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What Hope for Mr Brown?

 

Mr Brown died early on Friday morning. It was not particularly painful. Unsurprisingly, he had never been sure what would happen next, yet was disagreeably surprised by the absence of drama. He was still there, on the bed. His body was cooling and stiffening around him. There were sounds of laughter- the clatter of cutlery and the tinkle of glasses from downstairs.  

    From the direction of the bedroom door some mutterings grew in intensity.

    “No-I don't want to see. Leave me alone,” and the sound of the door handle being turned- the door itself being pushed open very slowly. He heard scuffling in the doorway, and a series of angry exchanges. Why were they speaking in such low voices? Did they really think they might wake him up?

    It was his two grandchildren, Jennifer and John, both six years old. "I'm telling mummy of you. I didn't want to see it."

    One of them began to cry. The noises retreated down the stairs; a door was opened and closed, and all was quiet.

    Surely he should not still be here. His body was becoming distinctly uncomfortable. What would happen when the undertakers arrived? He would have shuddered, but that was no longer possible. He heard a vehicle turning into their cul-de-sac. It seemed to be approaching the house; Mr Brown felt a surge of panic. He made as if to leave the bed. To his astonishment, he had a sensation of movement. He felt the floor, as if with his actual feet. He looked round, or so it seemed to him, only to see a very pale stiff shape on his bed. His own body! For a whole minute he did not move- transfixed by fear and surprise. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs.

    A male voice was saying, in soothing tones, "We’ll take your loved one and make all the arrangements. Nothing to worry about, Mrs Brown.  Very important man, your husband. Perhaps you would prefer to return to your friends."

    “Y-yes. Thank you. Very kind.”

    Mr Brown could hear his wife answering in a faint and wavering voice. Now the bedroom door was opening. He must hide. Then came his second post-mortem shock. A mere impulse took him swiftly towards the wardrobe, the floor sliding past his bare feet like ice. The wardrobe door was closed. A faint tearing sensation and he was the other side of the door-crouching, or so his senses advised him, in the warm darkness. Through the crack, he could see his body lifted and deposited in a coffin. The lid was closed and the undertakers moved to the door.

 “Undersized…this one. And we might manage with our basic Eco Coffin.”

“No, Henry. I told you before. Nothing but the best. Mr Brown was Data Analytics big boss. A man to be feared, or so I’ve heard. It’s good business to look after his relatives and friends.”

Mr Brown remained motionless until he had heard the hearse drive away. With that same faint tearing sensation, he moved through the wardrobe door back into the bedroom.

“A gross administrative error, surely. I can’t just be left hanging around like this after death,” he thought. “Either heaven or hell would be preferable. What am I supposed to do?”

The sound of voices rose again from downstairs, and he felt a wave of embarrassment.  Was he visible in his present condition? One thing was certain. He must avoid his family and friends now. For he refused to risk becoming a laughing stock. He had to grow accustomed to being dead.  In any event, he had not cared very much for any of them, and suspected that they felt the same about him.

He almost enjoyed the sensation of floating down the stairs. Pausing briefly in a dark corner, he was terrified lest someone should emerge from the sitting room and see him in his current state. Nothing happened. In another moment he was out through the front door and drifting towards the main road. To his horror, a man and woman were coming towards him. The man was pushing a buggy containing a small and grimy toddler; the woman had a bad-tempered Alsatian on a short lead. There was nowhere to hide. He halted, frozen to the spot. The couple came on without slackening their pace.  Closer and closer. The wheels of the buggy seemed to pass through his right foot.

“Thank goodness,” Mr Brown said to himself. “Live people cannot see me.”

He felt, at one and the same time, both exhilarated and sad.

Suddenly, the Alsatian let out a torrent of barks, pulling violently on its lead. The woman staggered, the lead slipping from her grasp. Rounding on Mr Brown, the animal tried to sink teeth into the place where he still felt he had a left foot. There was a tingling, almost a pain, and when he tried to pull away from the dog, that same tearing sensation he had experienced with the wardrobe door was repeated. For a moment, he actually found it difficult to move, but then managed a few yards. The dog followed him, growling horribly. On impulse,  Mr Brown let out a shout. Startled, the dog immediately released him, and tore off down the road, emitting a high-pitched whine.

“Hey. Here boy. Heel! Heel,” screamed the woman. The couple sprinted after the creature, the buggy lurching dangerously from side to side.

Mr Brown decided to make his way to the park to sit down and take stock. Everything seemed worse than the worst nightmare-but at least he was free to do as he liked.

A low laugh came from his left, and he felt an infinitely strong hand grasp his shoulder.

"Free, Mr Brown? Not just yet. Given the history of your business practices, you now must work for your dying…if you’ll pardon the expression.  Come!”

Mr Brown felt himself dragged to a cluster of tall trees. They grew on a little hillock in the middle of the park. To his surprise, he saw a door set into the side of the hill, almost hidden by the foliage. He had never noticed it before, despite being a frequent visitor to the park.

“In you come, Mr Brown. And… down we go.”

He descended quite slowly. The iron grip on his shoulder had gone, yet he was still intensely aware of an unwelcome presence. A flickering reddish orange glow beneath him gradually grew more intense. He was nearing the bottom. It was illuminated by some kind of wavering light source. He had the impression that the air was growing very hot.

On landing, the ground felt firm and unpleasantly warm underfoot. A vast space was revealed, at the heart of which was a lake. It emitted an intense fiery light, while flames seemed to flicker across its surface. Had they reached some kind of volcanic phenomenon? Underneath an English municipal park?

Ridiculous as the association immediately seemed, he recalled from school scenes of hell depicted in Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’. There was a low chuckle from somewhere close.

“You didn’t really think that Milton guy made it all up, did you? No…some revelations from my Area Manager… though Milton thought he’d created it all himself. Let me introduce myself. My name is Screwtape, and I’m a Senior Sin Expediter.”

Mr Brown began to feel very cross indeed. Some kind of organization was playing infantile games with him.

“This is just silly now, whoever you are. Lewis’s ‘Screwtape Letters’! Mere fantasy.”

“Again – such naivety. Unknown to Lewis, we did influence him slightly when while he was dreaming up his Screwtape character. Though the kind of impact his publication achieved at the time was definitely not welcomed by my colleagues Down Here. Up There loved it, of course. Anyhow, please call me Screwtape. That is my name.”

Mr Brown felt himself being grabbed by the wrist and pulled along by the side of the burning lake.

“You won’t be meeting Our Father Below, Mr Brown. You are small fry. I’m taking you to one of our Departure Centres.”

Shortly, they neared a building with disquietingly church like features… arches, buttresses, a tower and even stained-glass windows, though he was unable to see what they illustrated. Inside, the fierce orange glow was muted, and the atmosphere was so ecclesial that Mr Brown almost imagined incense. However, since his death, he had been unable to smell anything.

“Right. You start here.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Your return to the land of the living. Quite soon.”

“Don’t I get a say?”

“No – of course not. A girl this time. Born again. Though I’m not fond of that phrase, as I’m sure you appreciate. During Transition you may glimpse some photographs of possible mothers. But as a girl in your fresh cycle you may never remember this.”

“So. It will be just like going to sleep.”

“No. It’s you who will be returning. Hence conscious. From the very moment of birth.”

“No!! I won’t! I really can’t!”

“Don’t be silly. You don’t get to choose. And…Lewis never realized this, but I don’t only work for Our Father Below. So here is a message from Our Father Above. Be better in your next life. Otherwise, you’ll be back yet again. By the way, you won’t be able to let any of my colleagues Down Here know that I’m a double agent. Off you pop.”

~

The pain of the birth was intense. Hope suffered from the darkness, the brief feelings of suffocation and the claustrophobia. Her head was subjected to extreme pressure from each side. Was her skull literally being squeezed into a new shape? Unpleasant tasting liquid and mucus filled her mouth and nostrils. She burned to breathe, but could not. Abruptly, the pressure was suddenly released. Blessedly cool air played first over her head, and then around the rest of her naked body. Faint dazzling spears of daylight strove to penetrate her tightly closed eyelids.

“It’s a girl, Mrs Carter.”

“She looks beautiful, Ruth. Wait till you see her..”

“Let me have her! Quick! Please!”

“Come on, Hope. Come and meet your Mummy.”

Hope! Ugh! Why would she mind about a name? It was just that she did not believe that she could possibly be Hope. Something about her present state was profoundly and terribly wrong.

Hunger and thirst wracked her tiny frame in a devastating onslaught. She felt herself lifted and placed on a warm, yielding surface. She sucked. Bliss. But there were scarcely more than just a few drops. She moved her mouth from the nipple and screamed with frustrated rage.

She opened her eyes and stared at Ruth Carter. The face was much as she remembered from the photographs, if a little paler and more lined. As she remembered? Photographs? What? There were kind features under short rather limp blonde hair, and large blue eyes. Ruth did not look particularly shrewd. That had been one reason for the choice. Whose choice? Such thoughts and questions, both alien and complex, swiftly faded.

“Who’s Mummy’s beautiful girl then…Jon! Just look! She seems so knowing. She’s wondering why all these idiots are talking to her in silly voices.”

Hope closed her eyes quickly, her heart beginning to beat quite rapidly. Her face must be an open book! Much more care needed. But why? She blew a few bubbles, and then, utterly exhausted, drifted off to sleep.

The next few days she lived on her nerves. She made several mistakes. For a while she controlled her bowels. It was such an effort just to let go and fill her nappy as babies do. But she gathered from what Ruth said on the phone that she was about to consult the doctor. After that, she produced irregularly to satisfy expectations. Why?

When unobserved she exercised her limbs. After some initial difficulty, they responded reasonably well.  She experimented with her tongue and mouth, whispering to acquire speech as soon as possible. She did not know why she did this, nor why she took such care not to be seen.

~

One cold February day, she stayed in her pram outside a local shop while her mother went inside. A sharp easterly breeze stirred the dead leaves around the pram wheels and lifted the corners of her blankets. Snuggling further down in the warmth, she drifted in milk-laden dreams. But now, someone was bending over her. A waft of stale breath passed over her face while a sticky finger was laid on her arm.

“Who’s a pretty babe, then? Come home with me to Mummy.” A man with a fat pallid face was eying her in a furtive, greedy kind of way. He glanced around and tried to gather her out of the pram, staggering slightly as he leaned forward.

She threw caution to the winds. “One more move, you nasty little reptile, and I’ll spit in your eye.” She was instantly amazed at how well she could speak.

The man threw one terrified look at her and dropped her the couple of inches back into the pram. At once, she set up a furious screaming. Her assailant made some curious distressed gulping noises as he fled. The rising wind threw a shower of leaves after him. Ruth Carter was out of the shop in an instant.

“What’s the matter, darling…?”

Ruth looked up. She saw the man a few yards away. He had paused and turned round. Apparently unable to tear himself away, he stared first at her and then at the pram. She shivered, and gathering the baby into her arms, returned to the shop.

He was either mad or bad or worse, Hope thought. He might babble to others. She must be more careful. Again, a sense of bewilderment followed such thoughts. However, she was not yet able to pursue them any further. They occurred. Then she acted on them. That was all.

~

Hope was now thirteen months old. Angela was just four. Because her parents pandered to her greed, she waddled rather than walked. Ruth was earning a very modest fee for minding Angela on a regular basis.

“Come here, then, silly little Hope.” Angela pulled Hope clumsily from her cot. Angela had a running nose, and the remains of a chocolate ice cream smeared round her mouth.

Ruth beamed gratefully at Angela even as she struggled with feelings of exhaustion.

“Look who’s here again, Hope. You can play some lovely games with Angela.”

Hope had been pleased the first time Angela had come. She often felt very lonely and needed companionship.

“It’s smashing when you’re here, Angela!” Ruth said. “So good with Hope. I get lots of jobs done.”

But Hope now knew Angela quite well and dreaded the rest of the morning.

“You have dolly’s green skirt on and dolly has your pink baby-grow. Now it’s time for teddy to get up, and time for you to go to bed..” Angela said. From about half-past ten until midday, Hope was pulled roughly this way and that as Angela repeatedly and inexpertly dressed and undressed her. It often happened while Ruth Carter ‘minded’ Angela. After her own fashion, Angela loved her, Hope knew, but the knowledge did nothing to lessen her present torture.

“You’re a dirty little girl, Hope. Dolly’s had a wash. It’s your turn.”

Angela lifted her, mainly by her arms, and, breathing heavily with the effort, steered her towards the bathroom. Hope felt as though her limbs were being wrenched from their sockets. Impulsively, she turned her face in the direction of Angela’s right arm and sank her few teeth deeply into the flesh.

It might have been better to have chosen a moment when nearer the floor. Angela dropped her with a crash and set up a startled howl of pain. Hope’s head struck something hard, and blackness swiftly followed a blaze of stars.

Consciousness returned with the unmistakable scents and sounds of a hospital. Unmistakable? She had not been in hospital since being born! What was she thinking?

“I feel terrible, Veronica. Nothing like this has ever happened before, but I should have checked.”

“Yes, Ruth, you should. Two stitches she’s had to have in that arm. Mark my words, you’ll have trouble with that child. Like a little wild animal.”

“Hope’s probably got concussion. It was a real shame that she bit Angela, but she’s not much more than a baby still..”  Hope could hear a little defensiveness -even aggression in her mother’s voice. “Angela is four. Perhaps she was teasing the baby.”

Hope drifted off into darkness once more.

~

She suffered no lasting effects, physically speaking. Angela was minded no more. Several weeks later, they encountered Angela and her mother in the park. Angela was with a couple of friends her own age. Hope caught Angela’s eye and smiled uncertainly.

“Ugh!” Angela confided to her friends. “There’s a smelly baby. We don’t like stinky babies.”

All three children began to chant. “Stinky old baby, stinky old baby.”

There were a few curious glances from passers-by, out enjoying the early sunshine.

Ruth flushed slightly, but did not respond. She pushed straight ahead, passing Angela’s mother, who had clearly witnessed the whole encounter and done nothing to interfere. Although Hope did not really like Angela, she cried.

~

Around Hope’s fourth birthday, Ruth Carter began to encourage her daughter to play with June, Richard, Shirley and other four year olds who lived close by. Hope wanted this too. On the other hand, she craved time on her own so that she could teach herself to read. Or rather, was it time to remember something she could already do?

 One sunny July morning, Ruth Carter announced, “You can go and play in Debbie’s garden today. I’ll be in their house chatting to Debbie’s Mum.”

Debbie’s garden was large. At the back were several mature trees and bushes. Among them there were hiding places and dark secret passages. Hope looked forward to this. Although still not universally popular with other children, she took the lead in role play. This morning, she excelled herself. They played at Mummies and Daddies, Baby Sitters and Going to the Supermarket. In the end, Richard did tire of her suggestions, however, and initiated some more masculine games.

It was nearly time for lunch when he introduced the electric lawnmower. An orange cable trailed behind him back into the house. Though small for his size, he wore a determined and excited expression that brooked no disagreement. He was finding the mower quite heavy, but had no intention of letting that stop him.

“This is our car,” he announced. “Listen. It’s got a big motor.” He pressed a button, and the mower ground into action. It lurched wildly as he continued to push. He was finding it difficult to control and steer. Hope could see the rotor spinning inches from his feet as the mower tipped erratically from side to side.

“Richard!” she cried authoritatively. The other children suddenly glared at her resentfully. “We don’t need a car. Debbie’s mum will be cross. Look.. I’ll take it back while you go on with the game.”

Her tone was almost that of an adult. She noted this fact with surprise, and without emotion.

She moved very slowly towards him. Angrily, Richard thrust the mower in her direction. It did not move quite as he expected. He gave a terrible cry of anguish as it settled back on the front half of his right foot. Hope rushed forward and wrenched the machine up and off the boy. Richard’s mother, attracted by the sounds, came tearing into the garden. All she saw was Hope apparently wielding the mower, and Richard screaming in agony.

“What’s happening?” she shouted. She sprang towards Hope and pulled the machine from her, at the same time kicking the child violently to the ground. The noise of the motor died swiftly. Hope lay on the grass, dazed. She could hear the harsh breathing of Richard’s mother as she examined her injured son. There was no sound from the latter. Presumably he had fainted. The woman rose to her feet, sobbing under her breath.

“Must call ambulance,” she muttered. She ran to the house for her phone. Hope struggled to stand up, and with some reluctance approached the immobile figure of Richard. It was difficult to see the extent of his injuries but his cuts must be deep, that much was obvious. He was bleeding fast. Hope pulled off one of her tights and tried to bind part of the injured foot to staunch the flow. Her four year old hands were clumsy and she struggled to achieve any kind of success.

Suddenly she received a violent blow on her right ear. Her head rang and she sank to her knees.

“Get away from him, you horrible wicked animal. I’ve always thought there was something odd about you..”

Hope underwent another slapping. She felt faint and sick. She began to weep uncontrollably, and despite her inner caution, gave in to an irresistible desire to justify herself.

“I – I was trying to help. It wasn’t me with the mower.. you must stop the blood.”

Fortunately, the woman was in such a state, and Hope’s speech so indistinct as a result of her assaults and misery that she failed to notice the child’s inexplicably adult manner. Even so, it was sufficiently odd to inflame her anger even further. She grabbed Hope’s elbow and marched her through the house to the front door step.

“Stay there!” she hissed, “until your mother comes. Don’t expect ever to come here again.”

~

By the next morning, the story was everywhere, especially on social media, as Ruth explained to Hope. Hope had trusted that the other children would have explained just how Richard’s accident had occurred. Instead, the whole group accepted the adult beliefs without question, and were convinced that they had all seen Hope attack Richard with the mower..

“I didn’t! I really didn’t,” Hope repeated to Ruth Carter dozens of times that day. Ruth either ignored her, or looked at her gravely without speaking.

Hope felt that she was in the middle of a nightmare, though when she stopped to think, she did not know what a nightmare was.. There was no chance of experiencing normal childhood now. She would have to induce her mother to move. 

It was the phone call that gave Hope her idea. She was alerted by the apprehension and outrage in her mother’s voice, and hovered outside the door to hear the end of the conversation. Evidently it was some kind of hate message which her mother found very upsetting, though she said nothing to her daughter about it.

Hope hoped for more of the same. This kind of thing would surely induce her mother to move away. But there were no further calls. Accordingly, Hope decided that she must act.

~

Two weeks later, she tensely awaited the post. She saw Ruth pick up a brown envelope and slit it open. Her mother’s eyes scanned the single page. She turned a little pale, screwed up the letter and threw it into the bin. After three more days, a long white envelope and a small blue one were delivered. Cautiously, Hope remained in her bedroom while Ruth investigated them. She heard her mother mount the stairs and enter her bedroom. There was the sound of muffled crying. For a moment, Hope felt terrible. But what was the alternative? Somehow, at some time, she would make it up to Ruth even though Ruth still thought her daughter capable of attacking a child with a mower. There were three more ‘letters’ to come. Hope was certain that this would be sufficient and with immense care disposed of her remaining envelopes, pens and unused versions of the obscene threats that Ruth had already received.

Hope was still amazed at just how unobservant her mother was – failing to notice Hope using a local pillar box while they were out shopping. Thank goodness it was over, and for being able to find envelopes scattered throughout the house. Moreover, she could already produce ‘adult’ handwriting in more than one style.  She had had to steal some of her mother’s stamps.

Hope helped Ruth show round the agent who called to value the house. In the next two or three months, as the sale proceeded, she and her mother made repeated journeys north to explore where they might move. Hope was as useful as she dared to be given her age. Ruth thawed almost completely.

“I don’t know what I would have done without you, Hope. You are old for your years, somehow.”

After this comment, for a couple of weeks something impelled Hope to tone down her good behaviour. She hated this, because at the same time she felt a strong need for Ruth’s approval. Her mother still resembled her photograph – not very shrewd but endlessly kind.. What photograph? What were these thoughts? Memories? They still surfaced from time to time, and then ebbed away with little trace.

~

They moved. Ruth and her brother Jon had bought a large old house in the North. Ruth and Hope shared the place with Jon and his family. Hope loved it. No one knew her history, and she could read unobserved in the extensive attics. However, she was increasingly troubled by strange dreams in which she was a man called Mr Brown in charge of firms handling data and huge sums of money. She tried to find out about data handling from books and the media, at the same time wondering why she bothered with mere dreams. Once or twice, she dreamt of someone unseen called Screwtape, at which point she woke immediately, her heart pounding furiously.

A couple of months after the move, Hope started school while Ruth began a part time job.

“Mummy must work,” Ruth explained. “The money from Douglas has never been enough.”

Ruth always referred to Hope’s father in this way. She never mentioned him otherwise.

~

“This is Hope,” Ruth told Mrs Fletcher, a short, rather flabby looking woman at the classroom door. “She’s looking forward to school. And she can already read!” Ruth smiled hopefully at Mrs Fletcher.

Ruth’s southern accent contrasted with those of the other new parents Mrs Fletcher had met that morning. Tired after a sleepless night looking after her chronically ill mother, Mrs Fletcher was not in the best of moods. Ruth’s voice and her claims for Hope’s reading set her teeth on edge.

“We’ll decide whether Hope can read, if you don’t mind, Mrs Carter. Parents sometimes think..”

“Oh -well – I’m sure you know best, Mrs Fletcher,” Ruth replied uncertainly. She would not pick a fight with Hope’s teacher on her very first day at school. Giving Hope a quick hug, her mother left.

 “Go and do some sticking with those girls,” Mrs Fletcher ordered. Obediently, Hope drifted in the direction indicated.

She spent some time helping to fill a large crocodile outline with pieces of torn up green crepe paper.

“What’s your name?” she asked her neighbour, shyly.

“Eunice,” the child responded, without looking up from her tearing.

“Do you like doing this, Eunice?”

“S-alright. Sheila! Catch!”

Eunice squashed some green paper into a ball and hurled it at Sheila on the other side of the room. Sheila returned it with enthusiasm.

A boy now joined in. Hope crept over to a book stand, withdrew ‘The Three Little Pigs’ and returned to the crocodile table. She had hardly time to open the book before Mrs Fletcher’s voice made her start violently.

“Why were you out of your seat just now?”

Hope flushed hid her book under the table. The boy had mysteriously faded away. As if by magic, Eunice was seated back on her chair, tearing paper.

“Who’s been making all this mess? Eunice?”

“No, Mrs Fletcher.”

“It must be you, then.. the new girl, whatever your name.”

Hope went redder still. “Please, Mrs Fletcher. It really wasn’t..” She trailed off. Eunice was gazing at her venomously. If Hope’s denials succeeded, any trouble visited on Eunice would be repaid with interest.

“Go into the corner, and stand there until you can behave.”

Her head down and her eyes full of tears, Hope began to move. Mrs Fletcher caught a glimpse of the book now clutched under Hope’s arm.

“Put that book away at once! Who said you could have that? You’ll get paste all over it.”

~

Much of Hope’s school life continued in a similar vein. And both waking and sleeping were increasingly troubled by intimations that she was really someone else called Mr Brown, or at least that she had been once. But when was that? How was it even possible?

         In her final year she ended up in a class run by Miss Jones, the Deputy Head. Miss Jones spoke to her in a warm and friendly fashion, and listened to what she said. This was life-changing.

            One morning the children were out at play but it had started to rain. They would be called inside at any moment. To Hope’s surprise, a disheveled -looking man was stumbling around near the gate. He appeared to be looking for someone, at least at first. The gate appeared to be closed and locked, so how he had made an entrance was a mystery. He had a knife in his hand and made no attempt to conceal it. Eunice had not seen him as she was playing a jumping game with a friend. He darted forwards and grabbed hold of her, the knife blade against her throat. Eunice screamed loudly until he put a hand over her mouth. Other children stood still and silent in shock, gazing helplessly at the drama unfolding in front of them.

Hope found herself moving towards him, halting a few yards away.

“Mister – whoever you are, you need to drop that knife. Whatever you think Eunice has done, she is only a child, and you aren’t going to make anything better for yourself if you… You must be very unhappy..”

Unseen by Hope, Miss Jones had materialised to call everyone in, as the rain was becoming heavy. She paused as she tried to understand what she was seeing.

The man frowned and growled at Hope. “You can’t make me do anything, you stupid little bitch. Who do you think you are, talking to me like that…”

“I don’t think I’m anything, mister. Just a girl in the school. Eunice – she’s just a young girl too. With a life to live. Come on. You know you don’t really want to do anything dreadful. Please, please give it up now, whatever it is!”

Something about Hope’s kindly yet inappropriately adult tones must have started to reach the man. He stared at her for a few seconds, gave an oddly disturbing grin, and let the knife fall, releasing Eunice. He sat down heavily on the wet ground and began to groan, while Eunice ran crying to Miss Jones, who cradled her in her arms.

The police came, and by lunch time calm had more or less returned, at least in Miss Jones’s class. No one seemed to understand what Hope had achieved, or even that she had achieved anything, least of all Eunice. Hope accepted the fact philosophically. At lunch time, Miss Jones stopped her as she was about to leave the room.

“I’d like to see you after you’ve eaten, Hope. In here.”

Hope returned to the class, having bolted down her food. She was apprehensive, fearing that the good times with Miss Jones were over.

Miss Jones looked at her very seriously, and Hope’s fears increased.

“I witnessed what you did in the playground, Hope. Wonderful.. but surely an impossible feat for a child of your age. Just how…?

Hope said nothing. She did not understand it herself, though as she struggled to do so, the names of Brown and Screwtape erupted in her mind. Who was or is Screwtape? Memories of being Mr Brown suddenly became horrifyingly clear. Her whole previous history was laid bare. She must keep this to herself. Or must she? Why? She felt quite faint and stared at the floor, rather than at Miss Jones.

“Look, Hope. You mustn’t worry about me. I won’t give you away. But I know. You used to be someone else. Because I’m the same. I ... I used to be.. no-I can’t say any more. But I will look out for you. And.. thank you for this morning.”

Hope gazed into Miss Jones’s face. She thought she could see tears. Miss Jones smiled, touched Hope’s cheek, and said, “Away outside now. Don’t say a word.”

Hope nodded and left, feeling a huge surge of inexpressible gratitude.

~

. On her eleventh birthday she received a few cards -only one from a school mate, and a letter with a printed name and address. A What’s App message on the same day directed her attention to the letter, but the sender concealed their identity. She opened the letter in her bedroom, away from any prying eyes.

Hope – I’m a well-wisher. Open a bank account. Obviously you must invovle an adult, though they may try to prevent you. Then send your account details to this address. It will be to your advantage, and nothing wrong or illegal is involved. Apologies for anonymity – this cannot be avoided.

~

“Mum. I need to open a bank account.”

“Need? Nonsense. Why? You’ve no money..  except for pocket money -and one or two birthday and Christmas gifts.”

“I just do. I’m old enough. Why stop me?”

“I’m not, dear. Just a bit strange, that’s all. But I suppose… it can’t do any harm. OK – go ahead, then.”

“I need you involved, apparently. That’s the law.”

“Fine. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“I’ll need online access!”

“Your new phone?”

“It’s very limited, Mum – but a great birthday present all the same. Yes- it will do the bank access – just about.”

Hope had anticipated stronger opposition, so her mother’s reaction was quite a relief. She felt the account was urgent, but had no idea why. As her mother said, she had little or no money.

A few days later she accessed her account just for fun. She blinked at the screen, and rubbed her eyes, thinking she was misinterpreting some screen dirt, rather than seeing actual figures. There was no mistake. The sum of five million pounds was registered to her account. Such huge amounts of money were completely bewildering, and yet somehow familiar. Mr Brown had spent his adult life making many decisions about finance. Or she/he had. She tried unsuccessfully to obliterate the unwelcome memories. And in a couple of days there was yet another message.

Hope – your well-wisher again. Build on your money. Here are some links to online guidelines for very profitable investments. All legal. They are strictly ethical enterprises.

Someone might investigate her phone, despite its limitations. She changed her user name and password before acting on the links. After a week or so, the amounts of money credited to her were astronomical, and seemed to be growing exponentially day by day.

She was increasingly torn between using her riches somehow to avenge herself on all the bullies in her life, and, instead, doing something good. For some bizarre reason, retributive thinking repeatedly triggered her Mr Brown identity, but when she attempted to focus on this she became dizzy and confused.

~

To undergo her first period at eleven was still quite early. It was painful, and left her lacking in energy for several days. She could not sleep. There was no one of her own age with whom to share her problems. A month later she suspected the onset of a second event. At breakfast she tackled her mother.

“Could you write to the school, Mum? Some teachers are very strict about toilet visits, and if something happens during the lesson, I’m not sure whether..”

“Of course, dear. Don’t worry. Give this to your teacher, and all will be well. I meant to buy some period pants for you yesterday but it slipped my mind. I’ll have some in for next time. But I expect you’ll manage today.”

~

There was still half an hour or so before lunch at school. Hope felt unmistakable sensations and waved her hand desperately at the teacher, a temporary supply. Miss Jones was otherwise engaged.

“Don’t interrupt, Hope Carter. I’m speaking.’

“But Miss.. I must go to the toilet.”

“You should have gone at play time. You’ll just have to wait. Now be quiet.”

“But Miss – it’s not.. it’s..”

“Silence!”

Red stains began to spread in her skirt and tights. Her plastic chair was becoming wet. Soon, pupils sitting near her began to notice. Giggling, whispering and gesturing resulted. The teacher pointedly ignored this.

It was not a good day for Hope, and there were others like it.

~

“Hope Carter. Looking out of the window again. Keep your eyes on me while I’m talking. That is the rule, and you will follow it.” The same supply teacher was standing in for Miss Jones.

“I can concentrate better when I don’t look at you, to be honest, Mrs Farms.”

“I decide when and how you will concentrate, you rude little girl.”

“It’s not possible for one person to decide whether and how another can concentrate. Why on earth do you think you can? Bizarre!”

Mrs Farms’ face contorted with fury as she began to take in Hope’s adult tones. “Go and sit outside the Head’s room. I’ll let her know and she’ll deal with you later.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs Farms.”

There were sniggers from around the class as Hope slowly rose from her seat and made for the door. She opened it but before leaving the room, turned to look at the teacher and stared at her without expression.

No sounds came from the Head’s room, and Hope wondered what she could possibly be doing. Was she even there? She began to while away the time by trying to imagine creative uses for her immense financial resources and pondering some of the intractable practical issues. Must donations be anonymous? Her first thoughts were that they must, but on reflection, changed her mind. If recipients knew her name, so what? There would be publicity, but surely no one would think that ‘Hope Carter’ could possibly refer to an eleven-year old girl.

Now should she say she was ‘Mr Brown’ rather than being anonymous? She was Mr Brown. Her identity confusions resurfaced with heightened intensity.

“What are you doing here, Hope?” Miss Jones emerged from the Head’s office.

Hope felt an overwhelming sense of relief. “Waiting for the Head, Miss. Mrs Farms sent me.”

“She’s not here until later today. You’d better let me know what this is about. I’ll tell the Head I’ve dealt with you in her absence.”

“I wasn’t looking at her… Mrs Farms, I mean. She keeps trying to force me. I can’t concentrate if I have constantly to make eye contact.”

“What happened to make her send you here?”

“Well.. I didn’t do as she said straight away. And… I was a bit rude. No swear words or anything. Just… not compliant.’

Hope already felt much calmer. It was always like that with Miss Jones.

Miss Jones looked at Hope very closely. “Hope.. you are very old for your age. That time you stopped the man in the playground from doing something dreadful, I told you I too have.. history…Screwtape..”

“Miss Jones. Who is Screwtape? Who do you mean? Because..”

Miss Jones sat down next to Hope and put her head in her hands for a few seconds.

“Just don’t go there, Hope! We should never speak of this. In case..”

“In case what? Miss Jones.. I’m remembering things .. I’ve.. been someone else. They.. died. Then – something or someone called Screwtape said I had to come back. And… be better. I was a business man, actually. Not very nice. If no improvement this time, I may have to return yet again. I don’t want to. Being here is mostly horrible. You too…?”

Miss Jones hesitated. Should she share any more with a mere child? Except that Hope was not a mere child. Her experiences and history were close to Miss Jones’s own.

“Yes – me too, Hope. I was/am someone else.. But to repeat, we shouldn’t talk further about this. Did you ever try to find out anything about the person you were last time? I’ve heard that Screwtape is being disciplined for spying or something.. I was never sure what side he was on..”

“Screwtape? What? How could you hear about him? I don’t. And no -I’ve never looked for information about who I was before.”

“I can’t say…about Screwtape. Sorry. If I did – my future would be compromised. So..”

“Well – I don’t understand, Miss Jones. But enough of that for now. Because there’s something I must raise with you. I’ve a really bizarre problem. And given our sort of shared history, you might help.”

She paused. After a moment, Miss Jones smiled sympathetically and said, “Go on, Hope. Tell me!”

“It’s my bank account. I just fancied having one for no particular reason, really. No cash to speak of, apart from a little pocket money – Mum does her best, but we don’t have much. Anyway, I got a message to check out my account – anonymous – so I checked. And found five million pounds.”

Miss Jones gasped – Hope was unsure whether with approval or horror.

“I didn’t know what to do. Meanwhile, I can’t think properly because I keep remembering being Mr Brown in some previous life – so bizarre and disorienting that I’m doubting my sanity. And who is providing money? For what reason?”

“ All this does seem very odd. Have you absolutely no idea why this is happening?”

“Not really. Though I think it’s something to do with my past as a business man.  And now I’ve also been sent some links to effective investments. I went ahead and used them, and.. they are incredibly lucrative. My vast sums of money are growing daily. I’ve done nothing wrong, and have no evidence that anyone else has either – though obviously money on this scale makes one cautious – even suspicious. But I can’t do any good with all this without adult help.”

“Me?”

“Yes – you, Miss Jones. I love my mother and she’s always there for me. But she couldn’t deal with this. I think she’d go to the police – and if I shared my Mr Brown memories, she’d have me to a psychiatrist – possibly even put away somewhere.”

“What could I do?”

“Help me choose money destinations, and also let me do much of it via your account. Being a child severely limits my scope for action.”

“If I suddenly start huge donations, that will look pretty odd too.”

“Yes – but perhaps we could act so quickly the authorities couldn’t intervene. We’d plan where the money would go and then just transfer it. After that, perhaps we could disappear somewhere.”

Miss Jones contemplated her relationship with the Head, her view of the so-called zero-tolerance policies of the school and her 60 hours a week workload. Could she ‘disappear’ without problems? Why not?

“Where do we start?” she said.

Hope met Miss Jones’s eyes, and broke into a broad smile. At the same time, she felt like weeping.

“Well -not here, Miss Jones. We could be in touch online after school. Here’s my phone number.”

Suddenly, Hope saw Charlotte, one of the teaching assistants appear in the corridor. Miss Jones had not yet seen her. Hope knew Charlotte as a fanatical supporter of the head, and waved her hand energetically. Miss Jones glanced round.

“Return to your class, Hope Carter,” she said loudly. “I’ll let the head know that I’ve dealt with you.”

Hope obeyed, wearing the downcast expression of one justly and severely chastised.

~

Miss Jones phoned Hope that evening. Hope answered in her bedroom. “Hope – although you said we should allocate huge sums quickly and then retire – I’m wondering. Wouldn’t drip-feed funding be safer? Sudden large amounts would worry charities.”

“I’ve had a re-think,” Hope said. “You’re right. Instead, let’s buy things crucial for people’s welfare that are currently too expensive for the poor, and then distribute them.”

“Like..? How would we get them distributed?”

Hope paused, in frustration. “I don’t know. This is impossible!” She shook her head despairingly.

“Perhaps we should fund people,” Miss Jones suggested. “Pay them well to share their expertise with those in need. We can interview and hire – medics, teachers, farmers, researchers of various kinds…”

“Much better! We set up a foundation. Some kind of trust. Then no one will think we’re laundering drug money or similar. And I- Mr Brown.. dealt with money – in unlovely ways. I need to atone. I want to transfer some cash to your account anyway – just in case anything happens.”

“Like what?”

“Nothing, really. But I’m only eleven – and my legal rights are still limited, so…”

“OK -fine – I’ll send you my bank details.”

~

Only Hope and Miss Jones knew why their foundation was named ‘Brown and Allied Groups.’ A year later they had already hired many experts, together with administrators to handle their rapidly expanding organization. Ruth Carter often wondered why Hope seemed to spend so much time on her computer when her homework schedule was undemanding.

One sunny Saturday Ruth called up to Hope, ensconced in her bedroom as usual.

“Let’s go to the park, Hope. You never take any exercise. Not good for you!”

She was surprised at Hope’s response. “Nice idea. I’ll come. Lots of jobs to do, but they can wait.”

Most of the route was through a series of alleyways. Ruth cast surreptitious glances at Hope, wondering what, if anything was different about today. The girl wore a happy relaxed expression. They reached a busy main road and turned left onto the narrow pavement. Because of the traffic noise, they ceased talking.

 Ruth had no warning of what was about to happen. Many of the vehicles were travelling fast, and near the kerb. Because of this, pedestrians kept close to the hedge, and as far away from the road as possible. Something made Ruth glance behind her. A lorry in the middle lane suddenly shed some of its load. It braked. A car coming up to its left swerved onto the pavement in an effort to avoid the debris. Ruth heard a dull sullen thud very close to her. Hope disappeared under the wheels of the car, which continued for a short distance on the pavement before veering back into the traffic and disappearing.

Hope and Mr Brown’s self-awareness seemed to merge into a vivid whole as Hope found herself to be detached from her ruined body in the road. There was no pain. She drifted onto the pavement and placed herself close to her mother. Ruth was rigid with shock. She strove to take in what had just happened and started to shake uncontrollably.

“I’m standing in for Screwtape,” Hope heard someone say in a kind voice, as she was touched lightly and briefly on the hand. “All will be well… and all manner of thing shall be well. You may die properly this time. Say good-bye to your mother. She won’t know it’s actually you, of course, but she will be consoled nevertheless.”

Hope whispered in Ruth’s ear. “Don’t be sad. I should never have been here in the first place. Be comforted, because my torment as an adult trapped in a child’s body has ended. Farewell, Mum. I love you.” Mr Brown and Hope felt the darkness of a soft oblivion begin to overcome them.

Perhaps there will be hope for Hope now.

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