Wonka, p.5
Wonka, page 5
The case PINGED and Willy leaped from foot to foot excitedly.
“They’re ready,” he said, reaching into the pot. Noodle watched eagerly as he pulled out a perfectly formed chocolate. He shook it in the air to cool it a little. “Here,” he said, throwing it over to Noodle. “Try!”
Noodle caught it and cradled it gently in her hands. It was a white chocolate, shaped like a cloud with a beautiful glistening bolt of lightning running through it. She lifted it to her lips and nibbled a small bite. Then stopped.
Willy leaned closer, gazing hopefully at her.
“Well?” he said.
“I wish you hadn’t done that,” she whispered.
“Why not?” Willy asked urgently. “Don’t you like it? I really thought you would like it!”
“No, I like it,” Noodle said. “It’s just . . .”
Willy leaned closer. “What?”
“Now each day I don’t have chocolate will be a little harder,” she said.
“Oh!” Willy said, and he breathed a sigh of relief. “That, Noodle, is exactly how you should feel after eating chocolate.” He paused, an idea forming. “How would you like to have all the chocolate you can eat every day for the rest of your life?”
“A lifetime supply?” Noodle said, sounding skeptical.
“A lifetime supply,” Willy confirmed.
Noodle raised a suspicious eyebrow. “What would I have to do?”
“Not much,” Willy said. “Just get me out of here.”
Noodle laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
“Shh! It’s easy!” Willy said, and then he began excitedly pacing the room. “I’ll get someone to cover my shift and you can smuggle me out in your laundry cart—just for a few hours, mind. Nobody would even know I was gone!”
“What’s the point of that?” Noodle said.
“To sell chocolate, of course!” Willy said. “We’ll split the profits and pay off Mrs. Scrubitt in no time!”
“It’s a nice idea, Willy . . .”
“It’s a great idea!” he corrected her.
Noodle’s face grew serious. “But it’ll never work.”
“Of course it will,” Willy said dismissively. “Now, eat the rest of your chocolate.”
She popped the rest in her mouth. “You don’t understand,” she said as soon as she’d gulped it down. “Mrs. Scrubitt’s like a hawk. She keeps her beady eye on everything that comes in and out of the washhouse. Except . . . huh.”
“What is it?” Willy asked eagerly.
“No, it’s nothing,” Noodle said, shaking her head in surprise.
Willy shrugged. “Oh, okay.”
“. . . Huh!” Noodle said.
“Ah! That’s the double-huh!” Willy cheered. “That’s not nothing. That’s the silver lining at work. It’s given you an idea!”
“Okay,” Noodle said, her eyes suddenly wide with excitement. “So the one time she’s ever dropped her guard was when this aristocrat came into the laundry. Had a castle he couldn’t find his way back to or something and ended up here. He was only asking for directions, but she was all over him like a rash. It was disgusting.”
“That’s it, Noodle!” Willy cried. “All we have to do is find her an aristocrat and slip out while she’s distracted.”
He popped a silver lining in his mouth.
“Yeah, but where are we going to find an aristocrat?” Noodle said.
“Huh,” Willy said instantly.
Noodle moved closer. “Huh?”
“Huh!” Willy said again.
“A double-huh!” Noodle cried with delight.
“Have you got a pencil and paper?” Willy asked quickly, his eyes darting around the room in search of one. “Because I’ve got a marvelous idea . . .”
Chapter Six
The Vault
In the dead of night, the Chief of Police walked alone through the town square. His big leather boots crunched loudly against the frosty ground and his pace was slow but deliberate, like he had walked the route a million times before. He passed the frozen fountain and made his way to the cathedral, his mustache twitching, eyes wide as if he were possessed. When he reached the door, he raised his fist and pounded the wood in a strange series of knocks.
The door creaked open and out flooded the sound of Latin chanting. Monks, barely visible in the flickering candlelight, glided up and down the aisles as if they were flying.
“Keep up the chanting, fellas,” the Chief said. “You sound terrific.”
He quickened his pace, eyes fixed on a confession booth in the far corner. It was an ornate box, divided down the middle and housing two seats, which were concealed by a heavy curtain. The Chief was so large he had to squeeze himself into the booth sideways. He plonked himself down and, turning to the priest waiting inside, said, “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned” in a humdrum tone, as if he wasn’t even really trying. “I have had a hundred and fifty of these chocolates since my last confession.” Then he did a peculiar thing—he slid the priest a chocolate.
“Temptation is very hard to resist,” the priest whispered as he took the chocolate and inspected it, giving it a sniff.
“You can say that again,” the Chief said.
The priest gave the chocolate one final sniff and nodded his approval. Then he pulled a lever on the wall. Immediately, the whole confession booth rumbled and grumbled like an old car, and the Chief’s side of the booth began to lower. The Chief crossed his legs and sat back casually, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. slowly, like an elevator, it descended and disappeared under the floor.
The Chief emerged into a crypt lit by dim candlelight and was greeted by a guard.
“Evening, Chief,” she said as she unbolted a thick metal door and pushed it open for him.
Beyond was a corridor lined with pipes, valves, and gauges, like the bowels of a factory. The Chief strolled through confidently. He knew where he was going. Soon, the corridor opened up into a room where, cocooned in three tall armchairs, sat three familiar figures.
Slugworth finished scribbling in a smart green ledger and looked up at the Chief. Next to him, Fickelgruber was making himself a chocolate martini, and Prodnose was aggressively biting into an ice cream. Standing behind them was Miss Bon-Bon, Slugworth’s secretary. She was busily flicking through some paperwork and raised her eyes only momentarily to acknowledge the Chief’s presence.
“Good evening, all! I bring my invoice,” the Chief said, brandishing a piece of paper. “One chocolatier moved on for the usual fee.”
Miss Bon-Bon took the invoice. Slugworth handed her the green ledger, and she placed the invoice inside it very carefully. Prodnose threw the Chief a box of chocolates.
The Chief’s eyes were suddenly alight with chocoholic desire and grew so wide and hungry, they looked like they might escape from his head and get to the chocolate first! His mouth became a swampy mess of saliva as he lunged for the box.
“Ooh, yeah, that’s the good stuff,” he purred as he scooped the chocolates into his greedy fist. “Is there a second layer? Yeah, there is! And a third? . . . No, that’s just box.”
“How would you like to earn a few more of these?” Slugworth asked.
The Chief nodded, his mouth now too chock-full of chocolate to speak.
“We think Mr. Wonka requires more than just ‘moving on.’ He’s good,” Slugworth muttered.
“too good!” Prodnose added.
“What’s more, he only charges one sovereign a chocolate!” Fickelgruber cried. “So anyone can afford them! Even the . . . the . . .”
“The poor?” the Chief suggested as he gulped down the last of the chocolate.
Fickelgruber retched and raised a handkerchief to his mouth.
“He doesn’t like it when people say ‘poor,’ ” Prodnose explained.
Fickelgruber retched again.
“Sorry, Felix,” Prodnose said, patting his accomplice’s shoulder. “Sorry for saying ‘poor’ again. And again just now.”
“Stop saying it!” Fickelgruber pleaded.
“We want you to send Wonka a ‘message,’ ” Slugworth said, ignoring the others.
“Backed up by physical force!” Prodnose shouted.
“That if he tries to sell chocolate in this town again,” Slugworth said, “he’s liable to meet with a little ‘accident.’ ”
“In which he dies,” Prodnose clarified.
Fickelgruber waved his handkerchief. “You don’t have to say it. We all know it’s a death threat.”
“Just making sure we’re all on the same page,” Prodnose said.
“No one’s on your page, Prodnose,” Fickelgruber muttered under his breath.
Prodnose began to rise out of his chair. “What’s that supposed to mean? Well, I know what it means—actually, what does it mean? What even is a page? None of us are on pages . . . Are we talking book pages?”
“Gentlemen, please,” Slugworth said. “Let’s keep it to business, shall we? So, what do you say? Do we have a deal, Chief?”
The Chief stood still. The empty box in his hand started to shake. “Now, look here, fellas. I’ve always been happy to help in the past . . .”
“And you’ve been handsomely compensated . . .” Fickelgruber said.
“And I appreciate that, really . . . really I do,” the Chief said, stumbling a little over his words. “I love your chocolate, especially those little orange ones with the dots on? They sure go down smooth—but that’s not the point! The point is, I’m an officer of the law. And lately I’ve been wondering if all this criminality is really suitable for someone in my position.”
Slugworth’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”
“I can’t just go ’round roughing up your competition,” the Chief said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
The chocolatiers exchanged looks, and slowly they rose from their tall chairs, like snakes in long grass.
“Well now, Chief, I’m glad to see you’re a man of integrity,” Slugworth said. “But how about . . .” He leaned closer. “A hundred of your favorite chocolates?”
The Chief strained to resist, gritting his teeth. “I’m actually trying to cut down on chocolate, you know, to get in shape for the police officers’ ball.”
Slugworth offered his hand. “Seven hundred boxes?”
The Chief’s eyes briefly lit up. “That’s a lot . . .” he said, his fingers twitching in eagerness to do the deal. “I’m sorry, NO!”
Slugworth flipped a big switch on the wall. Suddenly it was raining chocolates! Great big ones were thudding down all around them. Slugworth offered his hand again and whispered enticingly, “Eighteen hundred boxes? It’s more than most could eat . . .”
The Chief stared down at Slugworth’s hand, and he found that, finally, he could resist the chocolate no more. Morals were one thing, but this was chocolate. So much chocolate.
“DEAL!” he cried.
Chapter Seven
The Aristocrat
The gentle sound of dawn birds singing was shattered by an earsplitting whistle.
Willy stepped out of his room, rubbing his eyes, as one by one the workers from the washhouse lined up for roll call beside him. He had walked into the room the night before feeling broken—but Noodle had made him remember that people needed his chocolate, and he shouldn’t let anyone, Scrubitt or Slugworth or whoever, steal his dreams. And so he spent the entire night wide awake, running through all the possibilities of escape. The people of the world needed him to make chocolate, not scrub their laundry. If only no one had to do the laundry . . . If only there was someone, or something, who would gladly give it a whirl . . .
“Bad first-night’s sleesp, huh?” Piper said, wincing at Willy’s exhausted face.
“Oh yes, not a wink,” he whispered. “I drew a made-up aristocrat, and then I couldn’t stop dreaming about the possibilities of today!”
Piper turned to Abacus. “He’s cracked already.”
“Bell! Benz! Crunch! Chucklesworth! Wonka!” Bleacher shouted, and the workers dutifully filed down the stairs to the washhouse.
“Bleacher!” Mrs. Scrubitt cried out as they passed. “Toilet’s blocked again!”
Bleacher rolled his eyes.
“Ah!” Willy said, taking his chance. “The unmistakable sound of love.”
“The what?” Bleacher snapped.
“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?” Willy whispered. “She’s madly in love with you!”
Bleacher stared at him for a second, then said with a snort, “Mrs. Scrubitt?!”
Willy put on his most serious face. “Besotted,” he lied. “And why not? Look at you: a fine figure of a man. You just need to tidy yourself up a bit, get some new clothes, have a bath.”
“What’s a bath?” Bleacher said.
“Oh . . . a bit of a scrub. A splash around in some soap. Like the laundry!” Willy explained. “You could also consider a nice new outfit—show off the legs.”
Bleacher stared off into the distance, and Willy knew then that whatever little cogs Bleacher had up there in his skull, they were now most certainly turning. “Mrs. Scrubitt would be wowed,” he added, just to make sure.
“Get in there!” Bleacher cried, shaking his head as if he were shaking the nonsense out of it. He shoved Willy down the stairs to the washhouse.
But as he sauntered off with an unmistakable spring in his step, Willy felt certain the plan was afoot . . .
* * *
* * *
Upstairs, Mrs. Scrubitt marched into the shop and screamed. “Bleacher?! Did you hear what I said about the toilet being blocked? Curse that idle peasant! It’s a worm-water fiasco in there!”
She stopped when she saw Noodle standing in the middle of the room. She wasn’t folding laundry—instead she was intently studying a piece of paper.
“What’s that?” Mrs. Scrubitt sneered.
Noodle immediately whipped the paper behind her back. “Nothing, Mrs. Scrubitt.”
Mrs. Scrubitt put her hands on her hips and sneered. “Do you like the coop, Noodle?”
“All right!” Noodle cried in mock surrender, holding out the piece of paper so Mrs. Scrubitt could see it. “I was collecting laundry from Professor Monocle the other day. He’s writing a book about the Bavarian royal family. Got sketches of noblemen all over his wall. And this one looked . . . rather familiar.”
Mrs. Scrubitt took the bait. She tore the paper from Noodle’s hand and inspected it.
For a moment she was silent, and Noodle worried she’d figured out the truth—that it was a drawing she and Willy had cobbled together, nothing more. But then suddenly the woman burst to life. “HOLY WORM WATER,” she gasped. “IT’S JUST LIKE . . .”
“Mr. Bleacher,” Noodle said, nodding furiously.
“Are you telling me Bleacher’s a Bavarian aristocrat?” Mrs. Scrubitt screeched.
“You can’t deny there’s a certain quiet nobility to him,” Noodle said, trying not to laugh.
Mrs. Scrubitt stared off into the distance, a dozy smile spreading across her face. A smile was spreading across Noodle’s face too. Then suddenly, Mrs. Scrubitt snapped back to reality. “What have you got to smile about?” she spat at Noodle. “GO GET MY WORM WATER!” She aimed a kick at Noodle, which sent her scurrying away.
Immediately, Noodle peeked back around the door, worried Mrs. Scrubitt had come to her senses. But instead, the horrible woman was hugging Willy’s scrappy drawing and sighing!
Only a few hours later, the smell of fancy soap wafted through the corridors of the washhouse, followed by heavy footsteps.
“Oh, FINALLY!” Mrs. Scrubitt shouted. “Bleacher, the toilet, I have been calling for you all morning, where have you be—” She stopped talking and her jaw dropped.
“Where’d you get them dungarees?” Mrs. Scrubitt asked, looking from Bleacher to the drawing and back again. He was wearing shorts so tight his thighs squeaked as he moved, and he’d combed his hair into a neat little quiff.
“Found it all in lost property. Why?” he said smoothly. “Suit me?”
“Not bad,” Mrs. Scrubitt rasped, trying to keep her cool.
Bleacher shifted awkwardly, trying to smile sweetly but in fact just baring his teeth. “Mrs. Scrubitt,” he said. “Can I just say, your eyes are like two . . . rabbit droppings in a bowl of custard.”
“Oh, my lord!” she oozed. “You’ll make me blush!”
“Fancy some worm water, you . . . maggot?” Bleacher said, uncorking the bottle with his teeth.
Mrs. Scrubitt grabbed the bottle and took a swig, then let the stringy water dribble down her chin as she grinned up at him.
He plucked a particularly juicy worm bit from her chin and lifted it slowly to his mouth, ripping it with his teeth, making Mrs. Scrubitt shiver with delight.
Noodle stood by the door with her fist in her mouth, trying not to laugh—and also trying not to be very, very sick.
* * *
* * *
Unlike upstairs, down in the washhouse everything seemed to be as it was every day—nothing but scrubbing.
Then Willy appeared, skipping out of his section. He began to load old bits of laundry equipment into a laundry cart—ropes, a mangle, rollers.
The workers watched him as he heaved the cart across the room and disappeared with it back into his section. As soon as the door closed, loud bangs and clangs sounded.
“I told you he’d lost it,” Piper said, shooting Abacus a worried look.
The workers inched closer until their ears were pressed against the door.
“Should we go in?” Larry whispered as the bangs grew louder. “I could tell a joke and cheer him up?”
Suddenly, the door flew open and Willy strolled out. Much to their surprise, his trousers had a perfectly cut square hole in the bottom.
