The King and I
by Dave Taylor

Recall is a funny thing. I can remember very little of recent Xmases and yet details from 50 years ago remain indelibly etched in my memory. And so, whilst I can visualise nothing of Xmas 2004, I can return to Westmeads School in December 1954 at the drop of a hat and with the ease of a Tardis.

The class of '54 had had a tough year. We had wanted Mrs. Stapleton... but we had been given Mrs. Garrett. And, to us kids, Mrs. Garrett was awesome. 

Mrs. Garrett had  hair that refused to sway in a force 9. Mrs. Garrett had pointed spectacles... set with diamantes and attached to her neck by Jacob Marley's chain. Mrs Garrett had a chest that seemed to have a life of its own. 

In fact, Mrs. Garrett had all those attributes that sometimes come together as a Call Centre supervisor. It was a mere quirk of fate that, on this occasion, they had come together as a schoolteacher. 

No-one mucked with Mrs. Garrett but, as time passed, we grew to like her... amidst moments of disagreement. And it was one of those moments that paved the way for the Xmas of '54 to become etched permanently in my memory bank.

Mrs. Garrett had bestowed a great honour on me.... by naming me as the lead "King of the Orient" for the school nativity play. Suddenly, Mrs. Stapleton didn't seem quite so attractive. After all, her inmates were merely shepherds who spent their time in "Fear and Mighty Dread" while holding coat-hangers attached to window poles. I, on the other hand, was a king who feared nothing..... bar God...... and Mrs. Garrett. But not necessarily in that order. 

Not only that... I was a lead king.... with words... frankincense... and the ability to guide other Kings of the Orient to the baby Jesus. 

To be honest, I would have preferred gold. I knew what gold was and gold had that H Samuel look about it. However, there had to be compromise because this was the season of goodwill and Melchior was a big guy. Thus, I took comfort in the knowledge that frankincense was, at least, better than myrrh. Frankincense sounded like the outcome of a Christmas Gift voucher at Boots whereas Myrhh seemed to describe the result of a summer drought at the nearby backwater.

Of course, being a king carried great responsibility (just ask Buckingham Palace) and, prior to the rehearsal, Mrs. Garrett took me to one side for extra coaching in the protocols of royalty and the rudiments astronomy:

  

    
This was, of course, a recipe for disaster. The limitations of the rehearsal room combined with Mrs. Garrett's edict meant that I had to pass the stable twice before I arrived. I was a very logical child and this didn't make a lot of sense in terms of efficient travel.... until, many years later, Canterbury City Council built Reims Way.

It was also unfair. I mean.... have you ever seen the Queen looking after her own travel arrangements? Have you ever seen a royal carriage circle Westminster Abbey three times before stopping off for a quick coronation? 

Nevertheless, despite the obvious flaws in Mrs Garrett's plot and her questionable knowledge of orienteering, off we went. 

After the first circumnavigation, I lost count and delivered my frankincense a little too early. On the scale that we appeared to be using, I would estimate that my gift fell short of Bethlehem by several hundred miles. In fact, to be honest, I probably dropped it off in Karachi.

But, it wasn't my fault. I was only 5 and the responsibilities of head of state were weighing heavily on my mind. I had Herod on my back, the shepherds were all of a quiver thanks to The Mighty Dread, the baby Jesus was a reject from Leonards with one eye missing and the inn keeper was laughing at me.  

I was supposed to have a wondrous light for guidance... but it didn't turn up at rehearsals. All I had was the beam of an inn keeper to mark my destination and a baby cyclops keeping an eye out for me. No-one could count circumnavigations in circumstances like that.

Well, Mrs. Garrett, who had taken up a position just outside Moscow, didn't agree. She flew across the room in pursuit of her chest which by now was performing all sorts of angry aerobatics. 

She was through East Beirut in a flash and heading down the road to Karachi before the Archangel Gabriel could say "Lo and Behold". And, whatever she had in mind, it didn't seem to have much to do with the spread of tidings of great joy. My escape route to the snowcapped desks of the Himalayas was quickly cut off and, suddenly, we had the first king in the history of nativity to suffer The Mighty Dread.

I was picked up by the arms and shaken like a James Bond Martini as Mrs Garrett's voice boomed around the classroom.... the school..... and, ultimately, Cromwell Road..... 
 

   
Well, that was the moment that I really did wish that I had joined Mrs. Stapleton on the sheep farm. After all, shepherds suffered The Mighty Dread with a smile. I had to cope with it whilst dangling 8 inches above Pakistan. Suddenly, we weren't doing a nativity....  we were re-writing The King and I with post-watershed violence. 

Boy, was she annoyed... and I wasn't too pleased either. After all, who was supposed to be king in this set up? 

Of course, all this had a massive impact on my life. I haven't bought a box of frankincense since and I have this sneaking suspicion that God may be female..... with hair that doesn't move in a force 9. 

© David Taylor 2008