🔗 Share this article

That instant I realized my life was in danger 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. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be 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 gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance 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 aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.