Caroline Gilfillan
Caroline Gilfillan’s novel This is Nylon uses as its canvas the sprawl and upheaval of the Second World War. She was selected for the Escalator scheme for fiction writers in 2007, and awarded a grant from Arts Council England in 2008. Shortlisted for the Forward Prize for an individual poem in 2007, her work appeared in the Forward Collection of Poetry in the same year. She was a winner of Channel 4’s The Radio Play’s the Thing competition in 2007/8 and is developing her script for broadcast.
She’s won national short story competitions, and her work has appeared recently in The London Magazine, Poetry News and Mslexia. She was a winner of the North West Poetry competition in 2000, and Drowned in Overspill, a poetry collection, was published by Crocus Books in the same year.
Caroline has an MA in Creative Writing from Lancaster University. In a previous existence she played drums and sang in a rock band, and she’s recently taken to the stage again in the duo Still Kicking. Her second novel will jump into the murky pond of the music business.
For more information visit www.carolinegilfillan.co.uk.
Extract from This is Nylon
Beryl’s drowsing before she knows it, and it’s Douglas’s voice calling her name that wakes her up.
He’s like a whippet or a terrier shined up by sun. His shoulders are hunched, with exhaustion, perhaps. A cigarette is stuck between his lips, the red tip quivering as he draws on it.
‘Hello there,’ she says, her throat dry. ‘You took your time.’ As soon as the words are out she realises she’s spoken as she would to Harry, in that teasing tone of accusation, but it’s too late now.
He closes his eyes, sways. In her womb the baby shifts, telling her to get up, go over there, stop him crashing to the ground.
‘I’ve missed you,’ he says. ‘I’ve missed you so much.’
A feeling like cold water rushes through her. ‘And I’ve missed you,’ she says, her voice light, cheerful.
Douglas shrugs his shoulders. My god, he’s beautiful. She’d forgotten that.
‘How about some lunch?’ she says, in a rush. ‘You must be starving. I’ve got hold of some ham. Thought you’d like that.’
His face comes at her, nosing at her cheeks and the warm places behind her ears. A small oh catches in his throat.
‘And potatoes: I cooked them earlier. You always did love your potatoes.’ The cloth of his collar scratches her neck: it must be a new jacket.
Perhaps he lost the old one at Dunkirk or in one of those boats.
He pulls back. His eyes search her face, their whites bluish, like milk of magnesia. ‘What’s the matter?’ he says. ‘Aren’t you pleased to see me?’