Further on the boy’s mother cradled her six-month-old baby girl in her arms, her pitiful body covered in mud. It had been so long ago, but Doris’ vision of the children never dimmed. She stumbled to the rocking chair by the fire, and closed her eyes. It usually began with the memory of the children, then Doris would hear again the sound of clogs clattering on the street, the high-pitched voices calling, ‘Mrs Evans! Mrs Evans!’ Doris rocked herself back and forth, the clogs came closer … oh, so much closer … The fists banged on her door. The smell of the brass polish made her nostrils flare, her eyes water, and the memories swept over her, like the tears that rolled down her face.

They had been married only days, their honeymoon just a weekend in Swansea, and then Walter had returned to the mines. They said he had been in good voice, they’d heard him singing as the cage came up, then he had collapsed and no one could revive him. The doctor said the work had drawn all the moisture from his body and because it was not replaced he had died of dehydration, just like five others that same year.

The rocking chair creaked, Doris sighed, and the pain in her head began to fade, her thin lips moved as she smiled to herself and sweet memories now eased the pain.

Doris’ father was an inspector for the Cardiff Railway Company, and often at weekends he would get tickets for his family to travel around and see the countryside. He was proud of his eldest daughter; Doris was going to Cardiff University to study English. She was artistic and shy and loved to do quick charcoal sketches as the train puffed and chuffed its way across the valley.

On one of her sketching trips she had met Walter and fallen in love. Her father did not approve of the friendship. He considered the illiterate miner to be far beneath his clever daughter. However, when her father fell ill, Doris had no option but to leave the university to take care of him. Her mother had died when she was a child and there was no one else.