Christopher Robin_The Novelization Page 4

  “I’m sorry,” Christopher apologized, knowing that it rang false in the hushed dining room. “I was delayed at work.”

  “I know. Katherine called to let me know,” she replied.

  Of course, Christopher thought. Her eerie calmness now made a bit more sense. While Evelyn was always the calmer of the two of them, she was also the more passionate and the more punctual. Being on time, keeping your word, open communication—all those things were etched deep in Evelyn’s rule book. If Katherine, not him, had called Evelyn and told her he was going to be late, he had been in trouble even before he stepped foot through the door at home.

  “She also said you’d be working this weekend,” Evelyn added. Christopher gulped. It was getting worse by the second. “I guess you won’t be coming to the cottage.” She said it more as a statement of fact than a question.

  Christopher sighed. He knew it was useless to try and explain why he needed to stay home and work. He knew what she would do. Evelyn would offer to help, or even suggest that he bring some of his work with him. As long as they were together, that was all that mattered, she would say. But Evelyn hadn’t seen the look of fear that had crossed over his team members’ faces as he told them what would happen if they couldn’t make the cuts. He had to focus his undivided attention on the task at hand. He didn’t want to let his family down, but he also didn’t want to let his team—and the company—down. He was, as the saying went, stuck between a rock and a hard place. “It can’t be helped,” he finally said.

  “It never can,” Evelyn replied, giving her husband a sad, rueful smile. She hadn’t meant to let her own disappointment leak into her voice, but it had, nonetheless. The look of misery that flashed over his face made her regret the words instantly. Christopher might pretend to be tough and hardened, but Evelyn knew that deep down, he cared—immensely. Unfortunately, she couldn’t take back her words, and while they may have hurt, there was truth in them. Sighing, Evelyn walked from the doorway back into the kitchen. “Why don’t you go and break the news to your daughter while I reheat your dinner?”

  Christopher watched her go. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Facing his upset wife was no walk in the park. But disappointing his daughter? That was going to be awful. A part of him had hoped that by getting home this late, he would have been able to avoid seeing her that night. Letting out a deep sigh, he headed toward the stairs.

  The Robins’ London home was no longer the opulent and polished place it had been when Christopher was a boy. The years after his father’s death—which had happened shortly after he started at boarding school—had been hard on his mother and on their finances. It was, in many ways, why Christopher felt obligated to give Winslow Luggage so much of his time. They had offered him a job when he was young and inexperienced, giving him a way to keep the family afloat. When he and Evelyn had married, they had moved into the Robins’ city home. But things remained tight, so the more superficial needs—touching up chipping paint or refreshing crumpling wallpaper—often were not attended to. Still, Evelyn had managed to make the house warm and inviting, and it had been, for a time, the hub for many a fun and lively dinner party. Then the war had happened and everything had changed.

  Walking up the steep front staircase, Christopher smiled sadly as he passed the photo of his parents that hung on the wall. In it, they were both smiling at something off camera. They were clearly happy, their relaxed postures so different from the stiff, serious ones Christopher remembered from his youth. He wondered now, not for the first time, if that was how Madeline would look at pictures of her parents. Would she wonder what had happened to make them so serious?

  As he reached his daughter’s door, Christopher had a brief flickering hope that she might have already fallen asleep, saving him from the conversation he was dreading. But the light that seeped out from under the door and the faint mumbling he heard coming from the other side dashed that hope as quickly as it had been ignited. Knocking, he entered Madeline’s room.

  The young girl was sitting on her bed. It was clear she had started to go to sleep, though something had kept her up. And seeing the large box in front of her, its contents spilled all over the duvet and the excited look in her eyes, he had a pretty good sense of what exactly that something was.

  “What do you have there?” Christopher asked.

  Madeline looked up, startled by her father’s sudden appearance in her doorway. She blushed guiltily, her angelic cheeks turning red and looking even sweeter. “Oh, it’s yours,” she answered shyly. “I found it in the attic. It has loads of stuff from when you were young.”

  As he took a step closer, Christopher’s eyes widened. The box, which he had mistaken for an ordinary box, was indeed his, from when he was a boy. Specifically, it was the box he had packed up the morning he left their country home and had completely forgotten about. Looking at the objects Madeline had strewn over the bed, he saw smooth river pebbles, a few sticks, and several drawings, the childish sketches having grown faint over the years. Madeline reached down and pulled out a small bag. Her movement caused it to open, and out spilled a handful of small brown acorns.

  “Haycorns,” Christopher said before he could stop himself. Shaking his head, he quickly corrected his mistake. “I mean, acorns. Nothing important. Shouldn’t you be doing something more useful with your time?” He asked. He suddenly didn’t like the curious way Madeline was looking at him. He needed a distraction. Looking around the room, he noticed the pile of textbooks next to her bed. “Like reading, perhaps?” He pointed to the books.

  Madeline was quick with a response. Like her father, she prided herself on keeping on task. “I’m already finished with the booklist Grayford Prep sent.” At her father’s pleased nod, she added, “I’m way ahead. I’ve been very efficient.”

  “Good,” Christopher replied. “That’s good.” Sending his daughter to the same boarding school he had attended as a boy was a luxury they really couldn’t afford, but Madeline was a Robin. And the Robins had been going to Grayford for generations. It was yet another reason why he was going to be stuck at the office all weekend. He couldn’t afford to lose his job. Not now, especially.

  “Yes,” Madeline said, happy to have pleased her father. “But there’s no work to do this weekend. We can do whatever we want. Puzzles, board games?” Her voice rose hopefully.

  Christopher could barely stand to meet his daughter’s gaze. Her blue eyes were wide and innocent, the look he saw in them a painful reminder of the toll his job, his life, was taking on his family. He had seen that look, years ago now, reflected in the mirror when he had been a child. Talking to his own father about the adventures he had had in the woods behind their country house, begging him to come along and always being met with a firm no. He wondered, not for the first time, how he had become that very same man. But what choice did he have? If he wanted to provide any kind of future for his child, he had to work. Looking down, he absently played with an acorn, eager for any reason to break eye contact with his daughter. “About that…” he finally said. “I can’t go this weekend.”

  “But summer will be over soon,” Madeline said, her voice beginning to quiver. “I never see you.”

  “I know,” he said, the words catching in his throat. Just then, an image of Giles, accordion folder in hand, flashed through his mind—and he sat up straighter. “I wish I didn’t have to work, but you know, dreams don’t come for free, Madeline. You have to work for them. Nothing comes from nothing. You understand?” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Christopher hated himself for using them. It was one thing for Giles to lecture him about working. There was no reason he should be saying these things to his young daughter.

  To his shame and horror, the hope faded from Madeline’s eyes and she nodded slowly. “I understand,” she said softly. Then, picking up the acorns, she handed them to him. “I suppose you can keep these here then. Do you think you could read to me for a minute?”

  “Oh,” Christopher said, startled by the
request. That was usually something Evelyn did with Madeline before bedtime. “Well, yes. Of course,” he added. Reaching over, he pulled one of her school books from the pile and opened it to the first page. He had already started reading and therefore did not notice that Madeline had chosen her own book—a fairy tale.

  “Actually, Father,” she said after listening to the dry historical narrative for a few moments, “I’m a bit tired.” As if to prove her point, she let out a very loud, very fake yawn and started to snuggle down under the covers.

  Christopher narrowed his eyes at the yawn and opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. Getting to his feet, he awkwardly tapped his daughter on the shoulder and then turned to leave. “Good night, then,” he said, flicking off the light and throwing the room into darkness.

  Behind him, Madeline said a quiet good night and turned over so her back was to him. With one last look at his daughter, Christopher sighed and shut the door. Sweet dreams, he added silently. The apology he wanted to offer stayed stuck in his throat. It was probably for the best. If he wanted his daughter to rest well, she didn’t need to hear any more hollow excuses….

  “I was thinking,” Christopher said. “You two don’t have to go tomorrow.”

  He was sitting at the dining room table, eating the supper that Evelyn had reheated for him. The house was quiet, the only sounds coming from the clinking of his silverware against the china and the creaking floor boards as the old building settled on its foundation. Evelyn sat at the other end of the table from her husband, not speaking. Christopher had tried to ignore the dark looks being sent his way until the silence had grown uncomfortable and he had finally spoken.

  “We’ve been over this,” Evelyn said, obviously unimpressed by her husband’s suggestion. “She needs to play, Christopher, not spend all her time studying.”

  “Grayford Prep is the best,” Christopher replied, not looking up from his plate. “She’s doing the reading.”

  Evelyn took a deep breath. She loved her husband. And had loved him practically from the first moment she met him. She loved that he was a hard worker, and dedicated and trustworthy. She loved that he cared about the future, and she loved that he wanted the best for his daughter. But what she didn’t love, what she couldn’t understand, was how he could also be so uptight and narrow-minded. The man she had met and fallen in love with all those years ago had had at least a spark of imagination. He had smiled and laughed and been willing to have fun and be spontaneous. But the man sitting across from her now? Sometimes she didn’t even recognize him. Her feelings aside, though, what mattered now was their daughter.

  “She’d do anything to please you,” Evelyn said, trying to keep her voice level. The last thing she wanted to do was let her emotions get in the way. “But there are perfectly good schools in London that don’t require us to send her away. And you know she doesn’t want to go.”

  Christopher looked up. “I went away at her age,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It’ll prepare her for the real world. Set her up for a career. Isn’t that our responsibility to her?” Evelyn shot him a look.

  “What?” he asked.

  Getting to her feet, Evelyn pushed back her chair and walked over to her husband. She sat down in front of him and took his hands in hers. “You don’t even like your job,” she said softly, looking into his eyes.

  “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “I didn’t go to Grayford and I actually like what I do,” Evelyn pointed out.

  “Yes, but what you do is more of a hobby, isn’t it?” Christopher asked.

  Evelyn raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. A spark of fire flared in her eyes and her cheeks flushed. She loved her husband. With all her heart. But there were times—like now—when he said things that made her want to scream in frustration. Her hobby, as Christopher called her job, was so much more than that. It was something that helped pay the bills, but more importantly, it was something that actually inspired her. She loved going to work. She loved working with the team of engineers and architects and builders hired by the city. When she was at the office, people respected her opinion, they laughed at her jokes, they engaged in conversation. She was valued. At home, she was lucky these days if she and Christopher even had the chance to speak more than a few sentences to each other. She let out a deep sigh and curbed her full response. This was not the time to bicker. “Half the city was destroyed during the Blitz,” she said instead, trying to keep her tone neutral. “I’m trying to help rebuild it. That’s what the government grant is for.”

  “You’ve got a grant from the government?” Christopher asked, sounding surprised.

  “I told you this weeks ago,” Evelyn answered. She let go of her husband’s hands and put her own down in her lap. When she spoke again, she didn’t bother to try to hide the sadness. “This is what I’m talking about. Even when you’re here, you’re not here. You’re going to hit your limit. One day, you’re going to crack.”

  “If I work hard now, then in the future life will be—” He lifted his fork to take a bite.

  Evelyn didn’t give him the chance. She had heard enough excuses for one evening and her patience had run out. Yanking his food away, she glared at him. “Will be what?” she asked. “Better? Worse? We don’t care. We’d rather have you. This is life, Christopher. Life is happening right now. In front of you. Look, yoo-hoo!” She raised her arms in the air and waved them around, all the while making a goofy face. Christopher didn’t even crack a smile. Evelyn lowered her arms and sighed. “I haven’t seen you laugh in years.”

  “I found that very amusing,” Christopher replied flatly.

  Evelyn stood up. Picking up his plate, she began to move toward the kitchen but stopped before she got to the door. Turning, she looked back at her husband. He was still sitting, a look of confusion on his face. “I just want to see you have fun sometimes. Be a little silly. I didn’t fall for you because you were ‘set up for a career.’”

  Getting up from his seat, Christopher sighed. “Please don’t make this harder on me,” he said softly. “I am sorry.” He turned and looked toward the front hall, where the suitcases stood, waiting to be put in the car in the morning. “I’ll take my suitcase back upstairs. I’m sorry I asked you to pack mine.” But when he walked over, he realized it wasn’t even there. “Where is mine?”

  “I didn’t even bother,” Evelyn said. And with that, she turned and walked into the kitchen, the door swinging shut behind her. In the front hall, Christopher remained, staring down at the suitcases. His wife’s purposeful lack of action on this matter spoke louder than any of the words she had said at the dinner table and hit harder than any punch she could have thrown. What had happened to them? How had it come to this? There was a time when they would have been able to find a way to laugh at the situation. There was a time when Evelyn would have been his source of comfort, when he would have spoken up, shared his fears of what would happen to his team. But now? Now there was no intimacy to their words, no passion behind their conversations. Christopher knew he was to blame for most of it. Evelyn was patient and kind and wonderful, and he knew she loved him. But he had kept her at an arm’s length for so long now that he didn’t quite know how to shorten the distance. What if, he thought as he finally turned and headed upstairs to bed, I can’t get her back? What if she’s right? What if I can’t have fun anymore?

  Christopher slept poorly that night. He tossed and turned, odd images flashing through his mind, tugging at his memory and making him shout out in his sleep. Woods, eerie and ghostly, filled the dreams—and through the thick fog that surrounded the trees and covered the floor, he could just make out the barest outlines of bears and rabbits, donkeys and pigs.

  He woke with a start, sweat covering his brow, and turned to where his wife’s warm body usually lay. But the far side of the mattress was cold. Opening his eyes, he saw weak sunlight filtering through the curtains. Day had broken. From downstairs, he heard the sound of the front door openin
g and his daughter’s voice mingling with that of Evelyn’s. They were getting ready to leave.

  Pushing back the covers, Christopher hastily threw on work clothes and headed downstairs. As he had guessed, the front door was open. Through it he could see the car waiting, the boot already packed with Madeline’s and Evelyn’s bags. The pair were in the living room and barely afforded him a look when he joined them.

  “Well,” he said awkwardly. “Have a nice time.” Reaching down, he tried to give Madeline a hug but her body was stiff in his arms, so he just gave her a quick peck on the cheek and a few pats on the back.

  In return, the little girl gave a weak nod and started to walk away. But she paused. Turning back to him, she handed him a folded-up piece of paper. “I love this drawing of yours,” she said, her voice soft. “Maybe you could put it next to mine?” At his nod, she smiled weakly and then headed outside.

  Evelyn waited for her to be out the door before saying her own cold, quick good-bye to Christopher. He wasn’t sure if it was intentional or not, but the quick peck on the cheek and brief pat on the back that showed no warmth or emotion felt like an unspoken punishment for how he had handled his own good-bye—how he had handled everything. Without another word, Evelyn followed her daughter out the door. Christopher went and watched as they both got in and drove away.

  “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, raising a hand in farewell. But he knew it was too late. No apology would make up for him missing this weekend. With a sigh, he turned and headed back into the house. Entering the kitchen, he lifted his briefcase and placed it on the counter. The teakettle began to squeal and he absently made himself a cup. Then, with his trademark efficiency, he opened the briefcase and scanned the contents to make sure he had everything he would need for the task at hand. Pulling the paper Madeline had given him from his pocket, he unfolded it. To his surprise, looking back at him from the page was a drawing of his old friend Winnie the Pooh.