🔗 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 headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend 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 chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed 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, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, 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 skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.