Clemence

Clemence is often referred to as the doyenne of the village. I'm not sure that this is factually true; an inteminable morning of ballot-box duty on election days, when leafing through the electoral list is one way to pass the time, would soon reveal the veracity of this claim.
Whether or not it is founded, Clemence is, without doubt, one of the major axis on which Lafage turns.
In the early morning her kitchen is a meeting place - a fug of cigarette smoke, coffee steam and men's voices, over which, from her car-seat armchair by the corner fire, Clemence presides.
Both her name, with it's suggestion of gentleness and her soft bovine look belie her toughness: Clemence can kill a kitten with a stab of her stick. She fries up gesiers and confit for her lunch and defies her cholesterol levels to rise. She can identify mushrooms and advise on their toxicity better than any corner pharmacist, she can read the autumn runes; the too-early massing of swallows on wires, the spiders' desire for warmth, the frantic blush of berries and predicts a cold, inclement winter.