🔗 Share this article

That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

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

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.