A Rick Midwinter Adventure, by Martin Richards
The leaves were just beginning to turn when Rick Midwinter stepped off the tram and onto the pavement outside Elmsvik High School. The school sat tucked behind a row of birches, its brickwork faded by decades of rain and sunlight. Rick paused, adjusting the strap of his briefcase and looking up at the building with a quiet nod, as though acknowledging a former colleague who had stood the test of time as he had. He’d emailed the school’s leadership team two weeks earlier—brief, polite, and pointed: "I’m a retired educator and certified coach, reaching out to offer something that might support your team. Not a program, not a package. Just a conversation. Would you be open to that?" To his surprise, within a few days he’d received a reply. A short one. "Wednesday at 9:00. Come to reception." ### The assistant principal, Lena Nyström, met him at the door. She was brisk, composed, and slightly amused by the situation. “So,” she said, as they sat down in a glass-walled conference room just off the staff lounge, “you’re offering… conversations?” 1
space where people in leadership roles can reflect, regroup, and develop their communication in real time.” Lena raised an eyebrow. “Sounds abstract.” “It is,” he agreed, unbothered. “Until it isn’t.” She tilted her head. “And what do you get out of this?” “I’m retired,” Rick said, folding his hands. “This is how I stay connected. And useful.” Lena leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “Our leadership team is stretched. These conversations sound… indulgent. We have things to fix, we don’t have time to just talk about things.” Rick nodded slowly. “Understood. But may I ask—when was the last time your team had a space where they weren’t fixing, but reflecting?” She didn’t answer. He continued. “My offer isn’t therapy or training. It’s a chance to step back and consider: how are we talking to each other? Where’s the clarity, and where are the crossed wires?” Lena looked out the window. A group of students were tossing a football back and forth on the courtyard. 2
commitment. Just a taster. With your leadership team, or whoever you think would benefit.” She looked at him again. “Alright. One. Next week. I’ll gather the team.” Rick smiled, quietly. “I’ll be here.” 3
The following Wednesday arrived with low clouds and a fine drizzle. Rick arrived early, found a seat in the staff lounge with a lukewarm coffee, and waited. He had no printed handouts. No slides. Just a leather-bound notebook and the same battered briefcase he’d carried for years. At five to nine, Lena appeared, gesturing for him to follow her. “They’re already in the room,” she said, holding the door open. “We start on time.” The leadership team was seated around an oval table: the principal, Erik Lindström—tall, silent, scanning Rick with a neutral expression; Anna, the academic coordinator, arms folded, clearly skeptical; Johan from student support, who offered a brief nod; and Fatima, the new curriculum lead, who smiled politely but avoided eye contact. Lena took a seat at the end, flipping open her laptop. Rick remained standing. He placed his notebook on the table but didn’t open it. “Thank you for making space for this meeting,” he said. “Would it be alright if I begin by listening to you?” A brief silence. Erik gave a noncommittal shrug. “Sure.” 4
need to answer in any order. Just speak when you feel ready.” He looked around the table. “How are things, really, in your team?” Anna exhaled sharply, leaning back. “Busy.” Johan chuckled. “Understatement.” Fatima gave a small nod. “I’m still finding my place. There’s a lot to catch up on.” Lena didn’t speak, her eyes flicking between the others. Erik rested his hands on the table. “There’s pressure. From above. From the parents. From within. I don’t know what kind of response you’re expecting, but I’d say we’re… functional.” “Functional,” Rick repeated. “May I ask—does that feel sustainable?” Silence again. Rick waited. Not the kind of silence that needed filling, but the kind that invited something deeper. Johan cleared his throat. “We have two teachers on sick leave this term. One left quite suddenly. The students notice when staff are stretched.” Fatima spoke next, quietly. “There’s a lot of email traffic. Sometimes I don’t know if I should just act, or ask first. It slows things down.” 5
Anna stiffened. “We don’t have time for every single internal uncertainty. We trust each other to manage our own responsibilities.” Lena spoke then, not looking up from her screen. “And we’re not here to rehash problems we already know about. You said this was a coaching session, not a therapy group.” Rick stayed steady. “You’re right. Coaching isn’t therapy. It’s also not about fixing. It’s about seeing. Sometimes more clearly than we’re used to.” That quiet settled in again. Fatima glanced at Erik, who gave the smallest of nods. “Alright,” Erik said. “What would you suggest we do with this hour?” Rick smiled, almost imperceptibly. “Let’s start with a map. Not of tasks or goals—but of how each of you experiences being part of this team.” He handed out four blank cards and four pens. “No names. Just a sentence or two. Something true. I’ll collect them and read them aloud.” They hesitated. Fatima was the first to write. When the cards were filled, Rick gathered them, shuffled lightly, and began to read: 6
walked into the play at intermission.” “I want more clarity. But I’m afraid asking for it will be seen as criticism.” “We are all good people, but we talk past each other more than we admit.” “I’m tired, but I don’t know what would make it better.” No one spoke for a moment. Then Johan leaned forward, hands clasped. “Okay,” he said. “That’s real. That’s worth an hour.” Rick just nodded. “Then let’s set up a date for it.” 7
Rick left them to their meeting. He went to the school’s entrance and eyed the weather outside. He was zipping up his jacket when he heard a voice behind him. “Rick?” He turned. Fatima stood by the vending machine, fiddling with the sleeve of her cardigan. “Do you have five minutes?” she asked, not quite meeting his eyes. Rick nodded and gestured to a bench just inside the glass vestibule. They sat, the occasional clatter of coins and distant student chatter filling the space between them. “I’ve been thinking about what you read out this morning,” she said, “those four cards. Especially the one about being out of sync.” He watched her face, not rushing to reply. “I wrote that one,” she added, quietly. “Thank you,” Rick said. “That was a brave sentence.” Fatima shrugged, then looked away. “It just feels like… everyone’s pretending they know how this all works. And I’m the only one still trying to decode the script.” 8
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