Chapter 26
Award for Strongest Argument
Geoff
The last ten minutes of class, I ditch the slideshow on shutter speeds for something far more important.
I look at the faces staring at me. A roomful of teenagers who’ve spent the last month alternately testing my patience and reminding me why I love photography in the first place.
I didn’t expect to enjoy it this much. Didn’t expect to care.
Yet, here I am, already missing it before it’s even over.
They’ll move on to whatever’s next, and I’ll…
well, who knows. But not this. Not their noise and their daft questions and the way their faces lit up when they realised a Mars bar wrapper could be art.
It’s been an emotionally brutal sort of week, and this feels like the final twist of the knife.
“Right, you lot,” I say, holding up a stack of printer paper. “End-of-course awards. No groaning — these are the ones that matter.”
That gets their attention. Heads lift, chatter dies down.
“Don’t look so worried. No one’s getting graded. These are the proper awards. Prestigious. Coveted. Possibly worth millions on eBay one day.”
Lola claps dramatically. “Like the Oscars?”
“Better than the Oscars,” I say. “For a start, these are hand-drawn masterpieces, not golden statues. Limited edition. One of one. You’ll tell your grandkids about this day.”
They’re grinning now, leaning forward, and, for a second, I’m gutted all over again that this is the last time I’ll have them hanging on my words.
I hold up the first certificate. “The award for Most Dramatic Squat While Taking a Photo… goes to Lacey. Honestly, my knees ache just watching you.”
The room erupts. Lacey hides her face, laughing, and I tuck the image away — another moment to keep.
“Next, the award for Strongest Argument With a Lens Cap: Nathan. You nearly had a fistfight with it last week.”
Nathan pumps his fist in the air, grinning. The class cheers louder than they need to, and I realise they’re making the most of it too. They know this is the end.
I rattle through the rest: Most Likely to Shout at a Pigeon (Amir), Most Creative Way to Fall Over While Framing a Shot (Chloe), Lifetime Achievement in Accidentally Photographing Your Own Thumb (Aiden, who bows like royalty).
Each one gets bigger laughs, and each laugh feels like a bloody stitch pulling tighter in my chest.
By the time I hand out Best Use of Blur to Make an Entire Football Team Look Like Ghosts (Hayley, obviously), they’re howling. And me? I’m laughing, too, but also already mourning the silence I’ll have tomorrow.
And here’s the thing — they love it. Not the certificates, which are scrawled in Sharpie and already creased, but the fact I’ve been watching. Really watching. Noticing the quirks nobody else would bother with.
Mia, who barely speaks above a whisper, clutches hers — Best Photo of Woodgrain that Looked Like a Mountain Range. She’s glowing, cheeks pink, and for once she’s not hiding behind her hair. That one gets me the most. She’ll probably forget me in a year, but I’ll remember this look for a long time.
I lean back against the desk, forcing a grin I half mean, half don’t. “Look, you’ve all been brilliant. You’ve proved you can find a story anywhere, even in a Mars bar wrapper. Keep doing that and you’ll never be bored.”
Declan clears his throat pointedly, trying not to smile. “And don’t forget the mobile phone policy when you leave.”
Groans ripple around the room. I laugh with them, though there’s a lump stuck in my throat.
“Alright. Off you go. And remember — if you ever get famous, I expect free tickets to whatever nonsense you end up doing.”
Chairs scrape back, bags sling over shoulders, and the usual stampede for the door begins. But, instead of the normal chaos, they pause.
“Thanks, sir,” Chloe says first, casual but with a smile that reaches her eyes.
“Yeah, thanks,” Aiden adds, lifting his certificate like it’s proof. “This was… fun.”
One by one they echo it, voices overlapping — Amir, Lacey, even Nathan muttering a sheepish, “Cheers, sir.”
Mia lingers just long enough to tuck her certificate into her bag, whispering a quiet, “Thank you,” before slipping out with the others.
It catches me off guard. Teenagers aren’t exactly famous for their gratitude. And yet, here they are, thanking me as if I’ve actually given them something worth keeping.
The door swings shut and the silence that follows feels deafening. I swallow against the lump in my throat, staring at the empty desks, and think of Sharpie-scrawled certificates clutched in bags on their way out into the world.
Maybe I did alright after all.
“You handled that well,” Declan says, stepping out from his post at the back. His tone is lighter than usual, almost approving.
I huff a laugh. “Did I? Felt like chaos with a side of Sharpie.”
He shakes his head. “Chaos they loved. The feedback’s been brilliant.”
I glance back at the empty room. At the desks already nudged out of place, the neat rows broken by the rush to leave.
“Do you think,” I say, careful to keep my voice casual, “I have what it takes?”
Declan studies me for a moment. Not the quick once-over he gives students when they’re trying to blag their way out of homework.
“Yes,” he says. No hesitation. Then, because he’s Declan, he adds, “But that’s not the whole story.”
I snort. “There it is.”
He folds his arms. “You’re good with them. You see them. That’s half the battle. But teaching isn’t just moments like that.” He gestures vaguely at the ghost of laughter still hanging in the air. “It’s admin. Meetings. Paperwork that could drain the soul from a saint.”
“Behaviour reports,” I say.
“Parents’ evenings,” he counters.
“Email chains,” I add darkly.
He smiles. “Exactly. Some days you’ll go home buzzing. Other days you’ll wonder why you ever thought this was a good idea.”
I nod slowly. None of that feels like a dealbreaker, weirdly.
“I’ve been thinking about doing the teaching degree,” I say. “One year. Proper qualification. And then find a job teaching the photography BTEC.”
Declan’s eyebrows lift. “You’re serious.”
“Terrifyingly,” I reply. “But yeah. I don’t need full-time hours. I just… want something that sticks.”
He watches me for a second longer, then nods. “Good. Because I was about to say you’d be daft not to.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Really,” he says. “And if you go for it, I’ll happily give you a reference. The head will too. She’s already asked me if I think you’d consider teaching.”
That lands harder than expected.
“She has?”
“She does not ask questions she doesn’t already know the answer to,” he says dryly. “You’ve made an impression.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding. “Right.”
Declan claps me lightly on the shoulder. “You’ve got the knack, Geoff. Just don’t romanticise it. Teaching will break your heart and then expect you to mark essays about it.”
I grin. “Sounds perfect.”
He laughs, grabs his folder, and heads for the door. “Go on. Before you get sentimental again.”
I linger a moment longer, taking one last look at the room.
Then I switch off the lights and walk out, already thinking that maybe, just maybe, this isn’t the end of something.
Maybe it’s the beginning of something that finally makes sense.
My phone rings as I’m walking home, bag cutting into my shoulder and my head still half in a classroom full of teenagers and Sharpie fumes.
Mum’s name lights up the screen.
I sigh. Brace myself. Answer.
“Hello.”
“So,” she says, no greeting, straight in, “why am I finding out second-hand that my grandchild is a girl?”
I can feel a bollocking coming on.
“…Who told you?”
There’s a pause. A smug one.
“Jasper,” she says. “Obviously.”
Of course it was. Youngest child. Lifelong over-sharer. Man has never met a secret he didn’t immediately take home to Mummy.
“I was going to tell you,” I say.
“Yes,” Mum replies, “and I was going to be six foot tall. We all have intentions.”
I laugh, because honestly, what’s the point fighting it.
“We weren’t planning to tell anyone yet,” I say, ignoring the fact that we had told my brothers and Ivy and Miranda... and I think even Lucy knows.
“You may have not been planning to,” she snaps. “But Jasper phoned to check in and somehow managed to mention it within thirty seconds. Clearly you told some people.”
I rub a hand over my face. Jasper is such a sneak.
“Well… yes we're having a girl and she’s fine. The baby is thriving.” I desperately try to steer my mother away from my apparent betrayal.
“And how’s Christa?”
“She’s good,” I reply. “Tired. Hungry. Emotionally invested in crumpets.”
“Good,” Mum says at once. “That’s exactly how it should be.”
I frown slightly. “How is exhaustion and carbs your gold standard?”
“Oh, Geoffrey,” she says, already gearing up. “Growing a baby is not a gentle hobby. It’s hard work. If she’s tired, it means her body’s busy. If she’s hungry, it means she’s listening to it.”
“She cried at an advert yesterday,” I add. “Something to do with a dog.”
“Was the dog sad?”
“Briefly.”
“Then that’s entirely appropriate,” Mum says briskly. “Pregnancy strips your emotional skin off. Everything gets felt. That’s not weakness, that’s biology.”
I grin as I walk, because obviously Mum has a whole internal manual for this.
“She’s resting when she can,” I say. “Though she’s not great at stopping.”
“No capable woman ever is,” Mum replies. “Tell her she’s not meant to be serene. She’s meant to get through it.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me, because this is not advice you argue with.
“And are you feeding her properly?” she adds.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m on crumpet duty.”
“Excellent,” Mum says. “Keep her fed and hydrated and don’t ask stupid questions. That’s your role.”
“Noted.”
“And how are you?” she asks then, tone shifting just enough that I know she actually wants the answer.
I slow my pace a little. “I’m… good. Truly.”
“Truly,” Mum repeats. “That’s a loaded word.”
“I’ve been teaching,” I say. “Photography. Just a few hours a week at Declan’s school.”
“Oh,” she says, interested now. “Teaching, teaching?”
“Yeah, proper teaching,” I confirm. “Teenagers. Cameras. Opinions.”
She hums thoughtfully. I can picture it. The mental filing system whirring.
“And you like it.”
“I really do,” I admit. “More than I expected. Enough that I’m thinking about doing it for real. Getting the teaching degree.”
There’s a pause.
“That makes sense,” she says at last.
“Does it?”
“Yes,” she replies simply. “You’ve always been good at explaining things. And you like watching people get better. You just pretended for years that you didn’t.”
She’s not wrong. Annoyingly.
“It’d mean going back to uni for a year,” I say. “Part-time. Add the qualification.”
“And does that idea terrify you?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” Mum says. “If it didn’t, I’d be concerned.”
I laugh. “You’re very calm about this.”
“Geoffrey,” she says, “you’re finally talking about something that sounds like it fits you. Why would I panic?”
That lands, warm and solid.
“And it works with… everything else,” I add, careful but honest. “Being around more. Being present.”
She doesn’t need me to spell that out.
“I like the sound of that,” Mum says softly. “Very much.”
I can’t stop the big grin appearing on my face.
“And,” she adds briskly, because this is still my mother, “you’ll let me know when you apply.”
“That wasn’t a question, was it?”
“Absolutely not.”
I grin and keep walking, phone warm in my hand, feeling oddly steadier than I have in a long time.
Maybe that’s what it feels like when things start lining up.