🔗 Share this article

The moment it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, 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 basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, 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. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent 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 offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered 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 more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.