The Scent Of Lavender

It seems to surround me; to protect me. I know we will be happy here . . .

IT smells of lavender in here.” I laugh. “I thought estate agents were supposed to use the smell of coffee to encourage buyers.”

“There’s a garden – maybe the smell is coming from there.”

The man the agency have sent to show me around the cottage looks like he’d be more comfortable in front of a computer somewhere. His gaze slides uneasily towards the kitchen door.

“Is a garden important to you, Mrs Hughes?” Thin lips twitch tentatively into what might pass for a smile.

“It’s nice for a child to have somewhere to play,” I say, cradling my bump and squeezing through the doorway after him. “Oh, there’s the lavender.” I spot neatly clipped bushes between boxhedging shapes and burgeoning spring bulbs.

“It’s too early for it to be in flower. Perhaps the leaves are scented, too? I’m not much of a gardener.” I laugh, hoping to lighten the mood. Isn’t that supposed to be his job? “Me, neither.” He still looks distinctly uncomfortable and I think perhaps he should consider if he might be better suited to a different profession.

“Shall we look inside?” he asks without enthusiasm.

It’s perfect. I ring Steve at work and when he sees it he thinks so, too.

The administrative rollercoaster takes its course and by midsummer we are moving into our first proper home.

* * * * “

Welcome to the village!” It’s Monday after the Big Move. 

“I thought I’d let you have the weekend to settle in before popping round,” the woman on my doorstep says. She’s probably in her seventies and she’s carrying potted lavender.

“Thought you might like this,” she says. Her smile is warm. “I grew it from a cutting.” “Thank you, er –” “Judith.” She beams.