A house once stood right here on this land, with its picket fence and dusty windows. Children played cricket and footy in the cobbled bluestone laneway. Little girls sat on the high gutters nursing their dollies upon their knees. Mothers with gingham pinnies pulled tightly around their waists held screaming babes under their arms.

A house once stood right here on this land. Women with names like Winnie and Madge dipped teacups into flour canisters to make birthday cakes for their many children. But the rations had run out — there were so many mouths to feed. They took in boarders — men with dubious pasts — but no one asked questions. Every night, there would be at least 20 sitting around the kitchen table listening to the radio for news about their lads on The Front.

A house once stood right here on this land. When the lads came home, they would not talk. They got new jobs in the factories and breweries and went to the pub after work. The women cooked and baked. They were cunning. They bleached their sheets with kerosene and boiling water. They darned and knitted socks, the clacking of their needles breaking the men’s silence.

A house once stood right here on this land. New people arrived from enemy shores. They arrived on big boats docked at Sandridge Pier. The smells of dripping and tea were replaced by garlic and coffee. They sang songs in another language. They painted their houses in bright colors. They ripped out the sash windows and replaced them with aluminium. They were proud, so very proud.

A house once stood right here on this land. It and others like it. The bulldozers came in and knocked them down. They turned them into rubble. They needed more housing for the ‘new arrivals’ they said, but where did the others go? They put up four 20-storey towers — all concrete. Beneath this soil, there is a story, there are many — of lives, of struggles. Houses once stood right here on this land.