🔗 Share this article

T it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air 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. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. 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 put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of 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 instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard 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 continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.