At the end of the school year it was announced that Mr. McDavid would not be returning. An attractive woman with the same surname and a taste for mini skirts replaced him. During Miss Dolphin'’ and Mr. McDavid's time, the boys would skip classes by hiding in the washrooms or behind the auditorium stage. Now everybody eagerly looked forward to attending music classes, and there was always a rush to occupy the seats in the front row. I have no recollection of what she taught, but I do recall that her husband was a prominent minister in the government. She introduced steel pans in the music room but they were not too many and were only accessible to a few chosen students.

McDavid left at a time when people were eager to embrace the emerging form of the Co-operative Republic. Hints of the coming order and our place in it were reflected in the proceedings of the following speech night. That night, our diminutive music teacher wore a long flowing African gown and a high turban that towered and seemed to obscure the other staff members.

As a concession to earlier times, a few students played the first movement of “Eine Kleine Nacht Musik” on steel pans. The most popular Q.C. old boy of that time, L.F.S. Burnham made and eloquent speech outlining our duties to the new nation and, our head boy in his reply, congratulated the Prime Minister on the best speech he had ever heard at Queen’s College.

The speech night ended with the singing of the new national anthem, written by another old boy R.C.G. Potter.

After I left school, and long after he quit Queen’ College, I last saw Mr. McDavid at the British Council library on Carmichael Street. It was a couple of minutes after I had been verbally roughed up by the woman who ran the library----a local woman with a British accent. From the corner of my eye I could see Mr. McDavid being ushered with the care and indulgence of an insider. After he was settled I went up and identified myself to him; he remembered and warmed up at my fond recollections of the music appreciation sessions. For the last time he and I went through our Pavlovian routine; I asked him about “Frank McDavid”, as always, he interjected with the automatic “Sir Frank". Still chafing from my encounter with the librarian, I bade him goodbye and left.

Many years after the fact, I heard that he had died. Like Miss Dolphin’s grateful student, I benefited from his music classes. I was able to impress a Canadian acquaintance with my familiarity with classical music when I mentioned the name of an obscure Polish pianist. I developed a love for classical music from his appreciation sessions. Whenever I hear the Water Music, especially the languid second movement, I would always remember him this way: his head at an angle, his glasses dangling from his mouth, having temporary taken leave of his charges and losing himself in the music.