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…