🔗 Share this article

T I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads 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 catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea 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 involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion 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 made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.