🔗 Share this article

The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn 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 soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.