I have just returned from a fabulous funeral. I know that is a strange adjective to use for a final farewell to a dear friend but I’ll explain.
Was it a Jewish funeral? Well, yes — it was both the least Jewish of Jewish funerals and the most Jewish. The least, because — apart from one recitation of Kaddish and the fact that the deceased and the close mourners were Jews, there was a marked absence of specifically Jewish elements. The most, because, if you believe — as I do — that being Jewish means having access to a collective emotional warmth, life-engaging humour, conversation and argument; as well as challenging authority, and questioning the rules; then this funeral was oozingly Jewish.
We were gathered together at Mortlake crematorium in leafy south-west London for the passing of Sue Margolis, earthy and funny novelist, journalist and former JC columnist. Her widower, Jonathan Margolis, and the family had mulled over how Jewish the funeral of his “Jewish atheist” companion of over four decades should be.
Should there be a rabbi? Jonathan thought this unlikely because “we don’t cremate”. But, of course, nowadays we do. Non-Orthodox rabbis are often prepared to officiate at Jewish cremations. I attended one such event earlier this year at London’s illustrious Hoop Lane terminus.
Should a family member act as a stand-in rabbi? There was no need; Jonathan and his and Sue’s children, David, Ruth and Ellie, were all able to deliver an appropriate hesped, which each of them did, eloquently, movingly and often hilariously.
What about music, which is traditionally avoided at Jewish funerals? This was the clincher, I’m sure. And the importance of music to this family was immediately apparent as the congregation filed in to the sound of Frank Sinatra singing Summer Wind, Sue’s favourite song.
David Margolis told the almost unbearably sad story of his mother’s cancer, covering 10 months of pain and indignity. But there had been lighter, and even hopeful moments. She’d managed to come to his wedding in July. Then, weeks later, having fallen into what looked like a valedictory coma, she unexpectedly came round. David asked her what it had been like, what had she seen? She had very little voice, so beckoned him over, smiled and huskily whispered two words into his ear: “F**k off.”
Afterwards, however, she recalled that she was aware of dead family members, waiting as if to welcome her. “Where were you,” her son asked. “Everywhere,” she replied.
The funeral may have lacked Jewish elements but, the family tributes over, there was one magnificently Jewish ingredient to savour — a recording of Woody Allen telling his famous and wonderful Moose sketch, regularly played in the Margolis household. At which, tears of laughter flowed with those of sadness into a torrent.
Next, Jonathan announced that we were to hear from one Marvin Lee Addy. Suddenly, fake smoke swirled around the stage and — through the speakers that had earlier delivered Sinatra — we heard another, somewhat contrasting Sue Margolis favourite: Mr Addy (aka Meatloaf) performing Bat Out of Hell. And two, hitherto unnoticed, giant Roman candles sparked spectacularly into flame either side of the rostrum.
Finally — the pièce de résistance — the assembled throng was showered by a mass of small black paper leaves, fired from a “confetti cannon”.
Surely the Mortlake resting place — despite hosting the funerals of characters as varied as Margaret Thatcher and Tommy Cooper, Robin Day and Kenny Everett — had never witnessed such a send-off.
At the lunch reception that followed, the atmosphere and the reminiscences were buzzing. The personality of the much-loved Mrs Margolis seemed to infuse the place. Her husband declared that he was “really enjoying” himself. People said it was uplifting — a rare reaction to a levayah.
And, as we wished our hosts a long life and made our exit from the celebrations, it was an automatic instinct to “just say goodbye to Sue” before realising that she wasn’t there. But perhaps she was there, or, as she had told David, “everywhere”.
