Domestic Refrigeration

The first time Wendy found maggots in the fridge, she remained quite calm, considering they were maggots. And they were in the fridge.

The second time she found maggots in the fridge, she contained her anger by channelling it into a bowl of vanilla ice-cream, served in the posh crockery they’d received as a wedding present, with maple syrup (from Canada, allegedly), all accompanied by a cheeky little wafer she found at the back of the cupboard.

After all, she thought, it was Gerald’s hobby, and surely better this than having him shove notes into the knickers of strippers at the bar and falling through the front door at 3 a.m. smelling like a brewery. Which, in Wendy’s mind, was the only alternative to having a husband with an obsession for fishing. There was nothing in Wendy’s mind, no halfway point, between a middle-aged man sitting peacefully for hours in a quiet corner of the British countryside, dressed in various shades of green, drinking over-sweet coffee from an oversized flask while trying to tempt carp from their watery lair. Nothing between that and shoving their hard-earned cash into the skimpy knickers of a skinny stripper whilst drinking half your body weight in cheap beer.

Then, staggering home in the middle of the night, sleeping face down on the hallway floor (imitation wood laminate), only to find when you wake in the morning, you have a very convincing oak effect imprinted on your forehead. It was an expensive laminate after all. The salesman said the grain was very realistic.

There was nothing in between. The maggots were starting to get to her.

The third time Wendy found maggots in the fridge, frankly, she lost it, slamming the fridge door so hard a half-empty bottle of Pinot Grigio (well, two-thirds; she was going to drink the whole bottle but it was only Tuesday) crashed into a jar of mayonnaise, smashing both.

She was going to need more wine. And, I guess, more mayonnaise.

Gerald sat silently at the kitchen table, thumbing through his latest edition of Carp Fishing Monthly. He had a subscription. If he collected all twelve editions by the end of the year, he would be entitled to a free baseball cap in a camouflage print (RRP £5.99) with “Carp Fishing Monthly” embroidered over the peak in gold letters. He really wanted that cap. In this month’s copy, they highlighted the importance of keeping your bait at the right temperature.

“The carp are very sensitive to temperature, it says here, Wendy.” He tapped his finger on the article. “They can tell within half a degree if the bait is correct for their delicate palates.” His eyes widened at the glossy photos of enormous carp sucking up maggots from the bottom of a muddy lake. “I simply have to keep the maggots in the fridge until I go fishing. It makes them last longer before the pupal stage.” He added, tapping the cartoon-style picture of the life cycle of a bluebottle on the previous page. “The lid’s nice and tight on the bait box — they can’t escape.” He mumbled, without raising his head.

Wendy opened the kitchen drawer where the cutlery lived. With the calmness of a woman who needed a chocolate hit and knew exactly how to get it, she reached to the back, hovering briefly over the knife section, and produced a Snickers bar (fun-size; it was just before lunchtime, and she’s not an animal). She opened it in a blur, throwing the wrapper onto his magazine. Shoving the whole thing in her mouth in one, she pulled out a chair and sat opposite Gerald. He continued, as Wendy struggled to contain the sticky lump in her mouth.

“There was a 68lb carp caught in a four-acre spring-fed lake in the Dordogne recently,” he said as he leafed through the pages. “Apparently it was caught using half a Snickers bar on a size sixteen hook.” His eyebrows raised as he continued reading. “The monster fell for the bait which had been stored in the fridge until used… Ha! What about that then? Stored in the fridge until used.”

Wendy finally managed to swallow. The chocolate, having the desired effect, she calmly said:

“Gerald. Darling. If a 68lb carp was caught in a lake in the Dordogne, then—”

“A four-acre lake,” Gerald added.

Wendy gave herself a moment. Remembering that Gerald had once promised to take her to the Dordogne, but never had.

“If a 68lb carp was caught in a four-acre lake in the Dordogne, then—”

“Spring-fed.”

Wendy clenched. Hard. She took a long breath in through her nose and exhaled before continuing.

“If a 68lb carp was caught in a four-acre spring-fed lake in the Dordogne using a piece of Snickers bar as the bait, then why can’t you just fill the fridge with Snickers bars? That would make me very happy indeed.”

Gerald tutted, as if addressing a child.

“Oh, Wendy,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. The sort of smile that made you want to punch someone.

“Wendy, Wendy, Wendy… My dear Wendy. That was a French carp. European, you see? We’re not in Europe anymore. I’m fishing for English carp. English carp prefer maggots. Maggots that are kept in the fridge. Everyone knows that.”

He continued shaking his head and smiling as he slowly thumbed the pages of the magazine, letting out the odd tut as his eyes flicked over the pictures.

Wendy closed her eyes and promised herself an oversized slice of what was left of the chocolate cake she’d baked the day before. Maybe she’d have it warm, with some more of the vanilla ice-cream and a Snickers bar poking out the top. She stood and opened the fridge. Gerald watched as she poked around, avoiding the bait box which nestled at the bottom behind a sweaty bag of spinach, four days out of date, and a chunk of mouldy Cheddar.

“You won’t find any,” he said, closing his magazine. “That was the last bottle.”

“I wasn’t looking for more wine, I’m not an alcoholic,” she said into the fridge, as much to herself as to him. “Anyway, you said you’d take me out to dinner. It feels like we hardly see each other anymore.” She added, “We’ve nothing in the fridge to cook. Well, apart from some wilted spinach, mouldy cheese and a box full of maggots.”

“Can’t tonight, Wendy. Already got plans.”

“Oh? And what might they be?” She struggled to disguise the disappointment in her voice. Gerald looked at her as if she were speaking Latin while gargling vegetable soup.

“I’m going to the pub, Wendy. There’s a guy doing a talk on the migratory habits of the sea trout.”

He stood, folding his magazine neatly under his arm, and headed for the door.

“Oh — and there’s a stripper on.”