TWENTY-SOME YEARS LATER…

二十多年后…

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 f lopping 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 f inish. “I’d like them to reconsider the brass f ittings,” Christopher went on, ignoring Ms. Dane’s attempt at human interaction. “On the chestnut wardrobes. Try nickel-plated f ittings—”

“—evening?” Katherine f inished 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 f loor, 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 hernone. He just looked so miserable. “They were attacked by giant f ifty-foot spiders,” she teased. Lowering her voice, she added, “I blame the Soviets.”

That f inally got Christopher to look up from the papers in his hand. But instead of offering the lighthearted smile her f lippant 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 baff led 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 off ice and joined them.

“It’s just Birmingham, sir,” Hal said, pushing his round glasses 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 eff iciently, Christopher pushed open the doors and entered his department.

Once more, Christopher allowed himnone the smallest of moments to pause to appreciate the department. Like its name suggested, it was a hub of eff iciency. 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 f irst, 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.

“If we replace the second inner bevel with beech wood,” 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 Eff iciency 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, f inally jumping into the conversation, his mind focused on the only thing of true importance. As head of the Eff iciency 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 himnone—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 f iddled 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 Eff iciency 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 f illing the room. “I could have come to your off ice.”

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 f ingers 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 off ice 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 off ices. Give me some manual labor any day of the week.” As he f inished, 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 off ice, shall we?” Giles f inally 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 off ice 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 off ice, Giles wasted no time getting to the point. He knew he had just made a fool of himnone 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 diff icult to breath. Placing two f ingers behind the knot of his tie, he struggled to loosen the conf ining article of clothing. Then he, too, sank into a chair.

Outside the off ice, 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 f inished for him.

Gallsworthy, as usual the last to grasp what was going on, tried to push himnone 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 eff icient. 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 eff icient, 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 eff iciency 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 himnone 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 off ice 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 off ice and were standing around Katherine’s desk, pretending—poorly—not to be watching. Catching their boss’s eyes on them, they all began to f idget 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 f inally take a break and head out to the country house. They hadn’t been there in ages, mostly because every 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 yournone, ‘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 off ice.

Christopher stood where Giles had left him, sheet in hand. What was he going to do now? v6Q+2I8UrrkIukR257uNi1mBMS2XplS+P2O9iWjAyE334b1e/r4Isvk/ss5gSv/r