My life as the Daughter of the Rev. Thomas Nevison Simpson: A Missionary on New Hanover in Pre-War PNG

For this article I have chosen to quote in part from a book that was self published in June 2000 ‘Yours Sincerely, Tom:  A lost child of the Empire’ Margaret L Henderson (nee Simpson)

Walls of Silence
After my mother died in 1992, I found an old dust covered leather kit bag on the top of a wardrobe in her bedroom. In it I found a cache of old letters and photographs.  The letters were dated in the 1930s and very early 1940s.  They were handwritten, often in pencil, on lined yellowing paper and there seemed to be hundreds of them.  They were invariably signed: ‘Yours Sincerely Tom’.    My father was Tom Simpson and I realised that the letters were from him to my mother, Nellie.

Could this discovery be a key to a door in the wall of silence which had surrounded my father?

I knew very little about my father and imagined that there was a conspiracy to keep me finding out more.  When I was seven, a small photograph of a very handsome young man in a clerical collar appeared on my bedside table.  He was, I was told, the Reverend Thomas Nevison Simpson LTh.

Although my name was Margaret Simpson I was too young to draw the conclusion that he was my father and at that time I was not told.

Some years later, I realised who he was and I took a greater Interest.  When I was in my early teens, I learned that he had been a Methodist Minister and a missionary in a place called New Hanover and that he had been reported drowned when a Japanese ship, the Montevideo Maru had sunk.

Some other snippets of information came my way but I sensed that I should not ask for more.  As a result I did not know much about him.  But I was curious.  What sort of person was he?  Did he have blue eyes?  Was he tall?  Was he a good sportsman?  Would I have liked him?  Was I Iike him?

As I grew older, I wondered why there was a wall of silence about him.  Was there something shameful being kept from me?  Was there some secret about him which others decided I should not know?  Was I being protected from some harsh unpleasant fact because I was too young?  Was it, somehow, my fault?  I simply did not know. Whenever I did hesitatingly ask questions I was usually told: ‘Don’t worry about the past. Look to the future’.

When I was quite young, I knew that my circumstances were different from those of most other children.  My grandfather seemed to have a joint role as grandfather and father.  My mother worked and my Aunty Jean acted as my mother on mothers’ days at school.  My mother married Bert Klopp when I was seven and at last, I felt I had a “normal” family. I was so delighted about this marriage that I Invited the neighbours from Cator Street Hindmarsh to come to the wedding.  Next morning my mother was gone.  One minute I had a father and a mother and then I had neither.  They had left on their honeymoon but I was not told about this and what it meant.  My poor grandparents just did not know why I was so upset and they called the doctor who put me in the Adelaide Children’s Hospital.   My mother and Bert immediately came home and I was released from the hospital.  I often wonder now whether that was a reaction to the loss I felt when my mother and I were evacuated from PNG.  I was only 7 months old but my reaction at this time makes me wonder whether I had unconsciously recognised a great loss when we left my father in PNG.

At school I was popular and well treated.  When we moved to Mitcham School from Allenby Gardens School, I found it quite an adjustment.  I did not live with my beloved grandparents anymore, but I had Bert and a room of my own instead of my mother, John and me being in the same room.  At Mitcham School, they were ‘doing’ things at a more advanced level.   I was a bit behind the other students.  I later learned that when I was out the classroom on some errand the teacher had told the students about my history and that they should be kind to me.  And they were and still are until the present day.

At intervals, my mother would dress John and me in our best clothes and off we went to New Guinea Women which was held in private homes. The women would talk and sip tea, while the children ran about.  This was a support group that the women who had left their husbands in PNG had put in place for themselves.  There were no other support systems to help them come to terms with what had happened to them and their children.  I did not relate these times to the young man in the photograph and I had no idea why we were there.   I did not know why my mother was a New Guinea Woman.  I just had a good time with people who were very kind to me.  I felt a warmth from all these people.  I do not remember anything like this happening in the Church community.  There were other Methodist Ministers’ wives and children at New Guinea Women but there was, to my knowledge, no initiative to provide support for these families from the Methodist Church.

Slowly, I began to learn about my ‘real father’.  I discovered that his parents had both died before he was 8.  He entered the Royal Caledonian Asylum in Bushy, Hertfordshire in England because of his father’s service in the British Army where he won medals for service in Egypt and Burma in the Highland Light Infantry.  At 14 he was required to leave the Asylum but he had ‘no where’ to go.

At 14, this young man made a decision to apply to come to Australia as a ‘Barwell Boy’. For the purpose of this paper, I will not describe the scheme and the treatment Tom received as a Barwell Boy.

I later discovered that, at 21, when his time with the scheme concluded, he was faced with another ‘nowhere to go’ decision.

During his time with the Billing Family as a Barwell Boy in Lameroo, he had attended the local Methodist Church.  In his speech at his Ordination in Rabaul in January 1939, he said:  It was in the Murray Districts of South Australia that my Christian experiences were crystallised and I heard my first calling to more definite work for the Lord who had saved me.

After his Home Mission Experience in the Mallee, he entered Wesley Theological College at 20 King William Road, Hyde Park in South Australia.  Later, he received a call to Overseas Mission work and was appointed to a newly created mission circuit on the island New Hanover in the New Ireland District.  The New Hanover Circuit included Anelaua Island to which lepers from all over PNG were sent into isolation.  I heard that my father ministered to the lepers and other people in his huge circuit that was composed of many isolated islands.  He was also responsible for training his own pastor-teachers as they were not allowed to leave the leprosy infected area.  This was all fascinating information and a picture of my ‘real’ father began to emerge.  However, it was not enough for me to know him as I wanted to.

I attended Memorial Services every 1st July for those assumed to have drowned on the Montevideo Maru.  On 7th February 2004, I laid a wreath at a Commemorative Ceremony in Ballarat Gardens for  civilians who had died when the Montevideo was sunk on 1st July 1942.  I helped to organise a memorial and service in Kavieng on 4th July 2002.  I have written two books about my father and PNG.  I have also helped others to write books about their PNG experiences.

Conclusion
These experiences have taught me a lot about my father.  His life was cut short when I was seven months old by events in World War II.  I have learned much about him from his letters to my mother, from the recollections of others and from my research.  But I do not really know him as do those who grew up with their fathers.  I will never know what my life would have been if I had been able to grow up with this wonderful man.
I believe that only those with similar experiences can really understand what this means.  Fortunately, a network of those with similar PNG losses has emerged.  This fellowship provides understanding, love, care and support.  Although I suffered a great loss, I have gained much from these people.  I thank them all.  They know who they are.