IT was a cold winter's night. Snow had been falling heavily for several hours and winds had created huge drifts.
Children had gone to bed with thoughts of `No school tomorrow. Just snowmen and sledges'.
At 2.30am came a knock at the door.
It was a man battling to get his wife to hospital to have their baby.
They were stuck.
It was the start of a dramatic night in the Addy home at Shelley Woodhouse during one of the worst winters on record - that at the start of 1947.
A night which ended in the entirely unexpected - a stranger giving birth in their country home.
Jessie Addy, now 98 and living in a care home in Skelmanthorpe, recalls the event almost 60 years to the day since it happened.
Here, in her own words, she describes what happened when the strangers dropped in on her, husband Frank and daughters Rosemary, 10, and Elizabeth, five.
About 2.30am Frank was woken with somebody knocking at the door. Getting out of bed he went to the frozen window, where he scratched the ice away to see outside.
"There's a man at the door, " Frank said to Jessie.
Grabbing his dressing gown he went downstairs, but couldn't open the front door because of the snow.
The man shouted: ``Can you help us? My wife is on the way to the Princess Royal and the car is stuck in a snowdrift."
Frank answered: ``I can't get the wagon out. There were 6ft snowdrifts in front of the garage doors when we went to bed."
The car was in a drift on the notorious Crosslands Corner, so called by the owner of the farm there, a Mr Crossland. Whenever it snowed the road would always be closed at that point.
And still it snowed as the woman's husband and brother helped her to the Addys' home.
Frank had rekindled the room fire and lit another in the bedroom. Jessie had the kettle on and fetched warm towels.
Kathleen Dransfield was brought into the house, wet and exhausted. After removing her wet clothes she sat in front of the fire and asked Jessie: ``Can you deliver a baby?"
Meanwhile, Frank woke the Auckland sisters next door, who had a telephone. They immediately rang for the district nurse, who had to come from Scissett. She said she would set off on foot if somebody would meet her.
The Miss Aucklands then offered the use of their jeep, kept in a shed on Cross Lanes, now Cumberworth Road or Woodhouse Lane. It was still snowing.
Frank knocked up Cuthbert Hawden and Ronnie England, who dug out the jeep and set off to find the nurse. Mrs Noble and Mrs Constantine were also woken to help Jessie until the nurse arrived.
By this time Kathleen had started with cramp and told the women she had set off when it was snowing as it was expected to be a difficult birth.
The nurse was picked up between Scissett and Skelmanthorpe. She got Kathleen into bed and examined her, saying a doctor was needed.
Dr Bell was phoned and the jeep fetched him from Skelmanthorpe. After his examination he said another doctor with instruments was essential.
Dr Pickering walked from Penistone Road, Shelley, to Woodhouse through drifts and on top of walls, carrying his bag.
Rosemary and Elizabeth woke, asking about the noise. They were told that if they were good and went back to sleep there may be a baby to see in the morning.
A baby boy, over 8lb, was delivered by forceps. During the night cups of tea flowed for doctors, nurses and helpers.
Wellingtons and wet clothes were everywhere. The room and stair carpets were saturated. The house was lit by gas and shillings for the meter kept running out.
There was more to come as Mrs Dransfield became ill with phlebitis, commonly known as whiteleg.
She had to stay at the Addys a full 10 days after the birth with her new son, David. Elizabeth developed whooping cough, which she passed on to the baby.
An ambulance eventually took Kathleen and baby home to Clayton West. When the boy was christened Frank and Jessie were godparents.
Today David lives in Dumfries, southern Scotland.
But he still exchanges Christmas cards with Jessie.
There's one further twist to the tale.
Many years before a fortune teller had told Jessie she would have an odd child.
She could never understand what was meant - until that night in 1947.