‘Come on then, Father!’ cried Miranda. ‘Let’s go down into the cellar and smash the machine that makes this dreadful stuff!’
‘Forward!’ shouted Mr Piker, brandishing his cane and making a dash for the little red door on which it said MOST SECRET – KEEP OUT.
‘Stop!’ said Mr Wonka. ‘Don’t go in there! It’s terribly secret!’
‘Let’s see you stop us, you old goat!’ shouted Miranda.
‘We’ll smash it to smithereens!’ yelled Mr Piker. And a few seconds later the two of them had disappeared through the door.
There was a moment’s silence.
Then, far off in the distance, from somewhere deep underground, there came a fearful scream.
‘That’s my husband!’ cried Mrs Piker, going blue in the face.
There was another scream.
‘And that’s Miranda!’ yelled Mrs Piker, beginning to hop around in circles. ‘What’s happening to them? What have you got down there, you dreadful beast?’
‘Oh nothing much,’ Mr Wonka answered. ‘Just a lot of cogs and wheels and chains and things like that, all going round and round and round.’
‘You villain!’ she screamed. ‘I know your tricks! You’re grinding them into powder! In two minutes my darling Miranda will come pouring out of one of those dreadful pipes, and so will my husband!’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Wonka. ‘That’s part of the recipe.’
‘It’s what!’
‘We’ve got to use one or two schoolmasters occasionally or it wouldn’t work.’
‘Did you hear him?’ shrieked Mrs Piker, turning to the others. ‘He admits it! He’s nothing but a cold-blooded murderer!’
Mr Wonka smiled and patted Mrs Piker gently on the arm.
‘Dear lady,’ he said, ‘I was only joking.’
‘Then why did they scream?’ snapped Mrs Piker. ‘I distinctly heard them scream!’
‘Those weren’t screams,’ Mr Wonka said. ‘They were laughs.’
‘My husband never laughs,’ said Mrs Piker.
Mr Wonka flicked his fingers, and up came an Oompa-Loompa.
‘Kindly escort Mrs Piker to the boiler room,’ Mr Wonka said. ‘Don’t fret, dear lady,’ he went on, shaking Mrs Piker warmly by the hand. ‘They’ll all come out in the wash. There’s nothing to worry about. Off you go. Thank you for coming! Farewell! Goodbye! A pleasure to meet you!’
‘Listen, Charlie!’ said Grandpa Joe. ‘The Oompa-Loompas are starting to sing again!’
‘Oh, Miranda Mary Piker!’ sang the five Oompa-Loompas, dancing about and laughing and beating madly on their tiny drums.
‘Oh, Miranda Mary Piker,
How could anybody like her,
Such a priggish and revolting little kid.
So we said, “Why don’t we fix her
In the Spotty-Powder mixer
Then we’re bound to like her better than we did.”
Soon this child who is so vicious
Will have gotten quite delicious,
And her classmates will have surely understood
That instead of saying, “Miranda!
Oh, the beast! We cannot stand her!”
They’ll be saying, “Oh, how useful
And how good!” ’
‘Sunday afternoons were the only times we had free throughout the school week, and most boys went for long walks in the countryside. But I took no long Sunday afternoon walks during my last term. My walks took me only as far as the garage in Wilmington where my lovely motorbike was hidden. There I would put on my disguise – my waders and helmet and goggles and wind jacket – and go sailing in a state of absolute bliss through the highways and byways of Derbyshire. But the greatest thrill of all was to ride at least once every Sunday afternoon slap through the middle of Repton village, sailing past the pompous prefects and the masters in their gowns and mortarboards. … Don’t forget that those were the days when schools like mine were merciless places where serious misdemeanours were punished by savage beatings that drew blood from your backside. I am quite sure that if I had ever been caught, that same headmaster would have thrashed me within an inch of my life and would probably have expelled me into the bargain. That is what made it so exciting. I never told anyone, not even my best friend, where I went on my Sunday walks. I had learnt from a tender age that there are no secrets unless you keep them to yourself and this was the greatest secret I had ever had to keep in my life so far.’
‘My passion for chocolate did not really begin until I was fourteen or fifteen years old, and there was a good reason for this. Today chocolate-guzzling begins when the child is about five and it goes on with increasing intensity until the guzzler gets to be about twelve …