Deeply traumatized by his experiences during the Great War, Dr. John Rhys returns to his parents’ home at Harlech in 1923, hoping to find the peace that has eluded him in London. Helen, his wife, supports him and senses the burden he still carries. Rhys overhears a conversation one day his father has with the gardener; the gardener tells his father that Lillian is still alive and has never left the workhouse in the town for over forty years since the death of her daughter, Sarah, in 1883. Intrigued, Rhys asks Helen to make enquiries about the woman. Lillian never sees the modern world, for her time only exists for when Sarah disappeared one afternoon while taking sandwiches to her father, Evan, who worked in the field above the farmhouse. Rhys, unsettled by Lillian’s knowledge of the old ways and the stories she tells of beliefs that should have been long forgotten, believes her when she finally tells of what happened that day. What is the significance of Sarah’s last words to her mother: “They see me as a child of the urth.” I have included an extract from the play below.

 Lillian:    My fear became all too obvious. The accusations said behind my back never hurt me. I did feel ashamed because of my failure as a mother, a protector of her child. Why was I not there for my girl when she needed me? They did not understand. How could they? Even now, after I have sorted through the sequence of events that damned Evan and me, I am at a loss to explain and bring some understanding to her vanishment. I stared at my face in the mirror this morning. My eyes showed little enthusiasm. They were sunken, dark pebbles, my cheeks become sallow as the light dawned. Evan stared at me from the stairs, not mentioning a word as he passed by and walked into the kitchen. He also has lost weight; his trousers are bloody hanging on him. Thank God, I do not hear the whispers so much now. Although indistinct, they made sense on occasions, telling me, in a brusque manner, how the world of the night would soon be mine. Evan, watching me from behind his newspaper, could see that I was trying to answer them in kind. I would mainly cover my mouth, the words still coherent, so they understood. This was in the past. I am now lonely. I have no-one to speak to. The friends of my youth are long deceased. Evan passed away two years after she disappeared. He did not fail our little girl. I fervently told him this. He wanted to die; nothing a doctor could do for him once he refused to eat or drink. The voices reiterated the fact that grief is not transient and never leaves you. The word transient I had to look up in a dictionary. My thoughts were theirs, as they understood my every word. How could something that is unseen understand human grief? I never spoke a word to them. They understood my emotions and that is why I suffered from constant tiredness. I would be asked repeatedly if I could explain again and they did not approve of discursive answers. An observer would categorize me as insane. My father, long since dead, told me that the doctors of fifty years ago would never sympathize with a man, or woman, if they were in a fugue state. They would tell them to snap out of it and not look for sympathy. I suppose they were right in a way. I never saw my family sympathize with anyone. People were told to get on with their lives and don’t bloody grumble all the time! Most of the talk was about how we humans age because, governed by time, this is how we meet our deaths. Day and night, determine our behaviour. What would it have been like if there was no time? Just a chasm, in the place of the Earth, when there would be no hours, minutes, days, months, or years. Is this what it is like when you are dead? Can my memories have no meaning? My doubts were many...