Mr. Button’s Sunday Snore
Yawning Lane was a crooked little street that ran downhill from the town clock to the ferry. Every bedroom window on it faced the same way, out over the river, so at night the whole lane could hear itself sleep.
At the top, beside the clock, lived Mr. Button, who was round and tidy and old and owned two snores. That may sound odd if a snore has only ever happened to you. On Yawning Lane a snore was a thing you owned, like a hat. Mr. Button had a plain one for weekdays and a grand one for Sundays, and he was very proud of the Sunday one.
He kept it in a jam jar on the mantelpiece with a sock over the top. The label said SUNDAY in his careful capitals. Every night he lifted a corner of the sock and dropped in a crumb of cheese, because a snore that misses its cheese goes thin. Every Sunday after lunch he sat in his armchair and took the sock off. Out the snore came, soft and lumpy, rumbling round the room like a cart full of pillows. Mr. Button’s eyelids went heavy, and he slept till teatime with a little whistle at the end of every big breath. Then the snore climbed back into its jar by itself, and he put the sock on. He was proud of the whistle too.
Next door lived Mrs. Hobb, who had a brand-new baby called Pip. Pip was very small and very loud, and could only fall asleep if somebody nearby was snoring. But nobody nearby could snore, because Pip was crying. Every window on the lane faced the same way, so the whole lane lay awake and listened, night after night.
On the fourth night Mr. Button got up, put on his dressing gown and took the jar down from the mantelpiece. He carried it next door on tiptoe, in both hands, like a cup that was too full.
Mrs. Hobb opened the door with Pip on her shoulder. She looked like somebody who had been awake since Tuesday, which she had.
“My Sunday snore,” said Mr. Button. “Only a lend, mind. Take the sock off in the nursery and stand well back. A crumb of cheese at night or it goes thin. And I shall want it back for Sunday, because I have my nap at two.” He held out the jar. “Mind you don’t wake it.”
Mrs. Hobb carried it upstairs on tiptoe and lifted the sock. The Sunday snore rolled out and settled over the cot like a large warm dog. Pip stopped crying halfway through a cry, yawned, and was asleep. Mrs. Hobb sat down on the rug and was asleep too. Up and down Yawning Lane, one window after another, people turned over and slept.
By morning, Pip had a snore. It was a tiny one, no bigger than a hum, and Pip had learned it in the night from lying next to a big one. That is the thing about lending a snore to the right place. It shows how, and then it isn’t needed.
Mrs. Hobb coaxed the snore back into its jar and set off up the lane to return it. At the top she found the clock-winder under the town clock, holding a big brass key and looking up.
“It’s lost its tick,” said the clock-winder. “Spring wound, hands right, and not a tick. If the clock won’t tick, nobody knows when the bakery opens.”
Mrs. Hobb looked at the jar. She thought of Mr. Button and his nap at two. Then she thought that it was only Friday.
“It’s Mr. Button’s,” she said, “and he wants it back for Sunday. A crumb of cheese at night or it goes thin.” She held out the jar. “Mind you don’t wake it.”
The clock-winder climbed the ladder inside the tower on tiptoe, which is harder than it sounds. At the top was a little door in the back of the clock. The clock-winder opened it, held up the jar and lifted the sock. The snore crept into the works and began, very politely, to tick.
Snnk, went the town clock. Snnk. Snnk. At eleven it struck eleven, and then gave a little whistle at the end, and all down the lane people looked up and said, “That’s Mr. Button.”
Mr. Button heard it from his kitchen and went out with his teacup to listen. “That’s mine, that is,” he said, very pleased. Then he went back indoors and looked at the calendar.
By Saturday the clock had remembered how to tick by itself, and the snore went back into its jar. From the top of the tower the clock-winder could see the ferry at the bottom of the lane. It was stuck at the jetty. Beside it stood a long line of people with empty baskets, all waiting to cross to the market.
Down the lane went the clock-winder, on tiptoe the whole way.
Captain Dot had her head in the engine hatch. “Come on, old girl,” she was saying. “Walk on. Walk on, I said.” She looked up. “She wants coaxing, and I’ve run out of coax.”
“It’s Mr. Button’s, and he wants it back for Sunday,” said the clock-winder. “A crumb of cheese at night or it goes thin. Mind you don’t wake it.”
Captain Dot carried the jar across the deck on tiptoe, which is harder still on a boat, and took off the sock. The snore went down into the engine, and the engine said chug. Then it said chug, chug, chug, with a little whistle at the end of every big breath, and the ferry went across the river with everybody’s baskets.
“Good girl,” said Captain Dot, and patted the engine. She went back and forth all day, and at night she gave the snore the cheese out of her own sandwich.
On Sunday Mr. Button ate a boiled egg, washed the plate, and at two o’clock exactly sat down in his armchair. He looked at the mantelpiece, where the jar was not.
He tried his weekday snore. It was a plain, busy snore that went hm, hm, hm and then stopped, as if it had remembered the bins. He turned on his left side, then his right. He did not grumble, because a thing you have lent is lent. But he could not get comfortable.
Now, every bedroom window faced the same way, so the whole lane heard a weekday snore on a Sunday afternoon. That is a sound like a doorbell at a picnic, and everybody knew at once what it meant.
Mrs. Hobb ran down to the jetty. Captain Dot held the jar to the engine hatch, and the snore climbed back into the jar, and the engine chugged on happily by itself. Then the whole lane stood in a line, from the ferry at the bottom to Mr. Button’s door at the top, and passed the jar up the hill from hand to hand, on tiptoe.
“Mind you don’t wake it,” said Captain Dot to the baker.
“Mind you don’t wake it,” said the baker to the twins at number nine, and the twins said it together to the postman, and so on up the hill to Mrs. Hobb, who had Pip asleep in a sling, humming.
“We’re sorry it’s late,” she said at Mr. Button’s door, “and ever so grateful. Pip says thank you. Mind you don’t wake it.”
Mr. Button held the jar to his ear. It was heavier than when it left. It ticked a little, and chugged a little, and somewhere in the middle something small was humming.
“Well,” said Mr. Button. “You’ve been places.”
“I missed it dreadfully,” he said to the whole lane. “And I’m very glad of where it’s been. Now would you all please go home and lie down.”
He sat back in his armchair and folded his hands on his tummy. “Mind you don’t wake it,” he said to himself. Then he took off the sock and did exactly that.
Out came the Sunday snore, soft and lumpy and better than ever. It rumbled, and in the rumble it went snnk and chug, and hummed a tiny hum, and at the end of every big breath it gave a little whistle. It rolled out of Mr. Button’s window and down the crooked lane, and because every bedroom window faced the same way, it went in at all of them.
The town clock dozed off at four minutes to three. The ferry nodded at the jetty. Pip stopped humming and simply slept, and so did Mrs. Hobb on her doorstep, and the clock-winder on the bottom rung of the ladder, and Captain Dot on a coil of rope with her cap over her eyes. Everybody on Yawning Lane fell asleep at the same moment, which had never happened before, not even on a Sunday.
That is what a kindness does on Yawning Lane. It comes home with more in it, so long as somebody remembers its cheese.
And Mr. Button slept through teatime, and supper, and the whole of Sunday night, and did not wake until the town clock woke too and struck nine on Monday morning, with a little whistle at the end.