A Moment That Transformed Me: The Train I Was On Was in an Accident – and then I Heard a Young Girl Crying.
That instant 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 on our way to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.
We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, 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 flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the young girl weeping.
“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.
She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.
Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.
Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.
Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.
Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.
