“Oh, yeah. Good on you.” I was 15! “Thanks. Need some help getting the house ready for the baby. Have you got a job?” “Yeah, I’m the Prime Minister.” I was 15 – and a smartarse. “That’s a shame. I was looking for someone who could do a decent day’s work.” I snorted. I tried not to because teenagers shouldn’t laugh, but she’d ambushed me. She turned to walk off. “Hang on,” I called, “I’m not the Prime Minister.” She stopped. “That so? Well then?” “What?” “You want a job?” “Yeah. Guess so. I mean … thanks.” “Come on then. Plenty to do. Do you even like coffee?” “Nup. Chairs are comfortable but.” She smiled. And that was how it started. I spent nearly every day with her after that. We did a lot on the house, getting things ready, but we also spent a lot of time talking and laughing and dancing to rubbish music. And doing weird things, like praying. She liked to pray. At first, I just sat while she did it, feeling awkward. Then, one day, she asked if I wanted to add anything. She said God was listening. I said I didn’t believe in God. She just laughed and said that God believed in me, so it was no big deal. After a while I started throwing in a thing or two. Mainly for my dad, who was in jail then. And we’d pray for the baby. Wish we’d prayed more for the mother. She didn’t pray the baby would be healthy or rich or smart or anything. 42
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