right. The lift lowered, Noah maneuvered to park beside a Wonka truck, and the lift raised back into its flush position with the ground above.
"I might do something about that," said Willy, as he and Noah extracted themselves from the car, the sullen note gone from Willy's voice. "It's gonna be a pain driving this car on and off that platform twice a day."
"So you think the public school is the way to go?"
A pause, and then a sidewards glance. "Wanna see more of the machinery you're gonna work on?"
Noah smiled. That was one answer. He turned his attention to Willy's proposition, and nodded. If it were as nice as the machinery he'd just been using, this job was gonna be cake.
Willy took Noah down to the lower levels of the Factory, where the largest turbines were, but having done so, left him with Oompa-Loompas. That was fine with Noah, Willy was no doubt busy, and they'd meet up again at the Rolls. Noah was looking forwards to what the plan modifications would be.
"Any questions?"
Noah about fell over. Two hours later, and Willy was back. "Hundreds, but they can keep. All good with you?"
"Your wife wants a job."
"Doing what?"
"She didn't say."
"Did you give her one?"
"Couldn't think of one. Come with me, I'll show you another level."
Noah followed, and Willy led. They had arrived at one of the pasture levels, with Willy interested in showing Noah some irrigation apparatus. "I have a few more things to do elsewhere, but the team here can show you the pumps."
That won't be easy for them to do, thought Noah: he saw no one about. Willy, nearing the pumps, saw what Noah saw, and then he saw the problem. "Hmm… Oh." On the ground, in the dirt near the pump, was a circle with a dot in its center.
"They've gone home," said Noah, standing beside him, and seeing what Willy was seeing.
"So they have," said Willy, erasing the mark with his foot. "So nice of you to remember this morning what that sign meant."
"So nice of you to show and tell me what that sign meant, and all the others, over the weekend."
"Heh. If yer gonna work out in the boonies of this Factory," Willy laughed, "ya gotta know trail signs." Willy bent to examine the pump. "We were too slow. They've finished with it. No problem, we can go. I do have Doris to see. I'll meet you later, at the car."
Noah arrived to find Willy pacing the length of the passenger side, and Rolls already on the lift. "Did you want to drive, Willy?"
"Of course not," said Willy. "I want to go. We should get there early. Then we can leave early."
"If Charlie comes out early. Are you sure you don't want to drive? I'm happy to ride along."
Electing to ride shotgun, Willy had opened the front passenger side door. "Of course I'm sure. Why would I want to drive?" He ducked his head and took his seat.
Opening his own door, Noah slid behind the wheel. Before Noah could activate the remote in the Rolls, Oompa-Loompas saw to it that the lift began its climb. With the courtyard before them, the lift clicked into place. They both noticed the Press gathered at the gates, but not in the same number as this morning.
"Can you drive?"
"Terence asked me that. Of course I can drive. Who do you think put the car on the lift? It's those other people out there who can't drive." Willy crossed his arms, his walking-stick leaning against his knee. "They're positively peculiar."
Noah couldn't stop a smile.
The school was as besieged as it had been this morning. Running the gauntlet from the comfort of his rolling fortress, Willy looked for Your Name in the crowd, but didn't see him. He smiled to himself at that, and decided those had been advertising dollars well spent. The Evening Standard had been happy to get them, and Willy had been happy to say that if he had any interesting announcements, he'd give them to Your Name, exclusively, but not, when it came to Charlie and himself, if he saw Your Name packed in amongst the Press pack.
'Like, you'd tell him if you were holding another Golden Ticket contest?' they'd asked, the question echoing down the telephone line.
'Like, no,' Willy had explained back, 'Like, I'm not holding another Golden Ticket contest, but thanks for asking.'
'Who is Your Name?' they'd asked.
'You're a newspaper. I'd tell you to find out for yourselves, but I know you know I know, so I'll say, lest you hound me: Shane Schaefer.' With that, Willy had laughed, and hung up the phone.
Through the last of the gauntlet, Willy leant forwards. "Park by the steps."
"That yellow paint means it's a 'no-parking' area."
Willy sat up and stared. "You were parked there this morning."
"I wasn't parked. I was standing."
"'Kay, stand by the steps. It's a good spot. Ready to go to work?"
"Work?"
"Somebody's gotta keep the kiddies away from my car on your side. Here: I have some shammies." Willy pulled out an assortment of shammy cloths from an interior pocket of his great coat. "Use 'em to wave 'em away like you're a matador, and they're the bull. If they touch the car, put a shammy in their hand and make 'em shammy where they touched. That'll stop 'em."
"What if they want to shammy the car?"
"Then give 'em a cloth, and the car will gleam. It's win-win. Hither come the heathens. I'm getting out."
Willy was as good as his word. Noah, taken by surprise, jumped out, too. He'd thought Willy would hide in the coach, but nope, as large as life, he was out! The click of cameras filled their ears, with flashes of light so swift they were strobe-like. "Won't those be exciting photos," said Willy. He changed his voice, becoming Walter Cronkite, and spoke a caption: "Willy Wonka stands beside his car. Film at eleven."
"There are so few pictures of you," said Noah, from across the car's roof.
"That won't be true after this week," sang Willy. "Children, children, how lovely to see you!" he gushed, as children poured from the school. "Have any of you seen Charlie Bucket?" Willy's smile would lift the sun from below the horizon.
"He's back there. Are you Willy Wonka?"
Sharp as a tack, that tyke: "I am indeed." Tipping his top-hat, and bending from the waist he made a little bow, his walking-stick adding a flourish that kept those crowding in on him away: walking-stick distance away. It was enough, and as the flourishes continued, unpredictably, it remained enough.
"Can you give us some candy?"
"Of course I can't," responded Willy, so cheerily, it took them a minute to realize he'd said, 'no'. In the ensuing silence, Charlie worked his way closer. School staff were getting involved now, helping to clear a path for Charlie, and keeping kiddies away from the car. "I have no idea what allergies you may have. We wouldn't want hives popping out all over those little pelts of yours, now, would we? Charlie!"
Charlie was arm's length away, and Willy clapped his hands together, the sound as happy as pop-corn popping. Thrilled to see Charlie so near, Willy's eyes blazed like meteors. You'd know it, without seeing it, if you knew him—and with the oversized sunglasses Willy wore, no one was seeing it—but they could sense it. Willy's maroon-gloved hand went to the door handle, his thumb on the latch.
Sensing their pilot on the path to sugar-fueled heights was about to take flight, voices in octaves as high as their desperation took to chanting: "We want to see the Chocolate Factory! We want to see the Chocolate Factory! We want to see the Chocolate Factory!"
The Principal appeared on the scene, his face twisted with perplexity, but Willy had known this would happen: how could it not? There wasn't a person alive who wouldn't want to get a gander at his beloved Chocolate Factory. Charlie was at his side now, they could escape, but this was worth taking a minute. He let his hand drop from the door. Wouldn't these not-so-innocents find it disappointing to find how often one's choices, particularly unkind choices, came back to haunt one? How like the tour children these children were. I want, I want, I want. Well… Raising high his arms, Willy joined his hands together, as if in prayer—a pray being answered—holding the pose as he spoke. "What a fantabulous, wonderlious, yummy-ummy, idea! Stupendous! Remarkable!"
The children let their chanting die down. Mr. Wonka was going to let them visit! Joy filled their eyes like a slot machine paying out a jackpot, clinking coins spilling over each other, winking in the light, and falling to the floor. While the children's chanting died away, and their hopes rose, Willy bent towards Charlie, his hand shielding his mouth to prevent lip-reading, and told Charlie to get in the car, close the door, and be sure all the windows were rolled up. Wordless, Charlie complied, and Willy, hearing that comforting, sighing thud, straightened up.
"Ya wanna visit my Factory, do ya?"
Covered by the children's cheers, an English teacher covered her face, wincing at the diction example this side-show in a top-hat was setting.
"Is that because your dear friend, Charlie Bucket, lives there now, and you'd like to see where he lives?"
Confused why anyone would think Bucket had anything to do with it, the cheers died out. Not a one of them counted Charlie Bucket a friend. Someone you passed in the hall with a nod, or sat near in class, wondering how much thinner that kid could get and still stand up, but that was it. Charlie Bucket wasn't fun. He didn't run around playing at recess, the way they did. He sat at his desk at recess, like a nerd, except he wasn't that smart. Charlie Bucket was like the wallpaper in the Principal's office: unseen for the most part, and not something worth caring about. Had they cared, they'd have shared their food with him, but they didn't think to. His fate wasn't their fate, and his fate was a fate they didn't want. What if, due to proximity, Bucket's misfortune rubbed off on them? That thought alone made it hard to breathe, much less be around him.
What the children did want was to see the scene of the crimes: the factory that turned children into blueberries, or stretched them as thin as a ribbon, and as tall as a budding skyscraper, or buried them in garbage, or better yet, covered them with chocolate! That was what they wanted! They knew that what had happened to those kids wouldn't happen to them! They were too smart for that! They were so smart, they could tell by the way Mr. Wonka had asked the question that the right answer was 'yes', Charlie was the reason they wanted to go, and so, with a clamor that outdid their chanting, they shouted: Yes! Yes! YES!
Mr. Wonka smiled. With a glance over his shoulder he checked the car; it was as he wanted it. Facing the mob again, he stood tall, balancing his hands on his walking-stick, held centered before him. The children hushed. They knew he wouldn't speak until they were silent. Mr. Wonka waited until he could hear his own heart beat. The teachers envied him his ability to achieve such attention. Bah! The call of candy! It wasn't fair.
"Perfect!" said Mr. Wonka. "Such considerate children you are! Now, which children visited Charlie's home when he lived at the bottom of the hill? Show of hands! Today is for repeat visitors only."
A murmur swelled amid the sound of shuffling feet, as furtive eyes shifted one to the other. Not a one of them had visited Charlie's home. Not a one of them had wanted to be involved in that train-wreck of slow starvation, and the examples of their elders had made that easy. It wasn't the children only, whose eyes at this moment were cast downwards. A hand at the back went up.
Willy's sunglasses came off. Piercing amethyst irises cut to the hand's owner. "Charlie is in the car you'll be riding in," said Willy, with melting silk in his voice. "We'll have plenty of time to talk."
Like a claw retracting, the hand curled upon itself and disappeared. Willy's sunglasses returned to the bridge of his nose. "Then wonderful, we're done! Toodles, tykes! We'll take it up again tomorrow."
With a wide grin that melted into a grim line the moment he took his seat in the car, Willy gave the signal for Noah to drive.
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; reviews are nice; so are favs and follows, and I thank you, one and all, for one, some, or all.
How 'bout that? Not quite so long a wait as last time, but today is that special day, February 1st, Tour Day—Book and 2005—so 'natch, I must post. Please enjoy, as I hope you will.
Thank you, reviewers:
Squirrela: It's one of the points the books make more than once that Willy is not infallible, but with all else that goes on, I think that idea gets lost. I thought I'd find it. He does correct, and he doesn't give up, and I think that's the main thing. And, here is the next chapter, after not too long, I hope. Thanks for your patience.
1234567890qwerty: I'm glad you like it, and I'm glad you took the time to tell me. Thank you.
Crazy Cakes 23: Partially? Alastor seems a hybrid between the Wilder and Depp versions of Mr. Wonka: Depp's look; Wilder's personality; Wilder's birthday as the day he died; so mix-and-match, and this is what happens when one mixes-and-matches: one gets a whole new character. Alastor isn't either of them: he's Alastor. :-)
Writting-acting: Thanks for taking the time to post some encouragement. Your wording reminds me of an exchange in Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator that I shall relate here: "You amaze me," said Grandma Josephine. "Dear Lady," said Mr. Wonka, "you are new to the scene. When you have been with us a little longer, nothing will amaze you."
