🔗 Share this article

That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside 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, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.