🔗 Share this article

The moment I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – 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, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little 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 similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned 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, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.