An Event That Changed My Life: Our Train Was in an Accident – and subsequently I Overheard a Child Crying.
The moment it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.
We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.
“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.
She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.
Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.
Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.
Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach 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 the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.
Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.
