🔗 Share this article

That instant 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 reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although 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. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.