An Incident That Altered My Life: The Train I Was On Derailed – and subsequently I Overheard a Young Girl Crying.
The moment I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.
We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.
“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.
Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.
Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.
Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.
Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, 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. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, 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 now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.
