Our Home at 84 Burn Street: Camp Hill, Brisbane, Queensland

By Crystal Jordan nee Davis 2026

The day they pulled down the old house, the dust hung in the air like old memories. It was hard to watch it go, especially at seventy-nine. That house was not just wood and cement; it was my father, my family, and the beginning of our new life.

From Dunkirk to a New Land

In May 1940, my father, Edward William Davis, was captured by German forces at Dunkirk. He became a prisoner of war, surviving years of hunger, cold, confinement in Stalags in Poland, and forced labour. When the war finally ended, he came back to us, but the old world had changed forever. Employment was difficult for returned soldiers to find. I was born in 1947 in Tottenham, England. Seeking a fresh start, our family migrated as Ten Pound Poms on the P&O ship Ormonde, travelling across the world to Queensland, Australia, where we arrived in October 1948. We spent a short time at Yungaba, Kangaroo Point, before travelling by train to live with my Uncle Charlie on a dairy farm at Mount Larcom, Queensland, where my father lost the little finger from his left hand while using a reaping hook. My father did not talk about the camps. Instead, he channelled his survival energy into the Australian soil beneath his feet and decided to build a future out of nothing at 84 Burn Street, Camp Hill, Brisbane.

Making the Bricks One by One

Money was scarce, but his resolve was not. In front of our temporary corrugated-iron dwelling, my father and my older brothers set to work building a cavity-brick home. Dad had a small, hand-operated brick machine that made just one brick at a time. Together, we mixed cement, ash, sand, and water. Dad scooped the heavy mixture into the machine, pulled the lever with all his strength, and turned out one perfect grey block on a single oiled hardwood pallet. We placed thousands of wet blocks in the hot Australian sun to cure. It was exhausting work, but each brick was a quiet victory over the war that had tried to break him.

A Fortress of Safety

When the bricks were finally dry, they were stacked. Over six years of weekend work, my father and brothers built thick, solid walls to keep the world out and the family safe. Inside, the floor was made of beautiful hardwood. The glass front door opened into a wide hall that separated the bedrooms from the lounge, and French doors in the lounge opened onto the front verandah, lined with three white cement columns. I remember my father teaching me how to make astragals in two semicircles to fit around the joins on the columns, and how to use a hammer to punch the nail holes down into the timber and fill them with putty. It was a patient task that made me feel part of the build. Because of those thick cavity bricks, the house was naturally warm in winter and cool in summer; there was no need for artificial heating or cooling.

Growing up inside those walls, my brothers and I felt we finally had a home. It was filled with the smell of my mother’s cooking, the feel of crisp white sheets, and countless memories. There were many wonderful times, especially our traditional Sunday roast dinners, followed by hours of playing cards and board games around the table, Monopoly was a favourite. Yet the memories were not all good; there were shadows from the past that we could not entirely escape. Still, the house stood as a physical contrast to the dark history that had helped shape it. Beyond the walls, I grew up with the freedom of peace and space. I roamed every inch of the bushland and White’s Hill surrounding our home, spending endless hours climbing gum trees and catching yabbies in the spring-fed waterholes and creeks near Samuel Street at the base of White’s Hill.

The bulldozers took the physical structure away today, but they could not touch its foundation. My father’s strength, the bricks we made with our own hands, and the love he built into that house will stay with me for the rest of my days.

84 Burn Street, Camp Hill, Qld 4125