A Moment That Altered My Perspective: My Train Crashed – and afterward I Overheard a Young Girl Weeping.

T I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a comfortable double seat. 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 catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already 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 discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant 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 any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to get older.