That instant I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling 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 upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.
We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.
“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.
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 went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.
Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.
Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.
Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.
Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.
