When we were very young, my brother Mike and I went through a phase where we were rather interested in engineering. Purely in the interest of advancing our scientific knowledge, we decided to investigate the strength of various materials which could have possible use in some as yet unknown construction project.
After giving this idea much thought, we decided to devise an experiment. We used a very large sheet of plywood which our dad had stored in the shed. Looking back, this piece of wood was roughly square and I guess the dimension must have been about 1.5 square meters. It was also thin, probably no more than a centimetre in thickness. First we needed to see whether it would support the weight of an adult so we set about devising a cunning plan.
We had observed over a number of months that our mother had struck up a warm and, as it turned out, enduring friendship with Mrs Murial Bletcher, our next door neighbour. Mother used to stand on the garden and partake of long and boring (at least to 7 and 10 year old boys with far too much curiosity and energy) conversations with Mrs Bletcher over the garden fence.
During the long and warm summer evenings on Edderthorpe land in Darfield, which I remember with a good deal of nostalgia, we set about digging a large man trap in the area where mother often stood in conversation with Mrs Bletcher. This project was undertaken when the Bletchers were on holiday, so there was plenty of time for our work to proceed undisturbed. When it was finished, the pit was of a slightly smaller area than the ply wood and about 1 meter deep. As it had been raining for a week it was half full with water the day before the Bletchers arrived home. We then placed the plywood over the pit and covered it with soil so that mother would not be suspicious.
We waited with agonising anticipation. We waited and waited, but our mother never did walk on that carefully disguised man trap. The disappointment was palpable! Now, looking back, I have to say that I have no idea why we devised this trap for our mother. She was and still is a wonderful mother who we love dearly! But I can’t help thinking that we would have been over the moon to see her up to her waist in muddy water and the imagined look of horror on Mrs Bletcher’s face as our mother descended into the pit swearing and cursing still causes me amusement.
All was not lost, however. During the time of the construction project the rain kept coming. We noticed that Max the milkman was having a lot of trouble driving his three wheeled electric milk float around the back of the houses. This was a mud track, which got progressively muddier as the week passed. The mud track along the back of number 3 merged into two more paths to make a y-shaped track, with one path going to the right and emerging on the main Doncaster – Barnsley road, and one to the left, back down a bit of a hill to Edderthopre lane. Every morning on his milk round, Max drove his three wheeled milk truck along the path and stopped where the three paths merged. This was by now exceptionally wet and muddy and another plan was fermenting in my evil little mind. One night we went out with Dad’s spade and dug another pit. This time it was in the middle of the turning place in the track and really deep. We placed our plywood over the hole and once again we covered it with mud. We woke early the next morning to wait for Max. Sure enough, at around 7 in the morning Max arrived with the milk. After delivering to our house he proceeded according to our plan and stopped with his single front wheel right in the middle of the plywood. Before the poor man knew what was happening his little milk float descended with dream like slow motion into the carefully laid trap. We watched with great interest from behind our garden wall as Max attempted to retrieve intact milk bottles from the mud and later, as an Express Dairies van came and pulled the little milk float out of the hole. For days the mud in that area was milk coloured due to the spilt milk.
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