🔗 Share this article

That instant it dawned on me 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 visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, 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. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn 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 aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.