Grandma is a woman of few words, as quiet and neat as the doll’s house she lives in. I watch her from my garden chair as she dons her secateurs and trug, the wide-brimmed hat protecting her from the bees and butterflies that hover over the flowers.

She’s famous for the lavender. Its deep purple haze blooms over the front garden, green stalks peeping through, and beds of ‘Arctic Snow’ – white lavender – hedge the path to the door. Locals stop by the picket fence to admire, inhaling that glorious scent. ‘I don’t know how she does it,’ they say. ‘Mine never takes.’

‘Baking?’ Jeanie-next-door calls over the fence. ‘Is it lavender cake today?’

Grandma shakes her head.

‘Ah, collecting for potions!’ says Mr Robertson, as he passes by to fetch his newspaper. I smile inside. Yes, there is something of the white witch about Grandma.

‘For potpourri?’ says a young woman as she pushes her baby towards the park.

Grandma snips and chuckles to herself.

‘Why do you have so much lavender, Grandma?’ I ask. I imagine a love story, English girl in Provence, bare feet on bicycle pedals through the heady fields of pre-War adolescence. A boy she could never forget.

‘I’ll show you,’ she says, heading inside.

It’s warm in the sunshine. Grandma returns with two glasses on a tray, clinking ice. She carries a box under her arm.

‘Look,’ she says. ‘Then you’ll understand.’

Inside is a collection of memorabilia – badges, banners, rosettes, sashes – all in the same three colours. Purple, green and white. A silver medal and bar – For Valour.

‘A legacy,’ she says. ‘It’s what my mother left behind. It’s what gave you your freedom.’

‘She was a suffragette?’

Grandma nodded. ‘Those were the colours of the cause in England. She was imprisoned, force fed. But they won in the end. When the lavender comes out, I think of her with such pride.’

‘Wow, that’s wonderful!’ I take a gulp from the glass, half-choke on its strength. ‘Whoah!’

‘That’s what I do with it.’ Grandma beams at me. ‘Lavender martinis.’