There was colour, as requested, plus fine clothes, hopeful faces and joyful music. Camila Batmanghelidjh’s hundreds of mourners may have been a little wary and gloomy packed into Golders Green crematorium, but they didn’t stay that way for long. They were too restless, hopeful and full of mischief. It was never going to be a drily formal ceremony, even in the elegant north London chapel, and it didn’t take long for spontaneous clapping and cheering to break out. An angry aside at Batmanghelidjh’s treatment by the tabloid press. Anecdotes of kindness and fun. A sing-along to the Beatles’ All You Need Is Love. The coffin at the top of the chapel set the tone. Bright white, decorated with clusters of red roses and covered in handwritten felt-tip messages from some of the children. “Queen of the South” said one scrawled legend, accompanied by a big pair of red lips. Her achievements working with deprived and traumatised young people at Kids Company, her extraordinary entrepreneurialism and knack of changing so many people’s lives for the best tumbled through the service. “She was from a long line of advocates for children’s rights,” said Malcolm Allen. “But none matched her dress style.” Batmanghelidjh’s distinctive style was everywhere. She had become one of the UK’s best known social campaigners, known for warmth, charm and wit. “What is your greatest fear?” she was asked in an Guardian interview. “Beige,” she deadpanned. Her fall, in 2015, would be traumatic and unjust. Ultimately, she would be exonerated by the courts. She died peacefully in her sleep on New Year’s Day, aged 61. Ill health had dogged her and for the last four years she spent almost all her time in her tiny west Hampstead flat. But if she was depressed or gloomy she never let on. There were children to care for, things to do. “She was in her element, filled with joy and planning her next act,” recalled her brother, Ardi Batmanghelidjh. Deepti Patel, the former child rights head at Kids Company, called her a “living example of radical moral courage and empathy”. The writer Bella Freud recalled how Batmanghelidjh was “straight-talking”. To cheers, she attacked what she called the “neo-lynch mob” media that brought the charity down. At the end, the poet Lemn Sissay read Invisible Kisses and had the place in tears. “All I can send is love,” he said. The wake took place a few miles to the south at the Oasis church at Waterloo in inner city London. There, the love and pain came thicker and rawer – if anything, more joyful. Maybe 400 people were packed in to hear songs, memories and jokes. The Rev Steve Chalke, the baptist minister and founder of the Oasis schools trust, said that in Waterloo the life expectancy gap between the richest and poorest stood at 17.4 years. “She knew that that had to end,” he said. “She also knew it was all about love and understanding and listening and caring and relationships.” Chalke had hired Batmanghelidjh in 2015. She insisted he should not publicise her involvement because by then her name had become a byword for scandal. Her email at Oasis was Camila backwards: Ali-Mac. Some years later they worked together on a youth jail project for the Ministry of Justice. “I couldn’t tell them she was involved,” recalled Chalke. “I told them ‘my friend Ali’ helped me.” Batmanghelidjh’s legacy wasn’t going to end here, said one speaker. Her family and former Kids Company colleagues have set up a Camila Batmanghelidjh Foundation to continue her teaching. By mid-afternoon, the tributes were coming spontaneously. Craig, a tall man with a white denim jacket emblazoned with the bright red legend “Camila”, stood up to address the packed hall. For him she had been a life-saver, he said, his voice cracking. At Kids Company he “wasn’t a number, I wasn’t just a category. Without her, I wouldn’t be here today.”