🔗 Share this article

The moment I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, 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 driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant 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, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.