🔗 Share this article

That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – 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, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although 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 come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered 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" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to get older.