EMMA (_kneeling up_). Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Ormerod. That's what my moother says to me when A tould 'er A were coomin' in to thee. Keep 'er pecker oop, she says. It's not as if she'd been lazy or a wastrel, she says; Sal Ormerod's bin a 'ard worker in 'er day, she says. It's not as if it were thy fault. Tha can't 'elp tha 'ands goin' paralytic. (_She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking._) SARAH. Naw. It's not my fault. God knaws A'm game enough for work, ould as A am. A allays knawed as A'd 'ave to work for my living all th' days o' my life. A never was a savin' sort. EMMA. Theer's nowt against thee for that. Theer's soom as can be careful o' theer brass an' soom as can't. It's not a virtue, it's a gift. That's what my moother allays says. (_Resumes packing._) SARAH. She's reeght an' all. We never 'ad the gift o' savin', my man and me. An' when Tom Ormerod took an' died, the club money as A drew all went on 'is funeral an' 'is gravestone. A warn't goin' to 'ave it said as 'e warn't buried proper. EMMA. It were a beautiful funeral, Mrs. Ormerod. SARAH. Aye. EMMA. A will say that, beautiful it were. A never seen a better, an' A goes to all as A can. (_Rises._) A dotes on buryin's. Are these the next? (_Crosses before table for nightdresses, takes the nightdresses and resumes packing._) SARAH. Aye (_Emma puts them in and rests on her knees listening to Sarah's next speech._) SARAH (_pause_). A've been a 'ouseproud woman all my life, Emma, an' A've took pride in 'avin' my bits o' sticks as good as another's. Even th' manager's missus oop to factory 'ouse theer, she never 'ad a better show o' furniture nor me, though A says it as shouldn't. An' it tak's brass to keep a decent 'ouse over your yead. An' we allays 'ad our full week's 'ollydayin' at Blackpool reg'lar at Wakes time. Us didn't 'ave no childer o' our own to spend it on, an' us spent it on ourselves. A allays 'ad a plenty o' good food in th' 'ouse an' never stinted nobody, an' Tom 'e liked 'is beer an' 'is baccy. 'E were a pigeon-fancier, too, in 'is day, were my Tom, an' pigeon-fancying runs away wi' a mint o' money. No. Soom'ow theer never was no brass to put in th' bank. We was allays spent oop coom wages neeght. EMMA. A knaw, Mrs. Ormerod. May be A'm young, but A knaw 'ow 't is. We works cruel 'ard in th' mill, an' when us plays, us plays as 'ard too (_pause_), an' small blame to us either. It's our _own_ we're spendin'.