Grandma's Brag-Book

There was a lavender bush near the front gate. The taxi had arrived and, with his kit-bag on his shoulder, he had walked slowly, perhaps reluctantly, from the front door to the gate.
His mother following behind, gradually realising that this might be the last time that she would see the young, khaki-clad figure ahead of her.
He turned, as the gate closed behind him, muttered something about loving her and promising to write, and clambered clumsily into the taxi and was driven off.
After several years, unlike many of his mates, he had returned safely, but never having really settled permanently into post-war life, he eventually had travelled with his small family ‘down-under’ to Australia.
He had never seen his mother again, but after her death, he had received a parcel of her belongings from relatives in England. Amongst these was a small book, containing the photographs he had sent to her as the children had grown, and with the words ‘Grandma’s Brag Book’ emblazoned on the cover.
Idly looking through it he found, between every second or third page, a sprig of dried lavender.