🔗 Share this article

The moment I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, 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 sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped 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 crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.