🔗 Share this article

The moment it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned 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. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself 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 with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.