🔗 Share this article

The moment I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act 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 got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over 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 taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, 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 over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.