🔗 Share this article

The moment it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “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 made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.