🔗 Share this article

That instant it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out 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 scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. 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 hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered 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 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 worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.