talesfromthehoppit

As a Kentish exile marrying into a Yorkshire family in the late nineteen-seventies I was in much awe of the standards of housekeeping displayed by the family of my husband-to-be.  On my first visit I was impressed by the neatness and tidiness of their home.  Inside everything was spotless and attractively arranged: neat as a pin. My prospective in-laws, kindly and curious, welcomed me with tea and cake and many, many questions. The main concern of my mother-in-law was my ability to keep house, thus providing for the future happiness and welfare of her only son.  This was perfectly understandable (or at least it seems so now).  On learning that I had recently qualified as a teacher she exclaimed ‘oh, teachers always live in hoppits’.  What on earth, I wondered, was a ‘hop pit’?  It sounded alarmingly like a place for fleas.

Feeling rather exposed (I was not only a teacher but the daughter of one) I asked her what a ‘hoppit’ was.  In her direct, northern manner she described a general muddle of papers, books and untidiness, washing up not done, piles of ironing laying around, bits on the carpet, grimy windows and a state of general disarray. A feeling of shame immediately crept over me as this sounded all too familiar and I vowed inwardly to do my best to overcome my natural tendency towards messiness. If belonging to the pack required striving for a good standard of domesticity then so be it, I thought.  She eyed my disreputable jeans disapprovingly and added ‘You can give me them for washing and you can stop covering up that hole in the knee:  I’ve already seen it.’

As a one-time student of language I took an immediate interest in the local dialect which peppered conversations with my prospective in-laws and later I looked up ‘hoppit’ in a list of west-riding words.  I found it recorded as an old word for a hive or busy place: rather a different connotation and one that I took to warmly.  Our home had always been ‘a busy place’ and I was suited with the wider associations of sweetness, industriousness and the nurturing of the young ( I’m not averse to honey in my porridge either) so I drew some comfort from this idea.  Although I have done my best over the past 38 years to keep the homespun chaos at bay ( a theme to which I will no doubt return) I only ever achieve this intermittently and it remains a constant struggle.  I’m happy to make the effort but I’m not always equal to it.  I’m drawn to order but it eludes me.   I’d like to win but, mostly, I just stave off defeat.

Looking around this evening I have to concede that my mother-in-law was right to some extent. There is washing up in the sink and the kitchen needs attention.  The window cleaner has tackled the outside of the glass but the inside would benefit from a wash.  The ironing is half done and scattered around the living room.  The Peace Lily is gasping for water.  There’s a pile of books and papers on the coffee table (including a trilogy of novels I can’t wait to get my teeth into) and instead of vacuuming the dog hairs from the carpet I’m dabbling on the computer.   I have now retired from teaching but our home, as ever, is a ‘busy place’: we have projects to do, interests to pursue and ideas to follow up. I offer you ‘tales from the hoppit’, everyday anecdotes of family life in a West Riding village seasoned with the thoughts and grumblings of a displaced one-time woman of Kent.