THE TROLL
It wasn’t my best work. Beneath the canopy, the undergrowth of ferns overhanging the river was pleasing enough, but nothing in the painting drew me in. I picked up my old bone egg spoon and smeared an edge of its bowl with yellow ochre, hoping highlights on the riverbank would help. The phone rang. I rushed to the kitchen with the spoon clenched between my teeth, and picked up the receiver with my thumb and index finger.
‘It’s me.’
I hadn’t heard from my daughter in weeks. Not since she’d moved out to live with her boyfriend. No phone reception, no money for credit, apparently. That filial bond pinged in my heart. ‘Madeleine!’ The spoon fell to the floor, spattering a trail of paint up a cupboard door.
‘We’re getting kicked out,’ she said. ‘Zol forgot to pay the rent and that
