🔗 Share this article

T it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.