Lot 23, Jonquiere, Quebec, Canada

Dearest Peggy,

I’m sorry it’s taken so long to write, but the journey here seemed to take for ever, and everything is so different, I’m finding it difficult to take it all in and find me feet. The crossing on the SS Lady Nelson was quite rough, and despite the pills the doctor give me, I were sick for the first two days which weren’t much fun for poor Mike, cos it were supposed to be our honeymoon.

When we arrived in Nova Scotia it were lovely and warm and sunny, and the scenery was like nothing I ever see before, so we stayed for a couple of days and Mike bought a car so we could do a bit of sight-seeing before we went on to Quebec and then his family home up in the mountains. Everything is so big and empty here, Peggy, even in the towns, and within minutes of landing, I realised that nearly everyone spoke French – which come as a nasty shock, I can tell you. I have enough problems with English, let alone trying to speak foreign!

But although they speak French or the local patois, as Mike calls it, it were really strange to see places called Liverpool, Truro, Yarmouth, Dartmouth and Glasgow. Mike explained it was because the first white settlers came from them places and wanted to be reminded of home, and I’m beginning to understand why. Tell Rita, there’s even a place called Sydney!

We drove up through New Brunswick which has a huge mountain range, a massive rocky coastline and nothing much else but lakes, rivers and trees – lots and lots of trees – which smell lovely, but make it ever so dark and gloomy when the sun’s low. Quebec City is ever so old, with a castle and everything, and the streets are all narrow and cobbled, but there’s lots of paper mills and pulping plants, as well as mining, so it’s quite a busy town with docks for the big container ships that come in. It reminds me a bit of Tilbury.

Mike’s parents’ place is about two hundred miles north of Quebec City, and another three miles outside a really small settlement which is part of Jonquiere. It doesn’t have a proper name, and probably hasn’t changed since the year dot. Mike reckons there are about thirty people living in and around it all the time, but the numbers are increased when the mill and logging workers come back in the autumn for the logging season. He says it’s easier to chop the timber in winter when the sap ain’t rising, and transporting it over snow is quicker than hauling it by horses and chains. When the thaw comes, the rivers run real fast, and they send all the logs down on them to the port – which is something I find hard to believe. I mean, who ever thought of such a thing?

Everything is made out of wood here – cos of the trees, I suppose – there’s enough of them. The main street is hard-packed earth, with one long veranda and walkway that runs past a bar and caff, a barber, a feed store and a general store that seems to sell nothing but old-fashioned dresses, work clothes, tools, canned food and dried stuff in huge sacks. I even seen men coming in on horses which they tie to the railings just like real cowboys! Oxford Street it ain’t and even Brick Lane Market is better stocked.

The houses don’t have names here, and Lot 23 is stuck outside this so-called town in the middle of the massive forest which Mike tells me runs right down to the St Lawrence River which is on the other side of the mountain. The house is made of huge logs, with a deep porch – or stoop as Mike calls it – and is very large with one big room for eating, living and sitting, five bedrooms and a bathroom which I don’t really trust cos of spiders and things coming in from all them trees what surround the place. There’s a generator for electricity, but all the cooking and heating comes from a range that’s got to be three times bigger than the one in your kitchen, Peggy, and is a swine to rake out every morning.

Mike’s parents, Claudine and Gerard, are ever so nice and made me feel welcome with an enormous meal of steak and potatoes. I think they must be quite rich, because Mike’s dad owns a logging company and paper and pulping mills, and although it feels as if I’ve walked into one of them Hollywood westerns, the stuff they have here is good quality and there’s always plenty of food.

I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do all day while Mike’s off with his father setting up the logging camp, but Claudine is nice company and there’s always housework or gardening in the vegetable plot to get on with. So nothing much has changed. I had hoped to get a job so I’d have me own money, and was going to ask them at the bar in town if they would take me on as they needed a barmaid. But Claudine said the women in her family don’t go out to work – and certainly didn’t frequent rough places like that bar – so I suppose I’ll just have to get used to being a stay-at-home wife and take up knitting or something.

Reading this back I’ve made it sound as if I’m unhappy, but I’m all right, Peggy, really I am. It’s lovely to be Mike’s wife, and the people are ever so nice and welcoming. As long as we’re together I’ll find a way to get used to not having lots of people around me and the miles of nothing but trees. I suppose I’d better try and learn French, because Claudine and Gerard speak it all the time and when Mike joins in, I feel a bit left out.

I hope all is well with you, and that Rita and Ivy’s weddings went off all right. I’m still waiting to hear from them, but of course they will only just have got my address.

With lots of love,

Ruby xxx