🔗 Share this article

That instant I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.