Christopher Robin_The Novelization Page 6

  “I suppose it’s where it needs to be,” Pooh replied with a shrug.

  Not quite ready to believe all of this, Christopher began to circle the large tree. He looked at the base. He looked up near the branches. He looked on all sides. “But there’s no opening,” he finally said. “No door on the other side.”

  “Oh?” Pooh said, shrugging. “We must not need it anymore.”

  “That’s a silly explanation,” Christopher replied.

  Pooh smiled proudly. “Why, thank you.” Then he frowned, taking in the serious expression on his friend’s face and the way he crossed his arms sternly as he turned and continued to stare at the tree. “Are you glad to see me, Christopher Robin?” he asked softly.

  The question startled Christopher. It was such a serious question from his usually unserious friend. Turning, he gazed down at the bear. Pooh’s big eyes looked up at him. A warmth began to spread through Christopher as memories of a long-ago time unearthed themselves in his mind. He was happy to see his old friend, he realized. Or at least as happy as he got these days. He opened his mouth to tell him so, but suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps. A moment later, Cecil Hungerford rounded the corner.

  “Well, hello there!” the nosy neighbor called out.

  Just in the nick of time, Christopher managed to shove Pooh under his oversized coat. Then he put his hat over the bear’s head. Unfortunately, Pooh didn’t take too kindly to his new location and struggled in Christopher’s arms, making the overcoat shimmy.

  “What have you got there, secret Susan?” Cecil said, coming closer and trying to get a look under Christopher’s overcoat.

  Christopher turned his body so that Pooh was farther from the neighbor’s prying eyes. “Just a cat,” he said, coming up with a story on the fly. “Definitely a cat. We just got it.”

  “Ooh,” Cecil said, looking, to Christopher’s horror, even more interested. “Can I stroke it? I love cats.”

  “Not this one,” Christopher said hastily. The man was incorrigible. Why wouldn’t he just take the hint and leave? “This is a nasty, diseased cat. A biter.” That finally seemed to get through to Cecil and he took several steps back. Christopher did the same so that the two men were now standing awkwardly several feet from each other. Christopher nodded over his shoulder toward the house. “I was just taking it inside for some milk. Rehabilitate it.”

  Inside his coat, Pooh, who had stopped moving briefly, distracted by a zipper, resumed his thrashing. “You’re squishing me!” he shouted. The protest came out as a mumble, but it was still loud enough for Cecil to hear.

  “What the—?” Cecil said, giving Christopher a confused look.

  Christopher tried not to groan. This little meeting needed to come to an end. Fast. “I said that,” he quickly explained. “Sometimes my voice sounds like that.” He cleared his throat and spoke his next words as Pooh-like as possible. “You’re squishing me…with your demands to play chess.”

  The explanation was lame but apparently seemed to placate Cecil, who, with one last look at Christopher (and his coat), finally turned to go. “Tomorrow then,” he said over his shoulder. “After all, we’ve got all weekend.”

  Christopher nodded—already coming up with excuses to get out of the game he had just locked himself into—and then hurried through the garden and into the house.

  “This is very good,” Winnie the Pooh said through a mouthful of honey. “Are you sure that you wouldn’t like some, Christopher Robin?”

  Christopher looked around the kitchen counter. It was covered in empty honey jars: small jars, large jars, decorative jars, and plain jars. It hadn’t mattered what form the honey came in; as soon as Winnie the Pooh found honey, it was eaten. But while the bear seemed to be completely un-bothered by his presence in London, or the very close encounter with Cecil that they had only narrowly escaped, Christopher was the opposite. He was, put simply, freaking out.

  He had spent the past thirty minutes, while Pooh ate, trying to wrap his head around everything. He didn’t know what was going on or why it was happening. But Pooh was most certainly real and most certainly there. And while the bear looked slightly worse for wear, with his fur a bit threadbare and the pads of his paws a bit shabby, he was still most undoubtedly the bear from Christopher’s childhood. “Pooh,” he asked, the question that had really been perplexing him popping out, “how did you recognize me? After all these years?”

  “Oh, you haven’t changed at all,” Pooh said, not looking up from the honey jar.

  “I’ve changed tremendously!” Christopher exclaimed. It was true. He had been a boy when he’d left the Hundred-Acre Wood. A young, innocent boy who’d believed in the impossible and hadn’t spent his days worrying about cutting costs and finding the most efficient way to manage a team.

  The bear shook his head. “Not right here,” he said, reaching up and motioning toward Christopher’s eyes. As he did so, honey smeared across the man’s cheeks and dripped down onto the ground. “It’s still you looking out,” he added.

  Christopher sighed. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were true? But despite what the lovable and kindhearted bear said, he had changed. And as he winced at the puddles of honey on the floor and the mess that Pooh made as he jumped off his stool directly into the honey, he knew the changes weren’t for the better. The Christopher Robin Pooh had known in the Hundred-Acre Wood would have jumped right in the honey puddle with his friend. Instead, the mess made him cringe and he found himself rushing over to the sink to wipe his own sticky face clean before following the bear.

  Unaware that his paws were trailing honey, Pooh—who was finally feeling full and therefore more energized—began to explore the London town house. He wandered out of the kitchen and into the dining room before entering the library. He raised a paw and ran it along the book spines as he walked. “This place is very big,” he observed. “Do you live here all alone?”

  Christopher frantically wiped at the books. “No,” he said, shaking his head. Then he paused. “Well, right now, yes. But usually no. My wife and daughter are in the country for the weekend.” It felt funny, he realized, to tell the bear that he had a wife and child.

  “Why aren’t you with them?” Pooh asked. The revelation that his friend was now a parent and husband did not seem to faze the bear. As he waited for an answer, Pooh walked into the drawing room and right onto the fancy rug Evelyn had spent a tidy sum on. The rug began to drag behind him, stuck to the bottom of Pooh’s foot.

  “I had to stay for work,” Christopher answered. “‘Why aren’t you in the country?’ is more the question.” As he spoke, he reached down and yanked the rug free of Pooh’s foot, sending the bear tumbling forward. Pooh landed headfirst in the brass horn part of the family’s gramophone. A record began to play.

  “Because,” Pooh said, his voice now muffled by the musical contraption, “there’s nobody Anywhere, and I looked Everywhere.”

  Christopher lifted the gramophone off the bear’s face. Pooh looked back at him, un-bothered by his run-in with the instrument but clearly upset about his missing friends.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know where they’ve gone,” Christopher said softly. “And even if I did, what can I do? I’m sorry, Pooh.” He let out an involuntary yawn, his eyes moving toward the clock on the desk. “It’s getting late, and I’m tired, so—” The sound of snoring filled the room, and he turned.

  Pooh was fast asleep on a chair.

  Walking over, Christopher looked down at his childhood friend. He looked so peaceful and sweet, without a care in the world. I wonder when the last time I slept like that was? Christopher thought as he gently lifted Pooh in his arms and made his way upstairs to Madeline’s room. With one hand, he drew back the duvet and then lowered the bear into bed. Pooh mumbled in his sleep before turning on his side and resuming his soft snoring.

  For a moment, Christopher just stood there. He couldn’t remember the last time he had just watched his own daughter sleep. He was always so tired himself
when he got home. Or busy. It never occurred to him to take the time to enjoy the innocent peace of a sleeping child. And while Pooh was technically not a child, he was most certainly innocent. As he watched now, Christopher was flooded with thoughts of his own childhood—of the wonderful feeling of falling into bed after a full day of playing in the woods with Pooh and the others. Of snuggling down under the covers to listen to his mother read him a story…His eyes drifted over toward Madeline’s bookcase, and as they did, they landed on the box that Madeline had found in the attic.

  Tiptoeing over, Christopher opened the box and peered inside. There were a few acorns, a twig, and a small piece of cloth he thought might have belonged to a blanket. But what filled most of the box were drawings. One by one, he pulled out the faded papers, a smile tugging at his lips as familiar faces looked back at him. Of course, there were lots of Pooh. But there were also drawings of Eeyore, his expression grumpy. And little Piglet. There were pictures of Rabbit and Owl, and drawings of Tigger, Kanga, and Roo. With each picture, the memory of the Hundred-Acre Wood grew stronger, as did his memories of all the adventures he had gone on with his friends.

  A grumble from Pooh startled Christopher. Shaken, Christopher dropped the picture he was looking at. It fluttered to the ground. Deciding it was well and truly time for bed, Christopher made his way over to the door. Turning off the light, he took one last look at his friend. “Good night, Winnie the Pooh,” he whispered. I’ve missed you, he added silently.

  Heading into his own room, Christopher climbed into bed and turned off the light. It had been a long day, and while he thought sleep might be impossible with all the thoughts running through his head, he was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

  A loud rumble jolted Christopher awake. Rubbing at his eyes, blurry from sleep, he heard the rumble again, louder this time. What is that? he thought, trying to make sense of the noise. They weren’t near any train lines. And he hadn’t heard of any construction happening in the area. The rumble came again, even louder this time. If it hadn’t been for the comfortable feeling of the mattress underneath him, Christopher would have thought he was back on the battlefield.

  Christopher groaned as his vision cleared and he saw that the sound was not, in fact, coming from warplanes soaring above but rather from Winnie the Pooh. It seemed that in the middle of the night, the bear had climbed out of Madeline’s bed and crawled right into his. The bear’s face was smooshed against Christopher’s shoulder.

  Another loud rumble woke up the sleeping bear and he hopped up. Turning so that his bottom was now directly in Christopher’s face, Pooh stretched. “Time to make myself hungry with my stoutness exercise,” he announced. Clearly the change of scenery did not bother Pooh enough to upset his morning routine. “Up, down, up, down—” Each time he bent over, the bear’s bottom would swing in front of Christopher and his belly would rumble.

  “You’re already hungry, Pooh?” Christopher said, trying to avoid a face full of bear bottom.

  Pooh paused. Hearing his tummy rumble, he nodded. “Oh, yes,” he agreed, hopping off the bed.

  Christopher flopped back against the pillows and watched as the bear waddled out of the room and disappeared down the stairs. For one blissful moment, peace and quiet descended over the master bedroom.

  CRASH!

  Christopher jumped out of bed as another loud crashing sound emerged from downstairs. Not even bothering to tie his robe, he flew down the stairs and skidded into the kitchen. The source of the crash was immediately obvious. One of the kitchen’s shelves had come crashing down off the wall. Tins and jars were strewn all over the floor. And standing in the middle of it all, looking as innocent as a newborn baby, was Pooh.

  “Your ladder is broken,” he said.

  Christopher shook his head as he bent over and began picking up the mess Pooh had made. “It’s not a ladder, Pooh,” he said. “It was a shelf.”

  “That explains why it was no good for climbing,” Pooh said, nodding.

  “I don’t have time to muck about,” Christopher said, sighing. He dumped a few broken pieces of the glass jars into the garbage. “I should be working. Finding a solution.” Then, more to himself than to the bear, he added, “Even though I think it may be impossible.”

  He then opened a jar of honey, which was a surprise find to Christopher, because he had thought the bear had eaten his entire supply the night before. Pooh shrugged. “People say Nothing is impossible,” he said, stuffing his paw into the jar. “But I do Nothing every day.”

  “Oh, Pooh. That’s not—oh, never mind,” Christopher said, waving his hand. He knew it was useless to try and explain himself, or his motivations, to the bear, but he found himself doing it anyway. “Look, I’m an adult now. With responsibilities. I can’t be distracted. Which is why we really need to get you home.”

  “But how?” Pooh asked.

  Christopher felt a small pang of guilt. He realized that Pooh had come to him for help and that he was failing his old friend terribly. But he couldn’t waste the weekend. He had specifically not gone away to be with his own family so that he could work. Getting caught up in Pooh’s misadventures was a waste of time—plain and simple. Still…perhaps he should try to help.

  CRASH!

  Another shelf fell to the floor at that moment, dropping a sack of flour to the ground and sending a plume of white powder up into the air and all over Christopher. No. He had been right the first time. Picking Pooh up and putting him under his arm, Christopher began to head upstairs. He needed to get dressed. Then they were heading to Sussex, to get Pooh back to the Hundred-Acre Wood.

  OF course, getting a talking bear through the streets of London wasn’t exactly easy. As Christopher hurried down the street—briefcase in one hand, Pooh under his other arm—he regretted not taking a cab to the train station. It seemed to Christopher that every person in London was out and about, enjoying the early morning sunshine. He had to duck and weave constantly. Grumbling under his breath, Christopher tried to bring as little attention to himself as possible.

  Pooh, on the other hand, was doing the exact opposite.

  “It’s very loud,” Pooh said, squirming. His head swiveled back and forth as he took in the speeding cars, the passing people, and the constant thrum of activity. “And not in a hummy sort of way,” he added as a particularly loud and smelly double-decker bus blew by.

  “Welcome to London,” Christopher said.

  Spotting a man approaching, Pooh waved. “Hello there,” he called out. “Are you on an expotition, too?”

  The man did a double take…and walked straight into a lamppost.

  Wincing, Christopher slammed his hand over Pooh’s mouth and then dove into one of London’s many red phone booths. He plopped the bear onto the ledge that held the booth’s phone and pointed a finger at his friend. “Look,” he said, his tone serious. “People can’t see you moving and talking.”

  “But why?” Pooh asked, looking genuinely confused. Christopher moved and talked to people. It seemed like that was what people in London did.

  Christopher sighed. It felt like trying to reason with a toddler. He flashed back to when Madeline, age two, had constantly asked, “Why?” He had never been able to satisfy her questioning then, and he doubted he would be able to explain himself to Pooh now. But he had to try. He couldn’t spend the rest of this “expotition,” as Pooh called it, trying to hide the bear from view. “You’re different,” Christopher finally said. “And people don’t like things that are different.”

  “Oh,” Pooh said. “So, I shouldn’t be me?”

  “I…no…I…” Christopher stuttered. “No, always be yourself.”

  Pooh cocked his head. “This is all very confusing,” the bear said. Then he patted his stomach. “It may be the hunger.”

  Christopher nearly laughed out loud. And he probably would have—if he hadn’t been standing in a phone booth trying to reason with a bear and most likely getting strange looks from anyone who happened to pa
ss by and look into the booth. “You’ve just eaten!” he said, exasperated.

  “Oh! That’s right,” Pooh said, delighted to know he wasn’t hungry. “I suspect, then, that I ate too much.”

  Christopher bit his tongue. They were wasting time. Which, of course, he hated. “Never mind that,” he said. “Listen, for now, just maybe be a less exuberant you.” The bear stared back at him blankly. “Flop. Sag. Go limp,” Christopher said. As he spoke, he demonstrated. He flopped his head down, made his arms go limp. Then his whole body sagged so that he fell back against the booth’s glass. On the other side, a person walking by jumped at the sound and then gave Christopher—and Pooh—a confused look before picking up the pace and moving on.

  If this keeps up, Christopher thought as Pooh attempted to mimic his moves, I’m going to have the whole city of London believing I’ve lost my mind. He looked at Pooh. The bear had flopped his ears, hunched his shoulders, and gone bowlegged. Yet he still looked more like a real bear than a stuffed toy. And right then, Christopher needed him to look like a toy. Then he had a thought. “I’ve got it!” he cried. “Play nap time.”

  “Oh!” Pooh said, clapping his paws in delight. “I love play!” And just like that, Pooh went still. He looked exactly, Christopher thought happily, like a stuffed animal.

  “Well done!” Christopher said, scooping him up and throwing him over his shoulder. Opening the phone booth, he stepped back onto the street and headed toward the entrance to Victoria station.

  Luckily, they didn’t have to go far, and Pooh managed to make it almost to the train before curiosity got the best of him. Opening one eye ever so slightly, Pooh looked around at the station. It didn’t seem much different from the street. It was just darker and the sound was more muffled. He had started to close his eye when he spotted a balloon vendor. The man was holding a dozen or so brightly colored balloons, hawking them to passersby. Pooh’s eyes shot open. There was nothing he liked more than a bright balloon.