The only lavender I knew for a long time was the Yardley Lavender Talc tucked away in an aunt's cupboard. She smelt of that talc. She used it on herself, frugally after a shower. Then again when she had a wash at tea-time. But her clothes smelt of lavender. All the time. The secret, a cousin discovered one summer, was a clean hanky she always carried with her. The folds had lavender talc in generous measure.

The next encounter with lavender came in a suitcase. An uncle bought us kids some 'scent' from 'abroad'. One of them, a deodorant actually, was lavender. I snatched that one and hoarded it until it smelt of kerosene or alcohol, I knew not what.

The fragrance of Lavender had changed in my mind.

I wasn't sure now whether I liked it or not.

And then one day, years down the line ( or should I say Life?) I saw that attractive colour on a shelf. It beckoned. An aromatherapy bath gel.

The smell of my stored deodorant not left the recesses of my memory. I took the tester and sniffed it tentatively. My aunt came alive again in that whiff of pure, fresh lavender.

I like it, I decided. I like the fragrance of lavender.

And so, that particular brand found a firm place in my personal shelf. It soon found a mate. An aromatherapy lavender talc. Now I could do what my aunt used to.

Powder a hanky and carry it around.

Now I smell of lavender all the time. I like it.

My brother in Kent has a typical English garden. Colourful and unkempt. He grows lavender. Lots of lavender. The first time I actually saw the lavender plant and the blooms.

A pretty sight indeed. The subtle hue that can only be called lavender. Not purple, not pink, not lilac, not violet or any such thing. Lavender.

Running my hands through the fresh flowers, I bend and sniff the blooms. I haven't got a cold, but I smell nothing.

I smell my hands that have been handling the pretty flowers. My hand smells the way it always does. Not of lavender.

My brother wanders out to ask me what I was up to. An indulgent 50 year old trauma surgeon looking at his 40 year old 'kid' sister, who seems totally bewildered.

This lavender has no smell, I whine.

Sure it does, he says.

He bends down and picks the oldest of the blooms, gently crushes them and then holds out his hand.

His hand doesn't smell of anti-septic the way it usually does. It smells of fresh, pure lavender.

He uses the tone he would use to the most nervous of his patients.

Lavender, he says, has to mature. And then, it needs to be bruised before you get its true fragrance.

It's a lot like us humans, he says.
Age, experience, the knocks and shocks of life and a bruise or two ....
And we emit a fragrance that comes from within.

I choose the right bloom. I gently crush it. My hand smells of lavender.
He was right.
There was a lesson right there, in those clumps of lovely lavender.

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