Talya Singer

Mum, this is probably the last time we get to speak to you while you’re in the room so, just like you’ve done on so many different occasions, we’ve written something for you. I’m just sorry you won’t have a chance to edit it.

Mum, Saftal, Talya.

Tal-ya. Dew of God. A name of which you’ve always been so proud. And an apt name for this beautiful, elegant, kind, attentive, thoughtful woman. You always tread lightly and work discreetly, never seeking attention or praise. But as a tall, blond, female Jew, you were always going to stand out from the crowd.

The beautiful messages and letters we’ve received over the past weeks have shown us that much of what we love about you is also treasured and highly prized by so many others. From the women around the world who consider you their surrogate sister, to those for whom you’ve become a substitute mother. Friends and, to be honest, complete strangers, who’ve been embraced by your generous character and warm home, to friends of ours who consider themselves to be your fourth child. Not forgetting those you held in such high regard, feeling exactly the same about you.

Your story starts in December 1947 when you were born to the effervescent American Harriett Gold and the very English Maurice Goodman. A younger sister to your big brother Leslie, you grew up on Meadway in Hampstead Garden Suburb, just two streets away from what was to be our family home in Southway.

It wasn’t an easy childhood, but the stories of your youth are filled with trips to British seaside towns, mixed with visits from your glamorous American aunt and cousins and relatives from Israel travelling through London to come visit Aunt Harriett.

Nunu, as we came to know her, was a force of nature, having travelled from her home in Mandate Palestine in May 1940 to get married. But as a foreigner in the UK she was still learning to navigate this strange country and its odd people and customs without her immediate family around to support her.

one of the youngest female Jewish stockbrokers in the city

At thirteen you went to Henrietta Barnett School because, as you always took great pains to remind us, you failed the Eleven  Plus. Geography and English were your favourites and after school you spent a life-affirming year in Israel where you made lifelong friends and became a fluent Hebrew speaker. A year in New York was a formative experience and after returning to the UK you qualified as one of the youngest female Jewish stockbrokers in the City with a position at Sebags, an incredible achievement which you never spoke about enough.

It was at a garden party in 1974, that a wild haired, moustachioed Australian, Albert Singer, approached you. Assuming this tall, elegant blonde couldn’t possibly be Jewish he asked if you’d like something from the BBQ to which you politely replied, “No, I keep kosher”. It (eventually) led to a wedding in New Haven, Connecticut, a move ‘up north’ to Sheffield and then us three.

And in your own characteristic way, without hesitation, you took on everything, save actually being the gynaecologist. It was always a given that you ran the finances, the household, Dad and his career. We know the immense effort it took to keep it all afloat but to everyone else it appeared effortless.

the seventeen years in the Family Court which we know made the biggest impact on you

But that wasn’t enough. On your return to London you threw yourself into the community and the local Jewish school, Kerem. Head of the PTA and then a school governor for many years, including as chair of the Staffing and Education Committee, you always made the effort to spend time at the school getting to know the staff. You trained with the Jewish Marriage Council to become a Get negotiator and in 1995 you became a City of London magistrate, a role you relished and excelled at. But it was the seventeen years in the Family Court which we know made the biggest impact on you, meeting families and children facing the most challenging circumstances and hosting late night sessions around the kitchen table with the police when an emergency protection order was required.

You took that empathy and positive attitude to your volunteering with the synagogue’s Nefesh Network, calling and befriending people in the community, and until about six weeks ago you were still sitting on the panel that hears appeals about entry to Jewish schools.

The fact some of this wasn’t known by even your closest friends doesn’t come as a surprise. Because when people speak about you, what stands out are the Jewish values you embody and have instilled in us and the humility that runs through you.

Your house is always open and through it has come the most incredible array of visitors, many of whom have become good friends. Old friends from all phases of your life, foreigners new to the area who haven’t yet been embraced by the community, children of friends travelling through London, Dad’s medical colleagues and people you met during your travels as a ‘conference spouse’, endless family members who are or aren’t actually related and all our friends too.

your incredible ability to make people feel seen

And you always love to hear their stories, you’re uniquely interested in the experiences other people have been through, their background, their culture, what shapes them and gives them context. People appreciate the way you remember the details of their lives, enquire about parents, celebrate their special occasions even if it’s an ocean away. You know what it is to be a stranger and you make them feel like part of our family.

It’s part of your incredible ability to make people feel seen. Whether you’re chatting to an old friend or a younger person you’ve only just met, they warm to you because you have a genuine interest in their lives and you delight in their achievements. You have a knack of dispensing advice without sounding judgemental or condescending. Our friends have told us about the kind word, practical suggestion or nugget of wisdom you’ve given them that has made such a difference to their lives. Your friends have told us how they value your honesty and the ability to confide in you, knowing that whatever they tell you isn’t going to go any further.

And it is this empathy that extends to people who may be facing challenging circumstances, whether or not it’s visible to those around them or even themselves. A teenage boy appeared before you as a magistrate after getting into trouble. He’d had a really tough upbringing and you could tell he wasn’t necessarily going to get the support and guidance he needed from those around him. You gave him the most lenient punishment, told him you believed in him and that he could be a better person. Then you told his mum she was doing a great job raising him.

That’s you in a nutshell. You don’t hesitate to sing the praises of those who have faced adversity and accomplished something, a qualification or steady employment, no matter what it might be or how menial it may seem to others. You keep in touch with them as they grow and succeed, as proud of them as you would be of us.

never missing the opportunity to ‘talk a little torah’

We’ve hardly touched on how wonderfully broad your interests and talents are. The plays you book for a year in advance, the endless recipes you love to send us and see us create, the meaningful and heart-felt speeches you write for those you love and cherish, delivering them with such poise, never missing the opportunity to ‘talk a little torah’. And your humour, although we’ll wait for the shiva to talk about that!

I almost didn’t want to mention the tragic irony of being diagnosed with a rare ovarian cancer but the way you have faced it encapsulates all your magnificent qualities. You constantly told people how lucky you have been, how fortunate you are compared to so many others. You had the best care, the most wonderful support from friends and family, the chance to celebrate a bar-mitzvah and bat-mitzvah and had a wonderful year with your youngest grand-children living in London. Until the end, you have been thankful. But we have all witnessed the immense strength and dignity with which you faced the last three years and are enormously proud of your final decision to stop treatment and be cared for at North London Hospice.

Amongst all this you still find time to be the most wonderful wife, daughter, sister, mother, aunt, sister-in-law, daughter-in-law, mother-in-law, mechutenet, grandmother, godmother, cousin, confidante, neighbour and friend.

Our Saftal.

Dad looks at you with such love and adoration

Our tall, beautiful Mum. Heads turn and hearts warm when you walk in the room. We cherish the wisdom you impart and the grace you bring to every occasion. Leora, Alex and I love the way Dad looks at you with such love and adoration. We love your laughter, your strong hugs, your love of a good walk, your midnight feasts. We know how proud you are of us all, even though you don’t like to brag.

Whatever path we head off on, you have supported us. You have left us with the most wonderful gifts;  a strong sense of justice, a healthy degree of rebelliousness, the confidence to forge our own paths  both in life and in our Judaism. But most of all, you have left us with each other and a wonderful community of family and friends who love and adore you. We know we’ll never be alone because you have laid the groundwork. We will all miss you.