T I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved 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 put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.
“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.
She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.
Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.
Back on terra firma – 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 in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.
With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.
Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle any situation, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to get older.
