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Daphne Schiller

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Hanging Up Their Hats

Your mother couldn’t reach the hat-stand
my father said, blaming her
for a failed move to a parish
in Guernsey. He was a Priest
but not In Charge, moving
from Baptist to Anglican. Something
to do with the sacrament, Mum said,
sighing. She was five feet two
and would have had to jump
to hang up her hat.

I fancied life on an island,
but Norfolk came next, where
knife-edged winds sliced through our bones.
Your Mum would be happy on Everest
said an indignant aunt.

Then it was Slough, till the feud
with the Vicar grew sharp as the spire
so we headed west
for sea and lush pastures. Seven years in Devon
and he was asked to leave. My paradise lost,
I started a cycle of bedsits and flats.
He remained a renegade angel
till age mellowed and broke him.

My family were travellers,
our tents full of vestments,
linen, wafers and wine.

Page(s) 11

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