🔗 Share this article

T it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

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 went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound 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 similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains 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. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.