🔗 Share this article

That instant I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out 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 descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although 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 come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event 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. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.