🔗 Share this article

T I realized 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 catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.