Dot (Araminta Hall)

like white building blocks, a few miles distancing them from the English ones they’d passed only minutes before. The towns beckoned and receded, held together by a seam of industry which spewed smoke, but today made Dot feel as though she was coming home.
    Everything still seemed unreal; even the fact that she had been in London was beginning to fade. Eventually the coach took the turning to Cardiff and she saw the fields and open spaces turn into the greys of buildings and factories. Traffic lights now slowed their progress and her skin itched with the anticipation of arrival. The clock read 6:24 a.m. as they pulled into the coach station.
    Dot’s mother and grandmother stood on the sand-coloured concourse waiting for her, along with all the other families having loved ones returned to them on this new day. She stepped off the coach and felt herself running before she could check herself, rushing into the arms of the two people she could have stayed at home to see. And as she stood there Dot knew that she would forget so much about the previous day, so many memories would become blurred with half-truths and things she heard, but that she must not forget this moment. She felt as if she had been on a strange circular dance, turning in ever-decreasing circles, spinning like a top with no resolution. But in the moment of seeing her odd little family, of being held by them and holding on to them, she stopped. She knew she might forget the kind woman and even the frightened faces, but that she would remember this. There was a way to stand still. And anyway, Dot thought from the midst of her strange triangular hug, aren’t we all just guessing? It could even be true to say that when her father left he probably wasn’t entirely sure he was doing the right thing.
    ‘Anthony George Marks,’ her mother said finally. ‘Your dad’s name is Tony. He left on your second birthday and I haven’t heard from him since. But he was here. He was here and he loved you very much.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter, Mum,’ said Dot. ‘Really, it doesn’t matter any more.’
    ‘Come on,’ said her grandmother. ‘Let’s get you home.’
    The drive back was uneventful. Dot felt her tiredness deep in her limbs and she couldn’t do much more than doze in the back. No one spoke and they left the radio silent but the silence was beautiful. By the time they pulled up in front of their home it was bright and warm, the day promising perfect summer conditions, because of course that particular wheel simply turned, unaware of the tragedies which befell those brave enough to live.
    Dot’s mother unlocked their front door and they crossed the threshold, stepping over a bulging letter which had been pushed through their letterbox only a few hours earlier, at exactly the same time as Alice and Clarice had arrived in Cardiff to pick up Dot. None of them would ever know about that particular coincidence and none of them even noticed the letter at that moment, so eager were they to bathe and feed and enclose Dot. But they would notice it in the coming hours. They would open it and read it. They would cry over it and Dot would want to burn it. But, in the second small act of kindness shown to Dot in less than twenty-four hours, Alice would stop her. With her mother standing behind her Alice would tell her daughter to ring the number. She would tell her that we are all capable of mistakes, but that the important thing to remember is that we are all also just as capable of forgiveness.
    ‘It is only when you stop forgiving that you stop living,’ Alice said as Dot wiped away her tears. She looked out of the window at the new day and realised that, as she said the words, so they became true.

Acknowledgements
    Firstly, massive thanks to everyone at HarperCollins, who are consistently patient and helpful and bursting with amazing ideas. Especially my editor, Lousia Joyner, who is insightful and kind and a complete pleasure to work with. Thanks also to Carol MacArthur who is always on the other end of the phone and knows the answers to everything I ask.
    Also, as ever, thanks to the people who have to put up with me on a daily basis, my husband Jamie and our children Oscar, Violet and Edith. (Feel free to read it now, Jamie!)
    This book has been rattling around in my head for a long time and, as a result, a few people have read it in various incarnations over the years. I have received lots of encouragement and advice from many people, but most