Джеффри Арчер - The Prodigal Daughter

‘Maybe I will vote for you after all when you run for President,’ he said. She smiled. ‘And I could work on the people who ride this cab — there must be at least three hundred each week.’

Florentyna shuddered — another lesson learned.

She tried to collect her thoughts as she entered the building. The audience had risen from their seats and were cheering wildly. Some clapped their hands above their heads while others stood on chairs. The first person to greet her on the platform was Senator Rodgers, and then his wife, who gave Florentyna a smile of relief. The chairman shook her hand heartily. Senator Brooks was nowhere to be seen: sometimes she really hated politics. She turned to face her supporters in the hall and they cheered even louder: sometimes she really loved politics.

Florentyna stood in the center of the stage, but it was five minutes before the chairman could bring the meeting to order. When there was complete silence, she simply said, ‘Thomas Jefferson once remarked: “I have returned sooner than I expected.” I am happy to accept your nomination for the United States Senate.’

She was not allowed to deliver a further word that night as they thronged around her. A little after twelve-thirty she crept into her room at the Chicago Baron. Immediately she picked up the phone and started dialing 212, forgetting that it was one-thirty in New York.

‘Who is it?’ said a drowsy voice.

‘Mark Antony.’

‘Who?’

‘I come to bury Betty, not to praise her.’

‘Jessie, have you gone mad?’

‘No, but I’ve been endorsed as the Democratic candidate for the United States Senate.’ Florentyna explained how it had come about.

‘George Orwell said a lot of terrible things were going to happen this year, but he made no mention of you waking me up in the middle of the night just to announce you are going to be a senator.’

‘I just thought you would like to be the first to know.’

‘Perhaps you’d better call Edward.’

‘Do you think I ought to? You’ve already reminded me that it’s one-thirty in New York.’

‘I know it is, but why should I be the only person you wake up in the middle of the night so that you can misquote Julius Caesar? ’

Senator Rodgers kept his word and backed Florentyna throughout her whole campaign. For the first time in years she was free of pressures from Washington and could devote all her energies to an election. This time there were no thunderbolts or meteorites that could not be contained, although Ralph Brooks’s lukewarm support on one occasion and implied praise of her Republican opponent on another did not help her cause.

The main interest in the country that year was the Presidential campaign. The major surprise was the choice of the Democratic Presidential candidate, a man who had come from nowhere to beat Walter Mondale and Edward Kennedy in the primaries with his program dubbed the ‘Fresh Approach.’ The candidate visited Illinois on no less than six occasions during the campaign, appearing with Florentyna every time.

On the day of the election, the Chicago papers said once again that the Senate race was too close to call. The pollsters were wrong and the loquacious cab driver was right, because at eight-thirty Central time, the Republican candidate conceded an overwhelming victory. Later the pollsters tried to explain away their statistical errors by speculating that many men would not admit they were going to vote for a woman as senator. Either way, it didn’t matter, because the new President-elect’s telegram said it all:

WELCOME BACK TO WASHINGTON, SENATOR KANE

Nineteen eighty-five was to be a year for funerals, which made Florentyna feel every day of her fifty-one years.

She returned to Washington to find she had been allocated a suite in the Russell Building, a mere six hundred yards from her old congressional office in the Longworth Building. For several days while she was settling in, she found herself still driving into the Longworth garage rather than the Russell courtyard. She also could not get used to being addressed as Senator, especially by Richard, who could mouth the title in such a way as to make it sound like a term of abuse. ‘You may imagine your status has increased, but they still haven’t given you a raise in salary. I can’t wait for you to be President,’ he added. ‘Then at least you will earn as much as one of the bank’s vice presidents.’

Florentyna’s salary might not have risen, but her expenses had as once again she surrounded herself with a team many senators would envy. She would have been the first to acknowledge the advantage of a strong financial base outside the world of politics. Most of her old team returned and were supplemented by new staffers who were in no doubt about Florentyna’s future. Her office in the Russell Building was in Suite 440. The other four rooms were now occupied by the fourteen staffers, led by the intrepid Janet Brown, who Florentyna had decided long ago was married to her job. In addition, Florentyna now had four offices throughout Illinois with three staffers working in each of them.

Her new office overlooked the courtyard, with its fountain and cobblestoned parking area. The green lawn would be a popular lunch place for senate staffers during the warm weather, and for an army of squirrels in the winter.

Florentyna told Richard that she estimated she would be paying out of her own pocket over $200,000 a year more than her senatorial allowance, an amount which varies from senator to senator depending on the size of their state and its population, she explained to her husband. Richard smiled and made a mental note to donate exactly the same sum to the Republican Party.

No sooner had the Illinois State Seal been affixed to her office door than Florentyna received the telegram. It was simple and stark: ‘WINIFRED TREDGOLD PASSED AWAY ON THURSDAY AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK.’

It was the first time Florentyna was aware of Miss Tredgold’s Christian name. She checked her watch, made two overseas calls and then buzzed for Janet to explain where she would be for the next forty-eight hours. By one o’clock that afternoon she was on board the Concorde and she arrived in London three hours and twenty-five minutes later at nine twenty-five. The chauffeur-driven car she had ordered was waiting for her as she emerged from Customs and drove her down the M4 motorway to Wiltshire. She checked into the Landsdowne Arms Hotel and read Saul Bellow’s The Dean’s December until three o’clock in the morning to counter the jet lag. Before turning the light out she called Richard.

‘Where are you?’ were his first words.

‘I’m in a small hotel at Calne in Wiltshire, England.’

‘Why, pray? Is the Senate doing a fact-finding mission on English pubs?’

‘No, my darling. Miss Tredgold has died and I’m attending the funeral tomorrow.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Richard. ‘If you had let me know I would have come with you. We both have a lot to thank that lady for.’ Florentyna smiled. ‘When will you be coming home?’

‘Tomorrow evening’s Concorde.’

‘Sleep well, Jessie: I’ll be thinking of you — and Miss Tredgold.’

At nine-thirty the next morning a maid brought in a breakfast tray of kippers, toast with Cooper’s Oxford marmalade, coffee and a copy of the London Times . She sat in bed savoring every moment, an indulgence she would never have allowed herself in Washington. By ten-thirty she had absorbed the Times and was not surprised to discover that the British were having the same problems with inflation and unemployment as those that prevailed in America. Florentyna got up and dressed in a simple black knitted suit. The only jewelry she wore was the little watch that Miss Tredgold had given her on her thirteenth birthday.