“The first one to notice it was old Capper Wambley. And Capper was a very important man. He was the knocker-up in the village of Polkingthorpe Brig—that is to say, he got up early every morning and went round with his pole, tapping on the bedroom windows and waking up the people in time for them to get to work. And this particular morning old Capper knew there was something wrong.
He felt it first as he stepped outside his cottage and coughed in the dark to clear his lungs, and looked up at the sky to see what kind of weather it was.
He felt that there was something wrong with the day, and then he decided what it was. It was still Sunday.
For a moment or two he felt fair flabbergasted at this, for he remembered that the day before had been Sunday, too.
«Ba gum,» Capper said to himself. «This is a champion do, it is an’ all. No doubt summat should be done.»
Now old Capper Wambley was very old, so he sat down on the edge of the curb, and after a while he came to the conclusion that what ought to be done was to think about it. So he began thinking about the very strange event.
«Now,» he said to himself, «it don’t seem reasonable and proper that we should hev two Sundays in a row. Let us see if we can get it sorted out. Now the thing for a chap to do to prove it, is to decide what is the difference between a Sunday morning and a weekday morning.»
Old Capper thought and thought, and he saw that the only difference between the two was that on a weekday morning he wakened the people up, and on a Sunday morning he didn’t.
«So, if Ah doan’t wakken the village up this morning, it is a Sunday morning,» he said to himself.
Soon the window went up, and John Willie Braithwaite’s head popped out of the window.
«Ah’m wakkened,» John Willie said. «Whet time is’t?»
Now old Capper could see that John Willie wasn’t awake, but was just moving in his sleep the way men did from their tiredness and weariness of getting up before dawn. But he knew it didn’t matter this morning.
«Ah just wakkened ye to tell ye it’s another Sunday morning,» old Capper said. «Soa tha c’n goa on back to bed an’ sleep i’ peace.»
Some people were inclined to believe Capper, and some were not.
«Now lewk here, Capper,» Gollicker said, «Ah doan’t but admit that it does seem Sundayish, like, but how are we off to be sure?»
Old Capper thought a while. Then he saw the answer.
«Well, here’s the way us can tell,» he said. «Now if this be a weekday, the mill whistle’ll blaw the fifteen minutes, wean’t it?»
«Aye,» they agreed.
«But if it be a Sunday, like Ah say, the mill whistle wean’t blaw the fifteen minutes, will it?»
They all agreed that was true. So they stood round old Capper, who had one of the few watches in the village, and they waited. They all looked at his watch and saw it said twenty to six, then nineteen to six, then eighteen and seventeen and sixteen. And the second hand went round and finally it said quarter to six. But no whistle blew, largely because John Willie Braithwaite who was supposed to be there at 5:30 and get up steam and pull the whistle cord, was still home and sleeping warmly beside his wife.
«Well,» old Capper says, «that shows it maun be a Sunday again, and now ye can all away hoam and get another hour’s sleep.»
Old Capper went off home himself, and was just making himself a little bit of breakfast, when Rowlie Helliker came in.
«Capper,» Rowlie said, «Ah hear that tha discovered this is another Sunday.»
«Aye, that’s soa,» Capper replied.
«Well,» Rowlie went on, «isn’t hewing two Sundays in a row just a varry little bit irregular, as tha maught say?»
«It is that, lad,» Capper told him. «But tha maun remember us is living in varry unusual times.»
«Piffle,» said Mr. Bloggs.
«Oh, aye?» asked Sam, his dander getting up. «Can tha tell me what day it is now i’ Japan?»
«Its Monday,» Mr. Bloggs said.
«Oh, pardon me, Mr. Bloggs,» the schoolmaster said «Just as a matter of academic accuracy…» and then he studied his watch carefully «but in Japan now it is Tuesday.»
«Tuesday?» roared Mr. Bloggs.
«There, tha sees,» Sam said. «There don’t seem to me to be noa sense to this day stuff. If it’s Monday, as tha says’ down i’ Greenwich; and if it’s Tuesday, as t’schoolmeaster says, i’ Japan; then Ah say it’s just as liable to be Sunday up here.»
«Nonsense,» yelled Mr. Bloggs. «I know what the matter is. You’re all lazy and you wanted another day off. So you call it Sunday.»
«Nay lad,» Sam replied. «There’s six weekdays to one Sunday, so it seems to me like it were six to one i’ thy favor that we’d hev an extra workday i’stead of an extra restday. Simply because tha lost, tha maun’t be a bad sport about it.»
«Fiddlesticks,» Mr. Bloggs said, now thoroughly angry. «If this is Sunday, then what’s tomorrow? Is it Monday or Tuesday? Or do we lose a day?»
«Happen Ah’m the man to clear that up,» the Capper said, rising to his feet. «Us doesn’t skip noa day at all. T’ thing is that t’ days o’to’week have gate tired o’turning, soa now they’re stuck, like, and wean’t goa no further they wean’t.»
«How ridiculous,» Mr. Bloggs snorted. «If that were so we’d get no further and tomorrow would be Sunday, too, wouldn’t it?»
The Capper scratched his head and thought a moment. Then he looked up quickly.
«Ba gum, lad,» he said. «Tha’s hit t’ nail o’ t’ yead. Tomorrow is off to be Sunday.»
There was only one flaw. The pubs had to go on Sunday closing hours, which allows no man to buy a pint of beer unless he is a legal traveler who has come so many miles. But this did good in a way, because many men walked the legal number of miles, and that way they saw parts of their own country they never would have seen otherwise, and they saw what other towns and villages looked like.”
Eric Knight: Never Come Monday, in: The Flying Yorkshireman (1942)
7 kms of space seepage along the national road 7, Siófok, Tanácsház street (112 km) – Zamárdi, Kocsi pub (112+7 km). Km numbers are displayed with the mouse. Enlarge the map.