🔗 Share this article

The moment I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, 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. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, 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 – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. 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, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She was aware 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter 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 that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, 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 skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.