That instant I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.
We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, 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. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.
“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, more to myself than her.
Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.
Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.
Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.
With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.
Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.
