Marilyn watched Pa getting ready as usual for his visit to Arnos Vale – to put flowers on her mum’s grave. February 14^th, Valentine’s Day. This year the anniversary had fallen on his day off - a Friday - so he’d been able to make it down to the early markets in Wick Road and choose the flowers his Lulu had always loved the best: poppies. It was a bright clear day and he was humming while he chopped and arranged.

Marilyn sat at the other end of the table, gazing dreamily out of the small kitchen window onto Bath Road, a huge pile of books in front of her. Even A Tangled Tale couldn't inspire her to study this morning; Pa’s activities were too distracting.^* She’d often looked long and hard into photos of her late mum, each time hoping to glean just a little more about her. She wondered what it would have been like if she’d been around while she was growing up. Nanna told many stories, often the same ones over and over again and it was these that were Marilyn’s favourites. She had always sensed Lulu was alive somehow in the flat, and had never really questioned her physical absence. She’d never been to the place where she was buried.

‘Pa. Can I help you?’ she asked, slamming shut Kings and Queens of the British Isles.

‘No. You alright Lynnie; you just be getting right along with you school work.’ Marilyn hopped down from the high stool and moved towards George, caressing the fine velvet stems. Slender and gentle, just like her mum was on the pictures.

‘But it’s finished Pa! And what I mean is – ’ Marilyn twisted the stem between her fingers, shy eyes on the dancing flower while George turned to listen. ‘– is I really want to come with you. To see Ma, like.’

Putting down his scissors, George looked briefly at his arrangement. He reached out his hand. It covered her entire fist. ‘Okay, Sugar; I’d like that’, he said, ‘if you sure.’ Marilyn nodded enthusiastically, wrestling her hand free to hug Pa properly. ‘Then you best make she posy of you own’, he said, and he handed her a long red ribbon.

It was frosty outside and they wrapped up tight for their walk to the cemetery. Down Thunderbolt Steps, and along Arnold Road; this was very near Marilyn’s walk to school and it felt special to be taking it with her dad, usually so busy working. She stuttered to speak, wanting somehow to tell him how good this felt, but the words just wouldn't form themselves properly in her mouth. She reached out a hand but he didn’t take it, and she let it drop back. Every once in a while he would look around at her and manage a half smile. He appeared tired with the effort, but his kind eyes reassured her with their warmth. She followed his footsteps, trying to copy them exactly by stretching her ten-year-old strides as far as she could. She understood that she wasn't supposed to talk - voices might harm the magic of their special time.

When Marilyn reached Lulu’s grave, she was aware of a different kind of special – the solemn kind like you had at church sometimes, or at school when Mr Wilson was taking one of his more serious assemblies.

‘Wait here Sugar – jus gimme a minute’, whispered George, his knotted eyebrows indicating to Marilyn that she should stop. She watched him, already on his knees by the grave, only a few yards away from her but as good as a thousand miles. His frame was fragile against the landscape - the tombstones and the greying sky - and she noticed his black hair wasn't quite as thick as she'd always thought. She’d never seen her big strong dad look vulnerable before. He looked old and beautiful, like one of the graveyard angels. But one who could just get blown away in the wind.

Pa hardly ever spoke about Lulu. Nanna cut off her stories quickly when he was due back at the flat. Marilyn had never questioned this before; it was just the way things were. Only now, watching him humbly offer flowers to her memory, Marilyn saw at once how badly he still missed his wife. She turned away, embarrassed. Her posy had started to come loose in the wind; clutching it tighter she accidentally crushed a stem. There was no way to fix it. She felt her heart sink deeper into her chest, disappointed by her failure to make things strong, and alarmed by her inability to be gentle.

Del came home that day with a big smile on his face. Still a little shaky from her visit to the cemetery, Marilyn needed a brotherly hug, but going in for the kill she realised his arms were held tight behind his back.

‘Close yer eyes, Mar’, he said. ‘Present for yer’. Marilyn did as she was told, her cheeks bulging and her legs rattling with excitement. ‘Had a bit of a clear out at work, like, and I thinks yer like this’, he continued. ‘Hold yer hands out then!’ Marilyn held out her quivering hands and closed them around a cold, hard-edged object. It was a fair bit bigger and heavier than she'd expected. ‘Well open them, silly!’ She opened her eyes and stared down - a miniature pillar-box, all red and shiny with a real slot for posting letters and even a list of collection times. It looked just like the one up the street, but from a long way away! ‘It’s a money box!’ said her brother, grinning. ‘Manager says you can ‘av it. Some kid must’ve dropped it.’ Working in Brislington Picture House, Del sometimes brought home treats of free tickets or old posters and magazines, but never anything like this!

‘Thanks, Del!’ beamed Marilyn, swinging her arms around his neck and claiming the hug. Over his shoulder, she eyed the moneybox, still clenched tightly in one hand. ‘I love it! D’you think it’s magic?’

Once released, Del pressed her nose and grinned. ‘Hey, why not?’ He showed Marilyn a seal on the bottom where the box could be emptied. She was busy imagining all that she could post through the little letter slot, the things she would collect.

‘Ain no money in it’, said Del. ‘Done checked that of course!’ Marilyn automatically shook it, and as she did became aware of a very faint rattling. She shook it harder.

‘There’s summat in there, Del!’ she said. He took out his pocketknife and flipped open the tin stopper for her. Shaking it upside-down brought nothing, but looking inside, Marilyn felt sure there was something there - wedged in the far end. She reached in with her spindly fingers and sure enough could feel something. With a little concentration, she managed to prize out a torn and discoloured piece of paper.

‘It's a secret message!’ Marilyn exclaimed, unfolding it carefully to reveal some curly ink writing. She passed the paper to Del, then remembered she would need to read it to him. ‘It says: If Joe does die, will he go to heaven?’ She looked up at him quizzically before feeling back inside the box. Del’s mouth gaped wide open in mock astonishment. ‘Hang on – there’s more!’ she said, and began prizing out little shabby pieces of paper one by one. They smelt like wet towels and Nanna’s cupboard, and felt dusty between her fingers. But what an adventure! A real discovery!

‘Gonna leave you to it, Sherlock’, said Del, giving her a smooth on the head.^* Marilyn spread out the scraps of paper on the table, and checked several times to be sure there were none remaining in the box. Having replaced the stopper, she set the pillar-box down and stood back a little to admire its queenly shine. There were seven pieces of paper altogether, all of them questions:

Did I ought to run away?

Why didn't the foxgloves work?

Will I marry Davy Grace?

Will I see Joe in heaven?

Am I bad for wanting to die? Will I go to hell?

Why doesn't Mum get away from Father?

and then the first one she’d already read: If Joe does die, will he go to heaven?

Wide-eyed and dizzy with fascination, Marilyn read each question over and over, too fast at first but then gradually slowing down. She examined every inch of each scrap, hungry for the extra clues she felt certain must be missing. She tried to sort the questions into some kind of order. There were two questions about Joe - asking if he would die, then if the former owner of this box would see him in heaven. So did that mean Joe was dead? She wondered. At least he must be very ill. Her mind drifted back to the lonely grey headstones at the graveyard earlier that day and she shuddered. What if Del died? Or Pa, or Nanna? She just took if for granted they would always be there.

The handwriting was neat and precise and the person who wrote these questions had been taught to write the same way she had at school - using a special ink quill in italics. Someone about her age perhaps? The secret writer had been careful not to let the ink smudge, but she noticed in a couple of places there were small circular water stains.

It was the question about the foxgloves that really confused her. She moved it to the top, in a line all of its very own. Only a week or so ago had Marilyn learned what foxgloves were. She’d gone walking across the Imperial Tobacco fields with Nanna, to see an old Jamaican lady called Sula who lived down Bedminster. They’d picked some foxgloves to take with them, an exchange for the incredible hot sticky pastries Sula served up. Marilyn was awed by each tiny perfect pink bell, each made for a fairytale pink world. The name ‘foxgloves’ conjured up pictures of foxes wearing them on their paws, so pretty and pantomime-like that she heard the street-fox screaming raids a little differently the following night. And so it made no sense to her that foxgloves did or didn’t ‘work’. What could they be used for except making old ladies smile? She’d have to ask Nanna later.

Still puzzled, Marilyn picked up the pillar-box again, closely examining every inch of its surface. Nothing. There wasn’t a mark on it - not even a single scratch from its time in storage at Del’s work. But then she had a thought; moving to take a knife from the sink, she carefully removed the seal again. She smiled as she turned over the stopper - inside were etched some letters, and though slightly faded she could make out ‘Annie R 1957’. Seven questions, seven years ago. Maybe Annie was from Bath Road too – she’d obviously gone to their same local picture house at least once. She guessed Annie was pretty lonely and unhappy in 1957 – had her questions ever been answered? And what about Davey Grace? Maybe they were even married by now…