🔗 Share this article

T I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air 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 expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “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 went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down 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 observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.