🔗 Share this article

The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious 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. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.