Dad was shoulder-deep in the compost bin, trying to scrape the last crusty bits of mouldy plant debris from the bottom of the barrel. It was a large bin. One of five large bins, in fact. Dad took compost very seriously. He always had five different batches at different stages of development so that he would be ready to respond at a moment’s notice if his beloved garden had an urgent fertilisation need.

Dad stretched up on his tippy-toes and reached deep into the barrel, his face pressing against the opening and getting compost in his beard. But he didn’t care. Not one precious trowelful of compost was going to waste under his watch.

‘Ahem.’

The sudden unexpected noise made Dad lose his precarious balance and topple headfirst into the bin full of remnants of rotten garden waste. When Dad sat up he saw Ingrid peering over the edge, looking down at him.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘I haven’t been all right for years,’ said Dad.

‘I mean, do you have an injury?’ Ingrid asked in her heavily accented English.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Dad. He looked down at himself. He was too filthy to tell. He did have a dull pain where his head had hit the bottom of the bin, and a scrape on his stomach where he had fallen over the corrugated iron edge, but there was no way he was going to show his middle-aged stomach to the tall, beautiful Swedish woman above him. ‘I’m fine.’

‘You will show me where I put my things, yes?’ said Ingrid.

‘Huh?’ said Dad.

Ingrid held up a large sports bag. ‘My clothes and personal items,’ explained Ingrid. ‘Now that I live with you, I will need somewhere to store them.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Dad. He had hoped that the whole idea of Ingrid moving in with him had just been a nightmare, and that if he worked really hard on his garden the whole problem would go away. This was how he came to be head down in the compost bin in the first place. But he didn’t want Ingrid to think he was rude. Dad stood up and brushed off the bigger lumps of black manky compost. ‘Yes, we must find you some space.’

Dad led the way back to the house. Normally he would take his dirty gardening clothes off before going inside, but he thought it would make a bad impression if he started undressing, so he stayed filthy instead. He stepped in through the French doors at the back of the house, immediately tracking mud into the kitchen.

‘Um,’ said Dad, trying to avoid actually using words with meaning. ‘Um … I suppose. You know, it would be best if you had the big bedroom upstairs. You can find it yourself. It’s the room with a bed in it, that’s big.’

Ingrid looked towards the staircase. ‘Yes, I am aware of the layout of your home.’

‘Yes, good,’ said Dad. ‘Then I can take a sleeping-bag and go and live in the shed.’ He smiled at this. He had just had the idea and he thought it was a good one. If he lived in the shed, he would be entirely alone and he would be terribly frightened, but he would have less responsibility.

‘No, that will not do,’ said Ingrid in her typically Nordic deadpan stoicism.

‘It won’t?’ said Dad, crestfallen.

‘The immigration people, they have eyes, they will know,’ said Ingrid. ‘They will think this is not a real marriage we want.’

‘It isn’t,’ Dad whispered truthfully. He whispered just in case anyone with eyes was watching them right now.

‘It is,’ said Ingrid. ‘It must be, if I am to stay in your country.’

‘Surely not,’ said Dad.

‘Why not?’ asked Ingrid.

‘Well, marriage is so, you know … so personal,’ whispered Dad.

Ingrid nodded. ‘We must endure this,’ she said.

‘If you say so,’ said Dad forlornly.

‘It’s not I who says so,’ said Ingrid. ‘It is Maynard. We must follow her orders, both of us.’

Dad was confused. ‘I thought you didn’t trust her.’

‘Of course I don’t trust her,’ said Ingrid. ‘I don’t trust anyone. It would be unprofessional.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Dad in agreement. Personally, he was terrified of Professor Maynard. She was his wife’s boss. She was the one who had sent him into hiding in Currawong, then eleven years later sent his children to join him. Professor Maynard had saved his life and the lives of his children by hiding them from the Kolektiv, but Dad was still more afraid of her than any international hit squad.

‘I shall unpack my things.’ Ingrid started towards the stairs.

‘You can have the chest of drawers,’ said Dad. ‘And the wardrobe. Really any storage space you like. Just shove my things in the corner.’

‘It will be taken care of,’ said Ingrid with a nod as she disappeared upstairs.

Dad watched her go, making a mental note to order some really high-maintenance orchids online. Something that would require his attention in the greenhouse all through the night.