No Mark Upon Her

the Thames flows between (for the most part) wild and unwalled riverbanks hurriedly and muddily, or peacefully and translucently. On certain days its waters resemble a fine mass of shimmering, metallic, luminous blue. On some evenings it looks like a mirror reflecting the sky from which it seems to issue.
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
Four Men in a Boat: The Inside Story of the Sydney 2000 Coxless Four

    “A n Astra,” said Kit. “An Astra Estate. And green. What could possibly be worse?”
    Duncan Kincaid glanced at his son sitting beside him in the passenger seat, long legs sprawled into the foot well, and bit his tongue on old adages about horses and gifts. He reminded himself that he had hated being patronized when he was Kit’s age. He also remembered what it was like to be fourteen, when nothing mattered more than what others thought.
    Kit had been unusually quiet as they drove up through Somerset and Wiltshire, concentrating on his iPod Touch rather than the beautiful autumnal scenery. It was only now, when they had joined the M4 and passed through the unexciting edges of Swindon, that he’d stirred and removed his earphones.
    “That’s a bit ungracious, don’t you think?” Kincaid said moderately.
    “I’m not being seen getting out of it at school.” Kit’s expression was mulish. “And I’m certainly not going to drive it.”
    Kincaid was beginning to lose patience. “You’ve got a few years before you even need to think about driving, so let’s worry about that one when we get to it,” he said, although he was sure his mum and dad had been thinking exactly that when they had offered Duncan and Gemma their old car. The Astra Estate was old, solid, comfortable, and supremely safe—all things anathema to a fourteen-year-old boy.
    His dad had presented the car with all the glee of a first-time parent playing at Father Christmas. Kincaid suspected that if it hadn’t been for the rain, he might actually have wrapped it in ribbon. “Your mother wants something greener,” he’d said, then chuckled at his own inadvertent humor. “More ecologically correct, that is. Not that the Astra’s bad, mind you. But we thought you could use the extra carrying space, now that you have Charlotte with you.”
    Kincaid had to admit he was right. The three kids had been stuffed into the back of Gemma’s Escort on the journey down to Somerset, and there had been tears and tantrums aplenty. They did need a bigger car, but he’d been too busy with work and the recent demands of family life to really give the matter serious consideration, not to mention that Gemma’s recent unpaid leave had seriously cut into their budget—as would his.
    He still had his old MG, although he seldom drove it these days. The maintenance on it was a nightmare, but he was reluctant to sell it for the pittance it was worth. He had once rashly promised Kit that he would keep the Midget until he learned to drive, and he hated going back on a promise to his son. Now, however, the thought of Kit actually driving the little car horrified him—only slightly more than contemplating what it would cost to insure him if he did so.
    His dad had given him an easy out. “I could come up to London and drive the Midget back to Cheshire,” Hugh had offered. “Keep it in the garage, do some restoration. Get it in tip-top shape.” When Kincaid, who had never seen his dad do more than change a tire, raised an eyebrow, Hugh had given him a sly wink. “Never too old,” he’d added.
    Gemma had hugged Hugh, then his mum, Rosemary, who had left her packing to join in the surprise. “You are dears,” Gemma said. “But are you sure? How will you get back to Nantwich?”
    “Not to worry,” Rosemary assured her. “Jack will run us to the train. And the new car’s ordered—it should be waiting for us when we get home.”
    Looking at his parents, it had seemed to Kincaid that his father was a little thinner, and his mother a little grayer, than when he had seen them last. They were unfailingly generous, taking into their lives first Kit, the grandson whose existence they had not even imagined, then Toby, and now Charlotte. He loved them for it, and he realized that he told them so too seldom.
    He’d given his mother a kiss on the cheek and his father a manly sort of hug-with-handshake. “Thank you. The car’s brilliant. And it means we’ll be able to come visit you more often.”
    Toby had begun jumping up and down, shouting, “The dogs