Christopher Robin_The Novelization Read online

  “If we replace the second inner bevel with beechwood,” Matthew Leadbetter was saying in his usual pragmatic way, “we can increase buoyancy by four percent—”

  He was interrupted by Joan MacMillan. The only female member of the group, she could be skittish when pressed but had one of the brightest minds Christopher knew. She was instrumental in keeping the Efficiency Department on track, and when it came to their little group, she was anything but fragile or frightened. “And decrease weight by point-two percent,” she said now. The others nodded at her quick calculations.

  “And cost?” Christopher said, finally jumping into the conversation, his mind focused on the only thing of true importance. As head of the Efficiency Department, his goal was making sure that they saved the company lots of money, if possible.

  Ralph Butterworth, the pessimist—or realist, as he liked to call himself—of the group, shrugged his shoulders. “Might save a few shillings,” he answered.

  That was what Christopher was afraid of. A few shillings were not nearly enough to help the company with its bottom line. But he didn’t want to sound too disheartening to the team. “Keep plugging away, everyone,” he said, hoping he sounded inspiring when inside he felt rather defeated. “Leave no stone unturned.”

  To his surprise, his words were met with clapping. “Bravo! That’s what I like to hear!”

  Turning, the group found themselves looking at their boss, Giles Winslow. At the sudden attention, the young man shifted nervously on his feet and fiddled with the brown accordion folder he held in his hands. While technically the boss, a role he had landed due to being the son of Winslow Sr., he seemed out of his comfort zone here in the Efficiency Department. Unlike his employees, whose pale and worn faces remained glued to the work on their desks, Giles’s face was sun-kissed—and there were no signs of bags under his eyes. He was clearly a man who enjoyed the outdoors and didn’t spend time worrying about the bottom line of his company. After all, he had employees to do that for him.

  “Mr. Winslow, sir,” Christopher said, quickly reacting to the slight awkwardness that was now filling the room. “I could have come to your office.”

  Giles shook his head. “Oh, no, no,” he retorted. “I love coming down here, get my hands dirty once in a while…” As if to prove his point, he reached out and touched a luggage sample lying on the nearest table.

  “That sample is still wet, sir,” Christopher said.

  As if he had been burned, Giles quickly removed his hand and began to wipe his fingers with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his pocket. Still trying to play the part of someone who had even the faintest of clues, he lifted his head and took a deep sniff of the air. “Ah, the smell of leather!” he said. “The smell of hard work. Much rather be here than in my stuffy office where all the boring stuff happens. Yawn! This is where I belong. Down here with the real men—and women!” he added hastily. “Yes, I hate offices. Give me some manual labor any day of the week.” As he finished, he attempted to lift one foot and put it on a stack of samples that someone had left in a pile. But the moment his foot touched the pile, the samples began to fall with a loud thud, thud, thud. “Um, let’s go into your office, shall we?” Giles finally said, stepping over the samples and making his way by the senior management team.

  Christopher followed, but not before shooting the group a warning look. He knew his team. The second the door to his office closed, they were going to rush over and try to listen in on the conversation.

  Sure enough, the door hadn’t even clicked shut behind Giles and Christopher before the whole team was crowded in front of it, ears pressed to the wood.

  Inside Christopher’s office, Giles wasted no time getting to the point. He knew he had just made a fool of himself out there and the sooner he could get out of this horrid department, the better. “We just got the latest sales report,” he said, handing Christopher the brown folder he had been carrying and then plopping down into a chair.

  With a sense of dread, Christopher opened the folder and began to look through the papers. Numbers in red and black, but mostly red, jumped out at him from the pages, and he felt the blood draining from his face. The room seemed to grow hotter and he found it difficult to breath. Placing two fingers behind the knot of his tie, he struggled to loosen the confining article of clothing. Then he, too, sank into a chair.

  Outside the office, the senior management team watched, their eyes wide.

  “I’m no body language expert,” Leadbetter said, watching his boss closely, “but I’d say—”

  “We’re all stuffed,” Butterworth finished for him.

  Gallsworthy, as usual the last to grasp what was going on, tried to push himself closer. “What are they saying?” he asked. “I can’t hear.”

  “Don’t worry. I can lip-read,” MacMillan answered, putting on a pair of glasses. Then she squinted painfully. “These aren’t mine.”

  As the others groaned, Christopher and Giles continued their “private” conversation. Or rather, Christopher continued worrying and Giles continued to throw judgment his way. “How did things get so bad?” Christopher asked, running a hand through his hair. He just didn’t understand. He had been tirelessly efficient. Every T had been crossed and every I had been dotted—more than once. If there was ever a question about something that might not have been efficient, Christopher assumed it wouldn’t be and made the appropriate changes to the plan or purchase. Granted, he knew that times were lean for many. The war’s effects had reached far beyond the battleground. Luxury purchases were not high on the list of the general population. Still…

  “You tell me,” Giles said, interrupting Christopher’s spiraling thoughts. “You’re the efficiency expert. Of all my father’s businesses, Winslow Luggage is the worst. Embarrassing for me, of course…” He looked down at his hand and scrutinized the freshly buffed nails, his behavior the exact opposite of someone feeling at all ashamed. “In short, we need to cut some costs.”

  Christopher stopped himself from rolling his eyes. Things were bad enough. Getting caught being disrespectful to the boss was the last thing he needed. “It’s all I’ve been working on,” he said instead. He gestured out the window of his office toward the department beyond. As he did so, he noticed a group of heads duck down beneath the pane. “And we’ve made headway. Three percent, or thereabouts.”

  “We’re going to have to cut deeper than three percent, Robin,” Giles said, uncrossing one leg and then crossing the other.

  “How much?” Christopher said, dreading the answer before the question had fully come out.

  “Twenty.”

  Whatever blood had been left in his face rushed out; Christopher’s heart slammed against his chest. Twenty percent? That was a nearly impossible number. He shook his head. No, it was actually a completely impossible number. His head once again turned to the window. His team had moved away from his office and were standing around Katherine’s desk, pretending—poorly—not to be watching. Catching their boss’s eyes on them, they all began to fidget with random things on his secretary’s desk.

  “There must be another way,” Christopher said, turning his attention back to his boss. “Your father promised these people there’d be a good job to come home to after the war. They’d do anything for this company. I’d do anything for this company.” He wanted to add that he already pretty much had given everything to the company, and he also wanted to ask what exactly it was that Giles did to help the company. But he was stopped by Giles getting to his feet.

  “My father has called an emergency meeting on Monday,” he said, heading toward the door. “We’ve got to produce the cuts by then.”

  “I promised my wife and daughter I’d go away this weekend—”

  Giles raised an eyebrow. Christopher lowered his head. He had just said he would do anything for this company. But he had also promised his wife and their daughter that he would finally take a break and head out to the country house. They hadn’t been there in ages, mostly because ev
ery time they made plans to visit, Christopher canceled them. And now it looked like he was going to go and ruin yet another weekend. He let out a deep sigh. His wife was patient and understanding, but even she had her limits. And another cancellation? It could very well push her beyond them.

  “You have dreams, Robin?” Giles’s question surprised him. Christopher looked up, confusion written on his face. “Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Dreams don’t come for free, Robin,” he went on, offering advice that Christopher frankly didn’t want to hear. “Nothing comes from nothing. And if this ship goes down, you’ve got to ask yourself, ‘Am I a swimmer? Or am I sinker?’”

  “Obviously I want to be a swimmer, sir,” Christopher replied.

  Giles nodded. “Right answer! Me too. That’s why I’ll be working this weekend also. All hands on deck and all that.” Reaching back into the accordion folder, he pulled out a single sheet of paper. He handed it over to Christopher. “A list of names here of people who can ‘walk the plank’ if you—we—don’t come up with something. Good luck!”

  And with that threat delivered, he opened the door and left Christopher’s office.

  Christopher stood where Giles had left him, sheet in hand. What was he going to do now?

  Christopher stood in the doorway to his office for a long, painful moment, the paper Giles had handed him seemingly burning in his hand. How was he supposed to go through and just send these people “to the plank” as Giles had so flippantly suggested? These people weren’t just numbers to him. They were men and women he worked side by side with, day in and day out. When he had first started, he had done his best to keep them at arm’s length. But over time, he had loosened up—slightly. True, he strived to maintain a level of professionalism, but there was no way he could have gone without learning about their families, their struggles, their accomplishments. They were, for all intents and purposes, part of his family. His gaze turned to his senior management team. Especially them. While he had still not looked at the names listed on Giles’s paper, he had to assume that some of their names would be there. After all, senior management, as the title suggested, had been there the longest and offered the most in terms of skill. They would have the highest salaries. And if Giles was serious about cutting 20 percent? Well, then it didn’t take an efficiency expert to know that high-paid employees would be some of the first to go.

  Christopher sighed. He couldn’t stand in his office doorway denying the inevitable forever, as tempting as the thought might be. And from the anxious looks on the faces of his team, he knew they probably had a very good idea of what had just happened anyway. Bracing himself, Christopher left the office and walked over. “I presume you got most of that?” he said to all of them.

  Instantly, he was met with a chorus of hollow denials.

  Christopher stifled a smile at the chorus of “Never!” and “No!” flung his way. It was actually rather endearing how unprofessional they had been and how sly they had thought they were. He raised an eyebrow knowingly.

  “Well, maybe a little bit…” Butterworth finally admitted, before filling in Christopher on what they thought they had heard. According to him, the team believed that Giles and Christopher had talked a lot about a “windy tent” and ordering “apples.”

  If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Christopher might have laughed out loud at their horrible interpretation of the actual conversation. Instead, he responded with a wary smile. “Windy tent,” he told them, was the 20 percent they would need to cut; and the “apples” he had apparently been ordering was in actuality the impossible he had reacted with when Giles told him to reduce staff. Their faces dropped as Christopher continued to fill them in. “Anyone with proposals for cuts, get them to me by tomorrow,” he said, wrapping things up. “I’ll look over everything this weekend, come up with a plan.”

  “We’ll do our best, sir!” Hastings said for the team, trying, as always, to be positive.

  “Thank you,” Christopher said genuinely. “I know. But remember, we’re the lucky ones. We have jobs. Let’s try and keep it that way, shall we?” Then, with one last glance around the room, he walked back into his office, shutting the door behind him. Then he walked over and lowered the shade on his window. He didn’t want anyone to risk seeing him as he sat down behind his desk and lowered his head into his hands.

  He had just given his team the ultimatum to end all ultimatums. Find a way to make an impossible number happen, or lose your job. He had never in his entire adult life felt like such a horrible person.

  Then he remembered that he was going to have to cancel his weekend plans.

  Scratch that, he thought, letting out a loud groan. Now he truly felt like the most horrible person in the entire world.

  Night had fallen over the city of London. Streetlamps flickered on, casting their dim light over the cobblestones below.

  But inside the Winslow Luggage Efficiency Department, every light was on.

  Christopher and his team had worked straight through the rest of the day, into the early evening and long after they should have gone home to their own families and dinners. Now they sat hunched over their desks, their heads drooping. Stacks of papers were piled in front of each member of the team. Calculations were written on every surface; some had been scratched out, but others were circled. None of them, however, provided a solution.

  Hearing a loud thunk, Christopher looked out of his office toward the team that was gathered in the bull pen. Butterworth had fallen asleep, his head falling straight down onto the papers in front of him.

  Getting to his feet, Christopher walked over. Placing a hand on Butterworth’s shoulder, he gently shook him awake. “Time to go,” he said. “Leave your proposals on your desks. I’ll collect them later.”

  A few members of the team attempted to protest, but they were feeble attempts at best; and after another order from Christopher to go, they happily packed up their belongings and headed toward the elevators. Christopher watched them go before turning, grabbing the proposals they had left behind, and heading back to his office. Their work might have been over for the evening, but Christopher felt—as he looked down at his watch—that he could still get a few more hours in before he went home. At this point, Evelyn and Madeline were most likely asleep anyway.

  Christopher Robin stayed at the office until the numbers on the pages in front of him began to blur into one another, forming an odd sort of abstract art piece; and still he held out, until he found his own head coming perilously close to slamming onto the top of the desk as he started to fade. Only then did he pack it up for the night. Gathering his own papers, along with the proposals from his team, he put them all in his briefcase and locked it up tight. The last thing he needed after all that work was to have them falling out as he made his way home.

  Home. The word sounded equal parts wonderful and frightening. He wanted nothing more than to walk through the front door, hang up his coat and hat, and then fall into the nearest chair and hopefully get at least a few hours of sleep. At the same time, he dreaded waking up in the morning and having to tell his wife and daughter that he would be missing the weekend in the country—again!

  As luck would have it, he was afforded at least a sliver of his homecoming fantasy. Walking through the front door, he did manage to hang up his coat and hat. And he did make his way in the general direction of the dreamed-of chair. But that was where fantasy and reality split. Because instead of finding a comfy chair and falling immediately asleep, he found two suitcases packed and waiting by the front door—and his wife waiting in the dining room.

  Evelyn didn’t say anything as she watched her husband enter the room, his eyes tired and his shoulders stooped. He looked, she thought, defeated. As if he were carrying the weight of the world on his slim shoulders. As she had made dinner earlier that evening, she had found herself humming the song that they had danced to at their wedding. Thoughts of the weekend ahead had warmed her cheeks and made her feel almost giddy, like the young woman
she had been when she and Christopher first met. Then things had been so easy, so carefree. There had been no war, no pressure from bosses, no mention of “efficiency.” They had jumped in the car at the spur of the moment to take off on adventures, and had been content doing even the most mundane of tasks as long as they were together.

  But things had grown harder in the past few years. The war had changed her husband and had changed their marriage. When he had returned home, determined to take care of his growing family, Christopher had begun to pull away. Evelyn had tried—she still tried—to bring back some of the spontaneity of their old life, some of the joy. But more often than not, work got in the way. She had hoped, as she cooked dinner, that the weekend ahead was going to give them a much-needed break. But then she had gotten the call from the office and knew that the long-delayed break wasn’t going to come. Not this weekend, at least. And it made her heart ache—for Christopher, for Madeline, for herself. It would be easier to be disappointed, she thought now as Christopher entered the room, if she didn’t still love her husband to the point of distraction.

  “Madeline wanted to wait for you,” Evelyn said, her voice soft and full of emotion as Christopher caught sight of the lone setting that remained on the table, “but it was getting so late.” The rest of the table had been cleared away. The single plate, cup, and silverware set was left behind as a not-so-gentle reminder to Christopher of another thing he had missed. Pulling his gaze from the table, he looked over at his wife, who stood framed in the door between the kitchen and the dining room. Her arms were crossed across her chest, her deep brown eyes made even deeper by unspoken emotion. As he watched, she moved closer, the light from the kitchen catching the lighter highlights in her brown hair and making them glimmer like gold. Christopher couldn’t help feeling a rush of love—and the familiar pang and yearning he got whenever he caught sight of Evelyn’s beauty. All these years later, every time he saw her, Christopher still felt as if he were seeing her for the first time.