T I realized the end was near arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.
We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.
“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.
She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.
Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.
Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.
With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.
Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.
