🔗 Share this article

That instant it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

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

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.