🔗 Share this article

The moment I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.