🔗 Share this article

The moment I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office 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 notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.