A long time ago now, I took my wee boy to my old home town on the train. I imagined the nostalgia might be fun. I was wrong. The sky over Saltcoats on our arrival had the lemon-juice glare of January sun over the freezing shoreline – brightness that held no warmth. Nothing like building a sandcastle when it’s freezing, I said. We can look across the water to Aran. Even at the age of six, my son knew the word freezing was the one to watch. More than anything, we were cold.
My ambivalent affection for the dying seaside resort that was home till I was almost 19 has never changed. The winter chill of the tides set against the coffee-warmth of the Cafe Melbourne (a real Italian ice-cream shop) evened the place out. I got free rides on the bus from clippies who had known my driver dad, and the bus up the coastline to West Kilbride had cows and sheep and great views over the water. On the downside, I experienced two attempted assaults by drunks before I reached the age of 11, but knew enough to trip them up (drunks are not hard to floor), run hard and tell no one. Then, kids were for blaming. Telling an adult anything at all was always a terrible idea. For company, I read. I read all the time, mostly my mother’s and sister’s library books (thrillers and family sagas I barely understood but tortured myself with anyway) and reread the sentimental Bobbin by Muriel Fyfe, Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and all the Enid Blytons at the library. Stray books – my father’s – left around the house included a fat Complete Works of George Bernard Shaw (Androcles and the Lion was the best one) and a Complete Works of Hans Christian Andersen from my Auntie Mamie that scared me as much as anything I have ever read. Andersen suggested horror was part of life, and was a wholly justifiable part of any book.
Passing a qualifying exam led me to Ardrossan Academy, the secondary school where I met the music teacher who changed my life, Kenneth Hetherington. I still have the copy of Elizabethan Folk Songs he gave me, my first Complete Works of Robert Burns and – the first contemporary adult book I ever read – The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie by Muriel Spark, as a parting gift. This school and its enthusiasm for music allowed me access to words paired with music, which not only refined the types of books I read, but added words for music to my list of indispensables. Words with no music inside them – and very fat novels – seem to interest me not at all.
In the end, one small town with seagulls, one particular school and one far-sighted musician taught me enough of a way to view the world that still serves. I am grateful for it all.
• Janice Galloway’s Jellyfish is published by Granta. To order a copy for £8.79 (RRP £9.99) go to guardianbookshop.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p&p over £15, online orders only. Phone orders min p&p of £1.99.
