🔗 Share this article

T I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died 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. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.