{"id":5569,"date":"2025-05-15T21:04:27","date_gmt":"2025-05-15T19:04:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/?p=5569"},"modified":"2025-05-15T21:04:27","modified_gmt":"2025-05-15T19:04:27","slug":"a-key-change","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/2025\/05\/a-key-change\/","title":{"rendered":"A Key Change"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Image<\/strong>: \u00a9 Pixabay License. Source<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Author:<\/strong> Andreia Abreu Remigio<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My factory-fresh yellow 2003 Toyota Sienta, specially imported from Japan for me, wasn\u2019t what you\u2019d expect a single, childless woman in her late twenties to drive. Who\u2019d have thought a quirky people carrier could be so charming? It could seat seven people, the seats were beige and soft, and I couldn\u2019t hear the engine issues over Michael Bubl\u00e9\u2019s new album. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was excited at the prospect of riding my new toy up to Liverpool to present my new findings at the annual psycholinguistics conference. The last few years had been long though, the setbacks numerous. A never-ending cycle of research and publication that didn\u2019t leave much time for anything else.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Around noon I stopped at a petrol station near Birmingham. While waiting in the queue with my Tesco meal deal, a big meaty and balding man turned around.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGoing north, love?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I looked around to make sure he wasn\u2019t speaking to someone else. \u201cUh, yeah.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you take me? I\u2019m trying to get to Manchester.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know why but I said yes\u2014a young woman giving an older male hitchhiker a lift was like poking a sleeping bear. But he looked kind. He was a small, ball-shaped man with a gap between his front teeth. He was wearing a cowboy hat and he looked like my estranged father. I decided to take it as a good sign. So we walked back to my car and drove on. The day was relentlessly hot, as every day had been since June. The asphalt on the motorway still glistened from the morning\u2019s rain.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere in Manchester should I drop you off?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnywhere in the city centre, love. I\u2019m going to the Manchester Jazz Festival.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow nice,\u201d I said with a wistful smile. \u201cI wish I could go with you, I love music.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t like jazz that much, but it pays well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOh! Are you playing at the festival?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had my eyes focused on the road, but I heard him inhale deeply. He didn\u2019t answer. I decided to drop the conversation, aware that he might not want to talk the two whole hours to Manchester. A silent hitchhiker type.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you a writer?\u201d he asked after a long silence. \u201cYou ask a lot of questions.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I chuckled. \u201cSorry. No, I am not.\u201d I hesitated. \u201cLinguistics scholar.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that for?\u201d he asked, genuinely curious.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, I study speech. I\u2019m interested in how people talk. I\u2019m driving to a conference actually.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy do you like jazz, then? No speech in jazz now, innit?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re right. Jazz is not my favourite kind of music. I\u2019m more into pop. I was just listening to Michael Bubl\u00e9.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He nodded slowly and I could make out a tiny smile from the corner of my eye. It was like he was digesting this new bit of information along with the rest of his sandwich.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy daughter quite liked Bubl\u00e9.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I smiled politely. Noticing the past tense, I was now unsure how to continue the small talk, and I could feel a little tightness in my throat. Suddenly the sky started to darken with low heavy clouds that had appeared out of nowhere, like summoned by our interaction. The bright shimmer of earlier disappeared, giving way to good old English gloom. Michael Bubl\u00e9 would\u2019ve hated it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou really like this car, huh?\u201d he said, more statement than question. He patted with his meaty hand the dashboard, which was hot to the touch. A fatherly quality test.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u201cI do. Bit daft, really. I\u2019ve never cared about vehicles, but I fell in love with Japanese cars last year while I was on holiday,\u201d I said, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel. \u201cLoads of these in the streets of Nagasaki.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNagasaki! Bloody hell. I lived in Tokyo in the 70s for a while, Angela Carter-style. They had just opened the first Shinkansen line. Everyone moved like they had somewhere better to be.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I laughed, and his chuckle turned into a dry cough.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy father was into cars,\u201d I confided quietly. \u201cHe loved music too. We would listen to his Queen and Dire Straits tapes in the garage, me singing, him playing an air guitar. He wanted to be in a band. But he went into accounting instead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He didn\u2019t say anything back. The silence stretched as long as the clouds in the sky. I flipped on the wipers, but it wasn\u2019t raining yet, so they just made an unpleasant squeaky sound against the glass.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you ever want to play music?\u201d he ventured after a while.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI did, actually. I used to sing. But you know how it is\u2026 Time came to choose a grown-up career,\u201d I said, half-answering his question, half-convincing myself that the psycholinguistics conference was the best place to be today. \u201cThe PhD just kind of fell into my lap when I graduated. I thought that was serious enough of a job. I wasn\u2019t any good at singing anyway, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could feel him looking at me. He nodded like he believed me. \u201cStill sing in the shower?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSinging in the shower is for weird, happy people.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFair enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We drove in silence again for a while. The clouds followed us like a persistent question mark. Somewhere around Stoke-on-Trent, the rain finally started, soft at first and then drumming on the roof. My wipers struggled to keep up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow long you been in linguistics?\u201d he asked suddenly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSeven years. Give or take. I just finished a postdoc in London. Now I\u2019m teaching and doing research.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd you still like it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His question made me pause. \u201cYes,\u201d I said slowly. \u201cBut\u2026 Yeah. Sometimes I wonder if I took the quiet path. You know? The one where you don\u2019t have to risk embarrassing yourself. Robert Frost probably wouldn\u2019t be proud of me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing wrong with quiet,\u201d he said. \u201cBut risk\u2019s where the music is. As long as you don\u2019t have any regrets. But then again, everyone does. Even musicians. We all choose our soundtracks, love. Some keep us safe; others set us free.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Something in his words caught at me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When we finally rolled into the outer edges of Manchester, the traffic picked up. Busier streets, people scurrying under umbrellas. Couldn\u2019t make out rain drops from sweat. I rolled down the window. The air smelled like wet tar and the heat made it hard to breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDrop you off at the square. Is that okay?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s perfect, love.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I slowed down and pulled to the side of the road. His hand was on the car door handle, but he paused before stepping out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAre you going to analyse our conversation?\u201d he asked, a smirk on his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou wish!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you miss it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMiss what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cForget it. Just remember one thing, love: it\u2019s never too late in the day for a tune. If you fancy some music after your big serious conference, come and have a listen. Name\u2019s Ron Brown by the way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJoanna Davies.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSounds like a celebrity\u2019s name,\u201d he said, smiling. \u201cCheers.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He gave me a nod of thanks and I was too surprised to say anything before he disappeared into the crowd, his cowboy hat bobbing between the hoods of rain jackets and ponchos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As I drove away, I turned the radio on and \u201cWhy Worry\u201d was on. At the next red light, something strange happened. I started to hum along. By the time I hit the main road, I was proper singing. As Ron\u2019s shadow lingered in the passenger seat, I thought about my father, how he wouldn\u2019t have wanted me to make the same mistakes he did. Maybe the conference was my own accounting hell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I made a full circle at the next roundabout.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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