The Missing Golden Ticket and Other Splendiferous Secrets (9 page)

“Spotty Powder!” exclaimed Mr. Wonka, beaming at the company. “There it is! That’s it! Fantastic stuff!”

“It looks like sugar,” said Miranda Piker.

“It’s meant to look like sugar,” Mr. Wonka said. “And it tastes like sugar. But it isn’t sugar. Oh, dear me, no.”

“Then what is it?” asked Miranda Piker, speaking rather rudely.

“That door over there,” said Mr. Wonka, turning away from Miranda and pointing to a small red door at the far end of the room, “leads directly down to the machine that makes the powder. Twice a day, I go down there myself to feed it. But I’m the only one. Nobody ever comes with me.”

They all stared at the little door on which it said MOST SECRET—KEEP OUT.

The hum and throb of powerful machinery could be heard coming up from the depths below, and the floor itself was vibrating all the time. The children could feel it through the soles of their shoes.

Miranda Piker now pushed forward and stood in front of Mr. Wonka. She was a nasty-looking girl with a smug face and a smirk on her mouth, and whenever she spoke it was always with a voice that seemed to be saying, “Everybody is a fool except me.”

“OK,” Miranda Piker said, smirking at Mr. Wonka. “So what’s the big news? What’s this stuff meant to do when you eat it?”

“Ah-ha,” said Mr. Wonka, his eyes sparkling with glee. “You’d never guess that, not in a million years. Now listen. All you have to do is sprinkle it over your cereal at breakfast-time, pretending it’s sugar.

Then you eat it. And then, exactly five seconds after that, you come out in bright red spots all over your face and neck.”

“What sort of a silly twit wants spots on his face at breakfast-time?” said Miranda Piker.

“Let me finish,” said Mr. Wonka. “So then your mother looks at you across the table and says, ‘My poor child. You must have chickenpox. You can’t possibly go to school today.’ So you stay at home. But by lunch-time, the spots have all disappeared.”

“Terrific!” shouted Charlie. “That’s just what I want for the day we have exams!”

“That is the ideal time to use it,” said Mr. Wonka. “But you mustn’t do it too often or it’ll give the game away. Keep it for the really nasty days.”

“Father!” cried Miranda Piker. “Did you hear what this stuff does? It’s shocking! It mustn’t be allowed!”

Mr. Piker, Miranda’s father, stepped forward and faced Mr. Wonka. He had a smooth white face like a boiled onion.

“Now see here, Wonka,” he said. “I happen to be the headmaster of a large school, and I won’t allow you to sell this rubbish to the children! It’s. . . criminal! Why, you’ll ruin the school system of the entire country!”

“I hope so,” said Mr. Wonka.

“It’s got to be stopped!” shouted Mr. Piker, waving his cane.

“Who’s going to stop it?” asked Mr. Wonka. “In my factory, I make things to please children. I don’t care about grown-ups.”

“I am top of my form,” Miranda Piker said, smirking at Mr. Wonka. “And I’ve never missed a day’s school in my life.”

“Then it’s time you did,” Mr. Wonka said.

“How dare you!” said Mr. Piker.

“All holidays and vacations should be stopped!” cried Miranda. “Children are meant to work, not play.”

“Quite right, my girl,” cried Mr. Piker, patting Miranda on the top of the head. “All work and no play has made you what you are today.”

“Isn’t she wonderful?” said Mrs. Piker, beaming at her daughter.

“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.

“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.”