A shriek of agony pierced the chill morning air. Hendre Farm was in an isolated spot, nestled deep in the Dulais Valley; surrounded by lush green woodland and a patchwork quilt of fields; some loamy brown, others with a sprinkling of yellowing green as the first shoots of spring pierced the rich, soil carpet.
Sobs could be heard, carried on the breeze, from an upstairs latticed window.“Push Miri. Push!” The midwife, Morfa Davies puffed as she mopped the sweat-laden brow of Miri Llewellyn. She comfortingly stroked those hands raw and enflamed from tugging on the twisted bed sheet strung around the head of the brass bedstead.
–by Elizabeth Revill, from Whispers on the Wind