🔗 Share this article

T I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend 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 traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out 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, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder 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 at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.