Battle of Bands

The Devil's Shoes

It was a warm, clear autumn day in 1982.

The echo of white galahs squawked throughout the terrain. Their wings flapped wildly as our dog, Rusty’s, barking spooked the birds. The birds flew to the nearby dry bull oak across our farm, nestling near the border of South Australia and Victoria.

The warm autumn breeze blew through Lucy’s long blond hair. Wild sundried thistle along the property sang soulfully while the windmills worked harder than ever.

Mother was dead.

Lucy frequently went down to where Mother’s ashes now remained, scattered and spread around the lime tree near the creek, along with Grandma and Grandpa.

Lucy was a happy-go-lucky young girl. She played with her dolls and trucks, sometimes drew and wrote poems. She laughed, cried, and chatted away at Mother’s grave near the banks of the slow-running, almost dry Spring Creek, now and then placing flowers she found throughout the property.

Uncle Charlie planted a lime tree when our grandparents passed away ten years ago. They were involved in car accident pulling out of our long driveway at dusk. A slight turn and a ridge created a blind spot. All the locals and farmers would always slow down and were very careful of this section. Tragically, on this occasion, an out-of-towner in a souped-up V8 doing well over 100 miles an hour hit them as they were pulling out and collected them side on.

Dad was touring around Australia playing guitar in a band, doing well for themselves, and had to decide to move back and run the farm, where he eventually met Mum at the local general store.

The creek navigated tranquilly through the valley. It is where Mary, our mother’s, life was cut short by tragedy.

Lucy ran back up the hill towards their old Queenslander-style cottage, jumping over dead logs, trying to catch butterflies with her net, skipping, stumbling, and singing made-up songs. Singing to herself, ‘Bye-bye, Mummy, Grandma, and Grandpa.’

‘Sitting under the lime tree wild, grave is haunting me, scared and frightened like the edge of wood waiting to be used as firewood burnt, then ash, then history.’

‘Absorbing and breathing man’s mistakes, flowers grow for their own sakes, wastage no more purity,’ she hummed away to herself.

Our six-year-old German Shepherd, Rusty, was firmly in tow. We named him Rusty due to his skin and hair looking like the colour of rust when he was a puppy.

The day that changed our lives forever…

It was a cold Sunday afternoon on February 10, 1980.

Lucy and Mother were happy and carefree riding on their special white Camarillo horse called Flying Nun, our 12-year-old thoroughbred. They always went horse-riding, especially on a Sunday afternoon after church.

Stable hands nicknamed her Sally after Sally Field, The Flying Nun, due to her sprinting capabilities. After a good career, including six wins and 14 placings in 48 races, Sally amassed a respectable $217,000.00. Dad owned her with a few of his mates. Dad, a horse breeder around the Mallee and Wimmera region, was a jack of all trades. Musician, entertainer, farmer, and wood chopper. The horse had a cult-like following due to her bright white colour.

He had the dream of taking her to race in the Melbourne Cup Carnival, following the footsteps of the legendary trainer Mike Robins and owner Clifford A. Reid with Rain Lover, winning back-to-back Melbourne Cups. The first time was in 1968 by an eight-length margin, also record time. The following year was won by controversy, beating Bart Cummings, favourite horse and a victim of a doping scandal. It was always a buzz going to the track for country races, everyone dressed up, having fun, the atmosphere electric.

In 1979, I was allowed to have 50 cents on Just Dash to win the Melbourne Cup and won. Now and then, Dad would have gigs at the racetrack or the local pubs, sometimes at country music festivals or rodeos. Dad would jump on the bucking bulls or horses from time to time as well. I tried a young bucking horse for the juniors, reaching eight seconds once. Every so often, Lucy would ride as well, but she never lasted the distance, usually being the clown running around protecting the riders. Mum always told her off, saying that it was too dangerous for a young girl. Lucy didn’t care; she was a tomboy. She would tell me to go for it and give it all, never be afraid to ask for anything, be yourself, and be courageous.

We would stay in rooms or once in a while camp out under the stars. We had old green sleeping bags. We’d crank up a fire and sit around sharing stories. Best of all, Dad would play us some songs, and we would join in and have a singalong.

Dad gave me a harmonica for my ninth birthday. We sometimes played songs together, mostly blues. My favourite song to play was ‘Roadhouse Blues’ by The Doors. Lucy’s favourite song for the singalong was ‘Rocking Robin’. She would always go over the top with the ‘tweet, tweet’ part, pretending to fly, sing, and dance like a bird.

Mum worked with horses as a stable hand around the Mallee and Wimmera area while doing the odd clerk duties, which consisted of generally being a subordinate directly to the race director or chief steward. Duties included dispatching safety and rescue teams, oversight of track conditions, deploying and withdrawing the safety car, and determining whether to suspend a race in case of dangerous situations. Occasionally, we traveled with her to the tracks as well. Lucy regularly went. I preferred to sleep in. Mum was always up early and would tell us, ‘The early bird catches the worm.’

However, on this specific day…

Jonathon Saunders, my father, and I--everyone called him ‘Johnny’--were preparing and setting up for one of Dad’s gigs that afternoon at the Netherby Pub. It was routine for us. Church, Dad doing a Sunday gig, then back to watch Countdown on channel 2 at 6 p.m., a popular pop TV show made by a publicly funded, government-owned national ABC TV network hosted by Molly Meldrum. We loved Molly. I’d never forget when Cold Chisel tore up and smashed the stage live on Countdown, smashing the guitars on speakers and amps, Jimmy Barnes holding and sculling vodka. It was awesome. My dream was to play on Countdown one day, and tour Australia just like my Dad.

Mum and Lucy rode around the property like any other given Sunday along the steep embarkment of the creek. It was where I went fishing, caught shrimp and yabbies, and looked for geckos, tadpoles or little skink lizards. I remember getting a hook stuck in my finger and Dad having to slice my finger open to remove the hook. That left me in pain for days.

In the saddle, Lucy, tiny enough to squeeze in, sat on the front in tandem, grasping onto Mum’s hands, around the bridle and reins.

When they cleared the creek this time, however, Sally pulled up short. When they had to jump the creek like they have done hundreds of times before, the horse tentatively hesitated. Going back over the memory time and again, I was unsure why Sally bucked. She was a lovely horse, no malice in her at all. She may have twinged hurting herself, some form of erosion along the bank, or a feral mad rabbit spooked her.

Lucy had fallen face first into the shallow-running, clear, cold creek. I could only imagine Lucy crawling back up from the creek bank, showing some signs of hope. Then, horror filled the air.

She climbed up the embankment. An eerie screech and scream echoed through the valley.

Mother gasped, dark, deep, beetroot-red blood squirting from her neck. She had landed on an old, burnt-down, sharp stump, piercing her straight through the side of her throat.

She slowly stood up, stumbled towards Lucy, and held out one hand while the other tried to hold up her neck with the piece of a torn stump. Her eyes flickered. She tried to scream for help. Her voice was scarce, and every time she tried to speak, blood squirted out uncontrollably jet-like, a thin stream gushing from a deep, narrow opening.

She collapsed onto Lucy. Lifeless. Lucy screamed as loud as she could, trembling in the breeze, shaking, holding Mother’s head and neck together.

Lucy, Mother still in her arms, was covered in lukewarm blood. It dripped like light rain from her fingertips. The cherry-ripe blood soaked and stained her angelic white dress that Mother had just brought her for her birthday. The arrow shape of the tree stump pierced through the side of Mum’s neck like a century-old Japanese samurai sword.

Lucy sat and stared in a state of suffering; as a result, misery quickly flowed into her gentle, kind soul. Warm, salty tears began to flow and shed. Howling like an animal, squealing, screaming, pleading for help, Lucy’s screech echoed through the valley. Lucy collapsed onto Mother, begging the Lord to bring her back. Sniffling and weeping, covered in blood, the teary, wet-eyed girl gathered up Sally and rode as fast as she could to the pub. Dad was halfway through the Billy Thorpe’s classic ‘Most People I Know Think that I’m Crazy’ song. They had met at a festival at Sunbury in the early 70s. Dad was a roadie there, keeping in touch with a few musicians. Some would stay over on the farm while touring. Everyone in the pub was singing, drinking, and having a good time.

Lucy barged her way through the crowd. Dad stopped. No music. No sound. I was busy eating the rabbit stew.

‘Mum’s had an accident. We fell off Sally…her neck.’

The sound of silence made me nauseous.

‘Mum’s dead, Archie.’ She broke down in my arms.

I still remember her small, cold, bloody, and trembling hands on mine. Her eyes, red and teary, were popping out like ping-pong balls. Her white-laced dress was covered in fresh blood.

All I can remember after that was Dad rushing like a bat out of hell to get home.

Dad drove faster and faster, accelerating to nearly 100 miles an hour. The 15-minute drive seemed like an eternity. The old dirty road stretched for a few kilometres before hitting the bitumen. The sound of wind and a flock of black crows took off as we whizzed by.

Storm clouds brewed over the dry, deserted land, quickly approaching as we are destined to drive straight into it. Small drops of rain splattered the windscreen. Dad’s screeching old wipers tried to push them away. We hadn’t had rain for over six months, and everyone struggled with that with their crops and wheat farms.

It must have been a welcome relief; however, not for us. An unannounced magnificent rainbow appeared amongst the misty rain and clouds. Ironically or coincidentally, it ended near our property.

We finally arrived home.

‘Wait here,’ Dad demanded. He told us to go inside and call an ambulance.

He raced to the shed and started his dirt bike. Smoke and dust blew out the exhaust pipe, followed by a big bang, that echoed across the land.

Two black ravens took off into the sky. He slid and zoomed past the chicken pen. Hens wildly ran free, flying off to avoid the bike flicking mud in the air as he raced down the valley, mud squirting from the back tyre as he headed towards the creek.

The sound of Father’s bike fading in the distance sent shivers through my spine. The rain became substantially dense. I could hear Lucy’s heart pounding while she sat quivering and crying. Rusty sat next to her, huffing and puffing away, frightened from the sound of thunder and lightning. Is this a dream? I thought. The noise of the bike stopped.

There it was, the feeling of the unknown that crept into my body like an unwilling disease. My pulse raced and increased every second. A faint scream of pain bellowed, followed by lightning and massive crack of thunder. Collapsing to my knees on all fours and crawling to my sister’s side, I cried and shook like a falling leaf as we held each other, waiting for Dad to return. Even Rusty knew something was wrong. He barked and howled like he was trying to comfort us, while scared of the incoming storm.

The bike started up five minutes later.

We were waiting for the ambulance. The nearest one was about 40 kilometres away back in Nhill. I ran outside to see what was going on. It was getting dark now that the storm had well and truly set in. I could only just see the headlights of Dad’s bike through the rain. Without hesitation, I sprinted towards the light.

‘Get inside!’ Dad yelled as he rode past.

Then I saw Mother’s severed head, hanging to her neck by a sinewy thread, dangling and bouncing loosely around due to the terrain of the uphill ride and bumps.

Turning to walk up the hill towards the house, staring in disbelief at the ground. I staggered and stumbled, then violently dry-retched, grasping for air.

Lucy came running down the hill towards me. She stumbled as well, collapsing into my arms. All we could do was weep, sob, sniffling, wiping tears and rain away from our faces. We embraced each other, shedding tears, lamenting, covered in mud, while Dad rode back up to the shed. We couldn’t believe it.

Soon, the sirens of the approaching ambulance became more apparent, closer, then louder.

After this, Lucy wore the devil’s shoes.