I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day - Milly Johnson Page 0,91

lot of thrusting forward of hands.

‘Throw?’

‘Launch?’

‘Bat?’

‘Overhand balls? Is he playing cricket?’ asked Charlie.

‘Looks more like tennis to me,’ said Jack. ‘Ace? Smash? Björn Borg?’

‘Lob? Is it something to do with volleyball?’ asked Robin.

Luke waved his hands as if to wipe his last efforts away, then drew a circle above his head.

‘Hair?’

‘Static electricity?’

Charlie squealed. ‘I’ve got it, “Angels With Dirty Faces”!’

‘Oh for fu—’ Luke cut off the profanity, recalibrated, held up four fingers. The fourth word. He pretended to take off what appeared to be his trousers.

‘Strip?’

‘You lot are shit at this,’ said Luke, exasperated.

‘Shh, you aren’t supposed to talk.’

Once again, Luke repeated the mime, then he held up his imaginary clothing, threw it away and pointed to his groin area.

‘Dick,’ said Bridge with relish, which earned her a dirty look from her soon-to-be ex.

‘Removing your jeans, suit, slacks?’ Robin was throwing everything at it.

‘Drawers?’ said Mary. The look Luke gave her suggested she was closer than any of them so far. He made an encouraging come on motion with his hands, wanting more from her. ‘Shorts? Knickers?’

Luke grinned. Took off his pretend pants and pointed to his groin again.

Robin made a vigorous leap from his chair, convinced he’d got it now. ‘Take your knickers off, Father Christmas.’

‘Ah yes, that well-known children’s carol,’ said Bridge to that, rolling her eyes.

‘It’s something definitely to do with knickers,’ said Charlie, which triggered near ecstasy in Luke as he once again wriggled out of some pretend underwear.

‘Knicker-less?’ said Bridge. ‘Of course, I’ve got it! “Jolly Old St Nicholas”.’

Luke stuck up his thumbs and collapsed forward in exhaustion.

‘Where did the volleyball fit in, I’m confused?’ said Jack.

‘I was trying to say, “sounds like sent”. When you didn’t get that I drew a saint’s halo above my head.’

‘Ah,’ said Bridge. ‘Well, that wasn’t an ordeal at all. Anyone want to go next?’

Robin stood up and entertained them all with a very funny – if quite indecent – mime of ‘Fairytale of New York’. Then Mary followed with ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’. Then they had a break for mulled cider, which Luke had also made that morning so all the spices had plenty of time to marinate. It could have fuelled a rocket up to Mars, said Charlie, coughing after his first mouthful before quickly returning for a second. Luke had been delightfully liberal with his addition of Calvados to the mix.

‘You really have turned into Superman haven’t you?’ said Bridge, nodding with approval at the taste.

‘I’ll take that,’ said Luke.

‘And what is your kryptonite then?’ asked Jack.

‘I don’t have one,’ said Luke. ‘I turned all my weaknesses to strengths.’

‘Everyone has a weakness,’ said Bridge. ‘Mine is not being able to resist a bargain. If I sniff even the smallest profit in a plot of land, I have to have it.’

‘Mine is cherries,’ said Charlie. ‘I’d do anything for one of those cherry grenades.’

‘What’s yours, Jack?’ asked Luke.

‘His posh twitness,’ Bridge answered for him.

‘Bridge,’ said Luke, with disapproval.

‘No, Bridge is right,’ said Jack. ‘All education and no common sense.’ He couldn’t shake the image of Mary’s lovely face upturned to his when they were outside.

‘What about a nice sedate game of bingo?’ said Mary, a distraction from anyone asking her what her weakness was because he was there, sitting next to the fire with his eyebrows knitted together in consternation. When the idea was greeted with tipsy enthusiasm, she got up to distribute bingo cards and counters from the box to cover the numbers. Luke volunteered to be the caller and got very much into the spirit of things straight away.

‘Are we all set? Eyes down, ready for your first number. One and two – three. Leg and a fat lady – eighteen.’

Bridge was going to ask him if he had to be a twenty-four-seven clown but she didn’t want to risk stifling his bingo lingo creativity. Looking at Charlie with his foot-long grin, eagerly awaiting Luke’s next call, she was glad that he hadn’t traded that daft-as-a-brush essence of himself for money and success. They played five games. Charlie won the last one with the most serendipitous of numbers.

‘The Figgy Hollow Six… number six of course.’

‘House,’ yelled Charlie, throwing his hands up in the air and sending all his counters flying. ‘What do I win?’

‘An overnight stay in a top Yorkshire hotel,’ said Luke, putting on his best announcer’s voice. ‘With a five-star Boxing Day mash-up breakfast thrown in.’

‘Wonderful, I’ll take it,’ said Charlie.

No one suggested any more games, they were beat. They relaxed their