Christopher Robin_The Novelization Read online

  While he had hoped that staying in the woods until nightfall would save him from the final round of packing, he had been wrong. Christopher had arrived home to a hasty dinner and was then sent to bed with a warning that they would be leaving early the next morning, and that his room better be emptied and his bags fully packed by then. Reaching his room, he hadn’t had the heart or the energy to pack that night, instead falling into bed and burying his head in the pillow. Flopping over, he had seen a shooting star in the sky through his window and made a desperate wish that the morning would bring a change in his parents’ hearts.

  But sadly, that had not been the case. Instead of rising to the hoped-for news that he was no longer going to boarding school, he had been awakened by his mother’s frantic shouts for him to hurry. He could hear his parents as they moved about the house below, checking to be sure that they had gotten everything they would need. It was unclear when they would be back next. Mr. Robin’s job was growing increasingly more demanding, and with Christopher off at boarding school, the house could very well go empty until the following summer—if Christopher was that lucky.

  “Christopher! Son! Let’s go!”

  Christopher’s shoulders tensed at his father’s voice. It was rare for the man to talk to him directly, leaving that up to Mrs. Robin for the most part. But ever since they had informed him that he would be going to boarding school, Christopher had seen a change in how his father treated him. It was almost like he no longer thought of Christopher as a baby (babies being the wife’s domain, in Mr. Robin’s opinion) but rather as a grown-up. He had even, on occasion, tried to engage Christopher in conversations, telling him about things that went on at his job or what had happened on the train ride to the country that particular visit. There was a part of Christopher that thought it was nice to have his father’s attention for once.

  But there was another part of him that thought it was strange and uncomfortable. He had, in all honesty, grown used to being somewhat ignored by his father—especially when they were at the country house. That was part of what had sent him to the Hundred-Acre Wood in the first place. The house had always felt confining when his father was there for the weekends, and he had looked for a place to escape, where he could make noise and have some fun without fear of his father getting upset.

  “Christopher!”

  His father’s voice called out again, less comforting this time. Grabbing the suitcase off his bed, Christopher took one last look around his room. He said a silent good-bye to the toys on the shelves of the worn bookcase and a farewell to the pictures on the wall. He nodded to the collection of stuffed animals on the single chair in one corner, his eyes lingering on the stuffed bear with the red shirt. Then he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Downstairs, the front door to the house was open, revealing a car sitting in the driveway. His father and mother stood beside it. While mere inches from each other, they seemed miles apart. Their eyes were gazing in opposite directions: Mr. Robin’s were glued to the paper in his hand; Mrs. Robin’s were raised up, staring at the fluffy white clouds as they drifted through the blue sky. But upon hearing their son’s footsteps, their gazes swiftly swung toward him.

  “Do you have everything?” Mrs. Robin asked as her husband took the suitcase from Christopher’s hand and placed it in the boot of the car.

  Christopher shrugged.

  “Then we’re off,” Mr. Robin said, sliding into the back seat and gesturing for the rest of his family to do the same. Catching sight of his son’s sad expression, he reached over and ruffled Christopher’s hair. “Don’t worry, Son,” he said, the reassuring words sounding odd coming from the large man’s stern face. “Boarding school will be a grand adventure, I promise you.”

  As the car began to move down the long driveway, Christopher didn’t dare speak. Grand adventure? Boarding school was not going to be a grand adventure. Grand adventures were running through the Hundred-Acre Wood. Grand adventures were laying traps for the Heffalump. Grand adventures were scaling trees for honey. But as their country house faded from view, Christopher knew there was no use trying to tell his father any of that. He was going off to boarding school, and leaving his friends and adventures behind. Possibly forever.

  Christopher stared down at the blank page in front of him. He was supposed to be filling it with numbers, doing arithmetic. But he found himself doodling pictures of Pooh instead.

  He had been at boarding school for exactly twenty-one days, four hours, and—he risked being caught taking a glance at the large clock that hung above the blackboard—four minutes. And each one of those days, hours, and minutes had been unbearable. Every morning the students were awakened at 7:00 a.m. on the dot and expected down in the large dining hall by 7:30 for what usually consisted of tasteless porridge and tea. The teachers sat on a platform above the students, their plates heaped with things that actually smelled delicious—waffles, bacon, fresh cream, and sweet fruit. This daily ritual only served to make their own food seem that much blander in comparison.

  Then it was off to classes that lasted through the afternoon. Long, dull classes held in lifeless rooms. Large windows offered a glimpse of the beautiful manicured grounds that surrounded the school, but the only time Christopher got to actually enjoy them was during their recreation period. Unlike the other classes that seemed endless, the recreation class was short and typically only allowed for a few laps around one of the large fields before the boys were sent back inside.

  His father’s promise that school would be an adventure was proving, as Christopher had suspected, to be woefully wrong. When they had first pulled onto the grounds and he had caught sight of a handful of young boys such as himself, he had a brief flare of hope that maybe his father would be right. The boys all seemed about his age, and most wore the same dazed expression he knew covered his own face. But his hope had been short-lived. Moving into the room he shared with two other boys, Christopher had quickly discovered that most of the boys who were students at the prestigious boarding school were dull and lifeless, like the school itself. When he had pulled out a few of his childhood books to put on the shelf above his bed, his roommates had immediately begun to tease him, calling him “baby” and asking if he “needed a hug from his mommy.” The books were hastily removed from the shelf and crammed under his bed, along with the few stuffed animals he had brought.

  Since then, the teasing had only grown worse. While Christopher had spent much of his first seven years at his family’s country home and had been tutored by kind governesses, the boys he now called his classmates had grown up being groomed to attend Grayford Prep. They were mean and cruel and, Christopher thought in his angrier moments, not at all the type who would be invited into the Hundred-Acre Wood.

  He had tried his best to stay positive and find the bright side, just like Pooh would have done. But with each passing day, it was growing harder and harder. He wanted nothing more than to go back and see his friends and tell them how horrible it was being stuck behind the large wrought iron gates of the school. But he couldn’t. Instead, he had learned to just keep his nose in his books, try to forget about the Hundred-Acre Wood, and not bring too much attention to himself. If he did that, he had discovered, he was able to go pretty much unnoticed.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t always work.

  Sometimes, he just needed to see Pooh again. So, sometimes, he drew.

  “Am I boring you, Mr. Robin?”

  The teacher’s voice, dangerously close, startled Christopher, and he looked up from the paper in front of him. He swallowed. The teacher was standing over him, a stern look on her face. In her hand she held a long ruler. She began to hit it against her other hand, the sound loud in the now silent room. Then, with a whack, she slammed the ruler down on the paper, the long rod landing right on the largest image of Pooh. The bear was leaning up against a tree, his hand in a honey pot, with a look of concentration on his gentle face.

  “I suggest you open your textbook, Mr. Robin,
and follow along,” the teacher said, doing it for him. The sudden movement sent the drawing floating to the floor. Tapping one of the math problems, the teacher raised an eyebrow and then, turning, headed back to the front of the room to resume her lecturing.

  As she walked away, Christopher tried to reach down and rescue the picture. But before his fingers could grasp it, the student across from him snatched it up. He looked down at the picture and sneered. “Nice bear, baby,” he hissed, just loud enough for Christopher to hear. Then, with a look of pure evil pleasure, he crumpled up the drawing.

  Christopher turned his face, hoping the bully wouldn’t see the tears that threatened to spill down his cheeks. He knew it was only a drawing, but it was a drawing of Pooh. He wondered, as he looked out the window, what the silly old bear would think of all this. Pooh had never met anyone he didn’t like—well, except for maybe a Heffalump, though he had never actually met or seen a Heffalump. Christopher smiled. The bear would probably end up liking the Heffalump. That was just the way he was. But even Pooh would probably not have liked the boys Christopher now found himself living with.

  Not for the first time, Christopher wished he could just go find his friend and leave this place for good. But as the teacher continued to teach that day’s math lesson, Christopher realized with a start that it was a foolish wish. He had not wanted to admit it, but he had known since the day he arrived that that part of his life was over. He was, as his father had said when he dropped him off, a “young man” now. It was his job to learn so that one day he could get a job and provide for his own family. Adventures in the woods and fun with his friends were a part of his childhood. If he wanted to ever fit in at Grayford Prep, he was going to have to put thoughts of Pooh and the Hundred-Acre Wood under his bed along with the rest of his toys.

  I have to grow up, Christopher thought, bringing pencil to paper and beginning to copy down the math problem on the blackboard. As he wrote, he couldn’t help glancing over at the crumpled drawing of Pooh now lying beneath the feet of the bully. Already the pencil marks were fading, covered over by the scuff marks made by the other boy’s shoes. By the end of class, the image, along with Christopher’s hopes for returning to the Hundred-Acre Wood, had all but faded completely away.

  “Promise me you’ll never forget me because if I thought you would, I’d never leave.”

  —A. A. MILNE

  The city of London was bustling. Men and women rushed along sidewalks lined with shops. Great hulking buildings were being raised stone by stone to make more room for the growing population. Factories on the outskirts of the city belched smoke into the air, turning the sky a hazy blue and keeping the sun’s rays from reaching the cold, damp ground. Down on the streets, cars competed for space with one another, the narrow lanes not large enough for the behemoth vehicles that now made their way through the city. A young boy stood on one corner, holding up a paper and shouting the day’s headlines for all to hear.

  Rushing past, Christopher took no notice of the boy or the noise or the hundreds of people around him. His eyes were glued to the papers he held clutched in one hand. A briefcase dangled from his other hand, swinging back and forth in an almost happy manner at odds with the serious expression on its owner’s face

  Christopher, no longer a boy, looked tired. The dark brown coat he wore over his tweed suit hung on his thin frame, and there were bags under his eyes. His auburn hair, once thick and prone to flopping in front of his face, was cut short and shot through with hints of grey. As he ducked and weaved along the sidewalk, he seemed lost in his own sad, lonely world. A large black umbrella was tucked under the handle of the briefcase, and he wore a hat, prepared for rain despite the cloudless sky above. If nothing else, Christopher Robin liked to be prepared for anything.

  Reaching his destination, he paused only long enough to look up at the large building. The facade of Winslow Luggage’s headquarters was impressive, even to someone as serious as Christopher had come to be. Huge columns lined the front. Above them resided the company’s logo, which was chiseled into the marble. A revolving door at the top of the steps leading into the building was in constant motion as people arrived and departed from Winslow.

  With a quick glance at his watch to ensure he was still on time, Christopher jogged up the stairs and passed through the door. Inside the structure was just as grand as the outside. But this time Christopher took no notice of it whatsoever. Instead, he caught sight of his secretary standing by the bank of elevators and made a beeline toward her.

  “Good morning, Mr. Robin,” Katherine Dane said, holding her notepad at the ready.

  Christopher gave her the briefest of nods. “Good morning, Ms. Dane,” he answered, pushing past her and through the elevator doors that had just opened.

  “Did you have a pleasant—”

  His secretary didn’t have a chance to finish. “I’d like them to reconsider the brass fittings,” Christopher went on, ignoring Ms. Dane’s attempt at human interaction. “On the chestnut wardrobes. Try nickel-plated fittings—”

  “—evening?” Katherine finished anyway. She had been working with Christopher long enough to know small talk was a rather useless endeavor, but she still liked to try. Every once in a while, she caught a glimmer in his eye that gave her hope that he had the ability to have fun. It would fade almost instantly, but as long as she was working with him, she would continue to pretend that he could smile.

  Today, however, he seemed even more on edge than usual. With a ping, the elevator reached their floor, and Christopher bolted through the doors before they had even completely opened, Katherine following close behind. He strode down the hallway, oblivious to the employees forced to jump out of the way or those who cowered as he approached. “Why the delay in Glasgow?” he asked as they walked.

  “Tanners union dispute,” Katherine answered. Christopher wasn’t the only one who liked to be prepared.

  He nodded. “And Manchester?”

  Again, she was ready with the answer. “Waiting for fabric, sir.”

  If she hadn’t known any better, she would have been tempted to believe he wasn’t even listening to her answers, that he was just quizzing her. But then Christopher’s frown deepened. “And what’s Birmingham’s excuse?”

  Katherine couldn’t help herself. He just looked so miserable. “They were attacked by giant fifty-foot spiders,” she teased. Lowering her voice, she added, “I blame the Soviets.”

  That finally got Christopher to look up from the papers in his hand. But instead of offering the lighthearted smile her flippant response deserved, he shook his head. “I don’t have time for silliness, Ms. Dane,” he replied. His rebuke still hanging in the air, he continued down the hall. He didn’t understand why Katherine continued to try and make light when they were at work. Nor did he understand her ability to use something as serious as the Soviet threat as comedic fodder.

  They had won the war, but they had come far too close to defeat. He knew. He had been there, on the front lines, facing the enemy head-on. It was hardly a joking matter. He had lost good men, men he had called friends. And he knew he was not alone. The streets of London, while once again bustling and teeming with energy, were not as full as they had been a few years before. No one had gone untouched by the war. Yet here Katherine was, joking about the next threat to face them. He had once mentioned Katherine’s somewhat, well, casual approach to authority to his wife, Evelyn, hoping for some sympathy. To his surprise, she had suggested that maybe Katherine was right to not let the war—as devastating as it had been—win. “It took so much from all of us already,” she had said. “Why let it take our humor as well?” Christopher had been as baffled by that response as he would have been if Evelyn had spoken it in Ancient Greek.

  Shaking his head, Christopher was about to remind Ms. Dane once more that when on the job, there was to be no joking, when Hal Gallsworthy popped out of his office and joined them.

  “It’s just Birmingham, sir,” Hal said, pushing his round gl
asses farther up the bridge of his nose. “They’re always late.”

  Christopher admired Hal. The man was forthright, sometimes to a fault. But he could also be oblivious. “I needn’t remind you that we’re under intense pressure to trim costs,” Christopher said as they arrived at the end of the hall. A large set of double doors was closed in front of them. Above the wooden frame was a sign that read: EFFICIENCY DEPARTMENT. Quickly, and one might even say efficiently, Christopher pushed open the doors and entered his department.

  Once more, Christopher allowed himself the smallest of moments to pause to appreciate the department. Like its name suggested, it was a hub of efficiency. There was not one excess piece of paper, no unneeded clutter, not even a spare desk or chair for a possible visitor. The exact number of needed desks for the employees of the department—twenty in total—lined each side of the large room, ten per side. Behind them sat men, along with several women, wearing spotless suits, their hands busy. There was no room for idleness in this department. Christopher Robin saw to that.

  “Mr. Robin!”

  Hearing his name, Christopher snapped to immediate attention. Looking ahead, he saw his senior management team gathered in the middle of the room. In comparison to the neatly ordered lines of desks, their cluster seemed chaotic to Christopher and he couldn’t help frowning as he approached.

  The team was staring down at what was once a lovely top-of-the-line piece of Wilson luggage. Only now, it looked like something that had been attacked by a very angry bear, or worse. It had been dissected piece by piece until it was nothing but a pile of leather, stitching, torn fabric, and buckles. As Christopher approached, he heard his team discussing the deconstructed luggage. He didn’t speak at first, letting their conversation continue. His team had been together for a while and were a cohesive bunch who worked best when they worked together, bouncing ideas back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball.