Inside Kayes grocery on King’s Road, Mr Kaye, a soft-spoken man, tells me about the history of the building and about his friend Melvin. “He was loved,” he says simply.
A memorial to the victims of the Heaton park Synagogue terrorist attack in the local Tesco (Photo: Naomi Frankel)[Missing Credit]
People describe Melvin as warm, helpful and ever-present. Adrian was among the worshippers who stopped the attacker from entering the shul. Police later said his fatal injury “may sadly have been sustained as a tragic and unforeseen consequence” of their urgent response.
At his funeral, Rabbi Daniel Walker of Heaton Park Synagogue said: “Adrian didn’t run from danger; he ran to help. He was a kind and gentle soul.”
On Bury New Road, I spot a young policeman standing on the corner – one of many visible patrols. He looks tired and bored. I bring him a rugelach and a drink, and we end up chatting.
He’s from Leigh, in Greater Manchester, and it is his first time stationed near the Jewish community. He tells me – sheepishly, in his broad Northern accent – that as well as being impressed, he is “a bit jealous” of what he has seen this week.
“There’s so much kindness and care and love,” he says, watching chattering teenagers and families bundled up in the cold. “In other areas, we get abuse. Here, we get food and thanks.”
Similar sentiments have been shared on Original Prestwich People, a local Facebook group, which is filled with upbeat posts from police, describing how warmly they have been treated during these tense days. Some shuls have even been handing out cholent and kugel to officers on duty.
On Simchat Torah, my cousin’s 12-year-old son approached one of the officers and said: “Pick a number between one and ten”, clutching his Sefer Torah with pride. When the officer guessed seven, the boy grinned. “Congratulations – you’ve won a can of Coke!”
It was a tiny moment, but one filled with joy and innocence – a reminder that even in the shadow of tragedy, children can still offer their own kind of light.
But not all the kindness comes from within the Jewish community. One of my cousin’s Muslim neighbours stopped her in the street to offer an unprompted apology for the attack – a simple, human response that carried real weight.
These small encounters are happening across the neighbourhood. The Jews of Prestwich, like Jews everywhere, are peaceful, law-abiding people. “They’re a pleasure to live alongside,” my cousin’s Christian neighbour, Judy, told me.
Around Succot, a friend of mine catered the first meal for the close family of one of the deceased. It was a modest act, but it spoke volumes about how people here instinctively reach for one another in times of grief. There is a tenderness that threads through so much of what is happening now: between friends, neighbours, people who may never have met before this moment.
King Charles meets members of Manchester's Jewish community at Heaton Park Synagogue on October 20, 2025 (Image: Getty Images)POOL/AFP via Getty Images
My friend also told me that since the attack, she has been more cautious with her own children. Normally, her girls run freely in and out of neighbours’ homes – the way kids often do in tight-knit communities – but now she finds herself hesitating. “I’m just more on edge,” she admits. It’s a subtle shift, but it lingers in the background of daily life.
The weight of it isn’t only felt by adults. Even the children here are absorbing what has happened in ways that are both startling and heartbreaking.
My cousin’s eight-year-old made a dark joke about the attacker – something no child should even have to think about.
It was said lightly, almost like another playground story, but it revealed how fear of violence can seep into young minds long before they have the words to process it.
Parents and teachers are navigating how to protect their children, while still acknowledging their awareness. It is clear that this moment has already become part of their world – not as a headline, but as a quiet, unsettling fact of daily life.
“It comes out in the little things – the questions they ask, the jokes they make, the way they look around more,” said a teacher at a local Jewish primary school. “We can’t pretend they don’t know what’s happening. Our job is to help them feel safe without letting fear define their world.”
Outside the shul where the attack took place, the flowers are still there. Some fresh, others wilting but soon replaced with new ones. The pavement is a patchwork of petals, handwritten notes, bee motifs and children’s drawings. A living memorial – in a place so full of communal life that it should never have needed one.
