Credit Crunchie

by Iain Pattison

          The mob surged against the factory gates, angrily buffeting into the line of security guards. For a moment the helmeted, padded men were forced backwards but after a few swift jabs with their crackling Taser sticks, the sea of protestors reeled and retreated. Both sides glared across the narrow divide as the taunting chats began again.

            “Out, out, Oompa loompas out.”

            “Go home, you orange-faced scabs.”

            “Pack yer bags, you creepy pint-sized freaks.”

            Young Charlie Bucket shivered, even though the interior of the limousine was uncomfortably hot. This wasn’t right he told himself. This wasn’t how it supposed to be.

            As the car slowly approached the swirling mass of bodies, his nine-year-old eyes read the placards with a growing sense of unease:

            British jobs for British workers.

            Wonka is a Judas.

            Bar this chocolate!

             It was awful. Sickening. How could the town’s love for Willy Wonka have evaporated so fast, he wondered sadly. It had vanished as quickly as … well, a bite of candy.

            When Wonka had laid off the men who worked in his mysterious confectionery production centre, he’d sounded genuinely sad and wracked with regret. It was the economic downturn, he’d explained on the evening TV news, holding his famous top hat to his chest in contrition.

            “I might be able to take a sunrise, sprinkle it with dew, cover it in chocolate and a miracle or two … but even I can’t beat global market forces,” he’d remarked ruefully.

            And perhaps the stunned families who depended on Wonka’s superlative sweetie empire for their livelihoods would have backed him in his moment of crisis and despair - had he not kept on the oompa loompas. And at minimum wage. And shipped in even more of the bizarre, diminutive, ochre-skinned figures to man the remaining production lines.

            The town’s outrage and sense of betrayal was unconfined and now, it seemed to Charlie, it was about to explode. Hatred shone from every gesticulating demonstrator and he was terrified they’d attack the lemon sherbet-coloured limousine when they spotted the Wonka logo on the side and the silent, stony-faced oompa loompa driving.

            He reached across, grabbing his grandfather’s hand. “I’m scared,” he whispered. “Can’t we just forget it all and go home, Grandpa Joe. This visit is a really bad idea. I don’t care about the tour. I don’t care about the free samples, honest. I just want to go home.”

            Grandpa Joe winked reassuringly. “Don’t fret yourself, Charlie. It’ll be fine,” he promised. “Mr Wonka has it all arranged. We’re going in the back door. No-one will know. We’ll be in and out before anyone realises.”

            Charlie hoped his silver-haired gramps was right. It might be fine, and no-one would know, but he still felt he was being disloyal to all his friends and their now jobless fathers.

            He sighed. This was supposed to be the happiest day in his life. But somehow it felt like the saddest.

  * * * *

           Winning an exclusive, VIP, all areas, no doors barred trip to Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory had sounded like the ultimate dream. Months earlier when he’d first clutched The Golden Ticket - the most valuable and sought after possession in the entire world - Charlie knew he was the luckiest boy who’d ever lived; maybe even the luckiest person who’d ever lived!

             But now, the ironic, cruel timing of it hurt like an insult. How could he enjoy the tour - and the lifetime supply of free chocolate - when his neighbours were struggling to get by on thin soup and stale bread?             That thought echoed around his brain as they rumbled over cobble stones and the car came to an abrupt halt in a small courtyard at the rear of the enormous, brooding, gothic factory.

            The driver didn’t budge, didn’t turn round or say a word. It made Charlie feel even more uneasy.

            “Look, Charlie, look,” Grandpa Joe exclaimed.

            Gazing to where his grandfather was pointing, he could see a scrum of small tangerine-toned figures tumble through the imposing double doors, rolling a narrow red carpet out before them. It whipped across the cobbles, opening with a crack right by the passenger side of the car.

            And then, suddenly, framed in the doorway like a work of art a twinkling, glittering, ethereal presence appeared in top hat, frock coat, checked trousers and frilly blouse. It was him …the candy man, the pixy-personality purveyor of sugary dreams, the mythological master chocolatier, the king of confectionary - Willy Wonka.

            Stepping forward in one fluid motion, he tapped loudly with his cane, sending up a flurry of  pink sparks.

            The oompa loompas surged forward and formed an honour guard. In a jaunty walk - part swagger, part tap dance - he approached the car and pulled open the door. With a sweeping bow, he took off his top hat.

            “Ah, Charlie Bucket and his illustrious grandfather,” he said gleefully. “Welcome, welcome. We have so much to see, so much to do, so much to taste and nibble. Come, come, my friends. Time, tide and taffy wait for no man.”

            Grandpa Joe grabbed Wonka’s hand and pumped it up and down. “I just wanted to say what a real honour it is to meet you. We’re beside ourselves with excitement. Aren’t we, Charlie?”

            Charlie nodded uncertainly. “I guess…”

            “And I’m so pleased to see you,” the candy king replied as they headed hurriedly for the factory doors. “We so rarely have guests and here you are …” He nodded over the tall wall at the threatening chants. “… and in one piece too.”

            A small dark shape arced upwards from the crowd and spun through the air, clinking off the top of the wall and landed at their feet, bursting into flames.

            Charlie yelped in surprise, and his grandfather jumped.

            “Ah, more Molotovs,” Wonka observed, dancing neatly round the  flames as they ignited the carpet. “Must be cocktail hour.”

            He shooed them forward, ignoring the various orange figures frantically trying to stamp out the mini inferno.

            “Personally, I don’t think the bombers know what they’re doing,” he whispered conspiratorially. “They keep forgetting the little umbrellas and those cute maraschino cherries on a stick.”

            A second petrol-filled bottle hurtled through the air, but the trio didn’t see it land. They were already through the opening and into the famed and fabulous factory of fondant-filled fun. 

* * * *

Charlie had spent endless hours fantasising about what the fabled interior of Wonka’s factory would look like. Sometimes he imagined it as  a futuristic, gleaming, stainless steel cathedral full of robotised assembly lines, computer control panels with dancing, flashing lights, and laser guns beaming their precise prism rays through solid shimmering sheets of marzipan munchiness.

            Other times he pictured a fairytale landscape with golden fields of barley sugar, and enchanted woods where liquorice grew on lemon drop trees and praline pigs snuffled around the ground for buried chocolate truffles.

            But as he and Grandpa Joe signed their confidentially contracts and his gaze spun round, he realised with a sinking heart that none of the dreams had prepared him for the reality. Wonka’s world was … well, not really that magical. Not any more. In fact, it looked a little squalid.

            “Is this it?” he muttered, before he could stop the words pouring out. “Is this all there is?”

            Wonka gave him a sharp look. “I know things aren’t quite what they once were, Master Bucket, but there’s a credit crunch on and the banks have cut our overdraft. We’ve had to make a few economies.”

            Wow, Charlie thought, he wasn’t joking. The factory was chilly - the furnace turned down to the absolute minimum. And the lights were so dim that Charlie could barely see more than a few feet ahead. But even in the gloom he could tell that there hadn’t been any maintenance carried out in months.

            Wind whistled in broken windows high up on the walls, and in the middle of the grand entrance hall the once majestic river of flowing, melted chocolate lay stagnant and unmoving. Against one bank, the bewitching barge that normally took wide-eyed guests round any part of the factory at breakneck speed, lay broken and abandoned.

            Nodding to it, their host shrugged and said: “I’m afraid we’ll have to walk round the tour.”

            “But I’m nearly 97-years-old,” Grandpa Joe complained. “Keeping up with my old legs will be impossible.”

            Wonka thought about it for a moment and patted his arm sympathetically. “Yes, true, but if you get too far in front, you can always wait and let us catch up.”

            Without waiting for an answer the candy man sauntered forward, signalling them to accompany him. But to what, Charlie wondered queasily as his grandfather hobbled into first gear and they followed Wonka into the semi-darkness.

* * * *

Production lines lying idle; mesmerizing magical machines, cold and still. Nougat bushes untended and wilting.  Emaciated squirrels precariously carrying the last of a failing crop of nuts, the levitating lemonade fountain misfiring, sending erratic bursts of bubbles across their path.

            For an hour they viewed saddening sight after saddening sight. The tour was heart-breaking.  Every device in the place was malfunctioning for want of a little repair cash, storerooms were empty, the miserable oompa loompa packing staff worked at a snail’s pace and the air of despair wafted through every corner of the once colourful and theatrical treasury of treats.

             It was though a huge curse had affected the building and all those who toiled inside. Charlie was stunned.

            And it had affected the products themselves, he realised sadly. Every sweet tasted flat and ordinary, as though cheaper, less flavoursome, ingredients had been substituted. The hues were muted, and the wrappers seemed made from thinner, less robust paper.

            The only uplifting moment came at the end as, eyes sparkling mischievously, Wonka gestured for them to join him at the one bizarre looking contraption that seemed to still be going at full capacity.

            At one side the machine was sucking in long, brittle, hard sheets of toffee;  at the other -  pallets of soft, sugary, Scottish tablet. With groans, bleeps, whistles and creaks it relentlessly forced the opposing confections into a densely packed mass of malevolently mangled molasses.

            “Orders are down dramatically for both,” Wonka confided, “so I’ve combined them.”

            The appliance bucked and shuddered, and a tiny compartment flew open. Reaching down, Wonka fished out a small brown square and popped it in to his mouth.

            “I like to think of it as a clever, creamy, caramel concoction, a wedding of wonderful wackiness,” he said, dreamily chewing. “I call it my fudged compromise.”

*  *  *  *

So why, Charlie puzzled, had Wonka agreed to show them around when things were so bleak, when he was obviously fighting for his business survival? Didn’t he realise, Charlie asked anxiously, how bad things had got?

            “Profits are down, costs are up and my sales projections are now a work of fantasy fiction,” Wonka admitted, “and yes, at this rate the recession could end it all. The future’s looking sour for sweets.”

            “But isn’t there anything you can do?” Grandpa Joe prompted.

            The chocolatier nodded and looked hard at his fob watch. “Yes, yes, indeed, indeed I can,” he said, smiling in a mysterious lopsided way that made Charlie shiver. “And that’s why you’re here. You’re going to make it all better.”

            Charlie and his gramps exchanged baffled looks.

            “But how can we help?” Grandpa Joe demanded, stifling a yawn. “I’m  just an old man and Charlie is barely nine. We can’t save an entire candy factory from disaster. I don’t see

how -”

            The pensioner crumpled and hit the floor, fast asleep.

            Charlie wanted to yell in shock but he suddenly felt too tired to even open his mouth. It must be all the walking.

            “Snoozeberry chews,” Wonka explained, as Charlie lost the sensation in his body. “You sampled some earlier on. Guaranteed to send you off to the land of nod. Sweet dreams, Charlie Bucket.”

            That’s the last thing I’ll have, Charlie told himself in terror, as the darkness opened up and he fell headlong into the beckoning slumber.

*  *  *  *

Through his thumping headache, Charlie worked out that he’d woken up in Australia. Everything was upside down.

            “Wha…wha…what’s going on?” he mumbled, his lips still thick and numb.

            “Ah, you’re back with us, splendiferous,” Wonka’s voice said far out of his eye line. “I was worried for a moment that you’d miss all the fun.”

            Fun? Charlie’s fuzzy brain struggled to comprehend what the candy man was saying.

            “Why am I upside down and where’s my grandpa?” he asked, woozily realising that he wasn’t in Oz after all but was hanging by his feet from a pulley.

            An oompa loompa grabbed Charlie’s legs roughly and spun him round through 45 degrees. He could see Grandpa Joe, hanging upside down on another pulley nearby.

            “You all right, Charlie?” the old man yelled. “You okay? Have they hurt you?”

            Charlie tried to shout back that he was fine, but Wonka’s amused high-pitched voice cut him off in mid sentence.

            “Of course we haven’t hurt him. What would be the point of that? We need you both intact, unblemished, in perfect condition  … you might say, ha-ha, in mint condition.”

            Charlie’s blood chilled. “In mint condition for what?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

            “For the ceremony, of course.”

            That didn’t sound good. He may only be nine but he knew when a cackling megalomaniac drugged you and hung you upside down, a ceremony was the last thing you wanted to be part of.

            “It’s all very simple,” Wonka said, turning his head upside down and staring unblinking into Charlie’s eyes. “You’ve seen how awful things are. We’re desperate. So there’s nothing for it but to appease the angry Gods of Commerce; to win back their favour .…”

            He paused thoughtfully.

            “… by killing you both.”

            The candy man’s face - once thought by millions to be kindly, elf-like and eccentric  - darkened; a ruthless sneer replacing the wild and wacky grin.

            “I know… I know… it’s not exactly the way to treat guests, but times are hard and we all have to make sacrifices…”

            With a merry clap, Wonka signalled to the oompa loompas to lower the two dangling Buckets. Charlie shook uncontrollably, but his fear only multiplied when he was on his feet and could see what lay ahead.

            “You can’t …” he gasped, his voice strangled and pitiful. “Not you… you wouldn’t… you couldn’t.”

            “Ah … but I would and I could. Sorry to have tricked you, Charlie, but you just have to kick the bucket!”

            Dozens of tiny oompa loompa hands began forcing Charlie and his now shrieking, writhing grandfather towards the two distinct figures in the gloom… the two distant giant figures… the two giant cane figures.

            Charlie felt his mind lurching as he screamed and screamed, his glass-shattering wails merging with his grandfather’s sobs and mutters.

            “I did think about drowning you in a vast vat of mocha, but it lacked a certain dramatic flair,” Wonka explained conversationally, as they were thrown into the basket figures and padlocked in. “Besides, it would have taken ages to clean out the vat and the health inspectors are such sticklers.

            “Then it came to me. It was the Molotov cocktails that gave me the idea. That, and the fact that the oompa loompas love watching The Wicker Man. This is going to be so perfect ... a perfectly petrifying pagan solution to all my woes.”

             Grabbing in panic at the wicker door, Charlie yanked and struggled; willing every ounce of power to come to his trembling hands. But it was no good. The door wouldn’t budge. There was no escape. He was going to die! Grandpa Joe was going to die!

            He heard a whoosh and saw a sea of burning torches hurtle toward them. The flames took hold immediately, and the oompa loompas watched in rapt fascination, orange faces captivated by orange tongues of fire.

            Then they started singing… and clapping… and dancing in sheer glee.

            The pain lapped around Charlie, whips of burning agony flailing at his skin. He heard Grandpa Joe screech in a long unbroken cry of tortured torment and knew this was it…

            He glanced desperately over as the top-hatted, frilly bloused, mad-eyed master of ceremonies beamed in delight, brought out a bag of assorted small chocolates, and declared: “Let the Revels begin…”       

Iain Pattison

‘Bristol-based Iain Pattison is a full-time author, creative writing tutor and competition judge. His short stories have been widely published in women’s magazines and literary journals and broadcast on BBC Radio 4. He is the author of the best-seller Cracking The Short Story Market (Writers Bureau Books) and is a workshop leader at major UK writing events. He is a popular speaker at writers' circles. Humorist Iain is a Glaswegian choco-holic which means he has a sweet tooth and a sour nature.’ 

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