🔗 Share this article

The moment I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped 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 assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event 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 with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.