I was babbling, saying anything to alter his mood, to convince him I cared and his life still mattered

It was the May bank holiday last year, and my husband, David, and I were taking our dog, a cavapoochon called Joey, for his evening walk. We were on our way home, heading towards a bridge, when I heard a commotion ahead.

As we approached, dusk was starting to fall and I could see a figure hunched over on the ground, uncomfortably close to the wall. It was a young man, clearly in distress, crying and shouting, his whole body shaking. I froze, suddenly aware of the gravity of the situation. The bridge ran over a high-speed train track and was a well-known suicide spot. A local family had lost their teenager in that exact place a few weeks earlier.

David and I exchanged glances. There was no one around. I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if his death was reported the next day and I’d done nothing.

I inched towards the slumped figure, Joey instinctively glued to my side. I asked the young man if I could sit down, then lowered myself on to the ground opposite him, while Joey sandwiched himself between us.

I tried a few gentle questions: “What’s your name? How old are you? What do you do?” His answers were monosyllabic. “Tommy. 23. Computers.”

“Are you OK?” I asked. “No, I’m not!” he shouted back. He muttered something about a betrayal, and not knowing what to do. His emotions were swinging wildly – tears one moment; brittle anger the next. I was desperate to make a connection, asking him where he went to college and feigning delight as I told him my son had studied there, too. I even found myself recounting the story of Neil Laybourn, who had talked a man down from Waterloo bridge in London 10 years ago.

“They’re great friends now and have even run a marathon together for charity,” I said. “Who knows? That could be us.” I was babbling, saying anything to alter his mood, to convince him I was a person who cared, and his life still mattered. Then I heard the sound of a train in the distance and knew this was it: the moment he could bolt and throw himself on to the tracks.

Time slowed down. There was nothing but me and my incessant chatter. I felt his body tense, saw his eyes swivel downwards. I told him my name, Joey’s name, where I lived, how I was a mother of three, how his life was so big and this was just one tiny part of it, going on and on, desperate to distract him.

When the train passed, I let out a sigh. By this time, Tommy’s cries were slowing down and he was stroking Joey under his chin. “He’s a sweet little thing, isn’t he?” he said, his mood lightening.

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Sensing the danger had passed, I suggested he phone his parents. At first he was reluctant, but I pressed, knowing another train could come any time. “Go on,” I said. “They’ll be worried about you.” He made the call and they arrived soon after, shocked and upset. They scooped him up and whisked him away.

When I turned to David, waiting on the path, he told me I’d been sitting with Tommy for 25 minutes. “Is that all?” I said. It felt like hours.

I didn’t mention what happened to anyone but thought about Tommy every time I walked Joey across the bridge. Then, one Sunday morning, David greeted me with a smile. He had seen a Facebook post in a community group from someone called Tommy who was looking for the woman and dog who had saved his life.

David had messaged Tommy and we arranged to meet the following Wednesday evening in a local pub. He asked me to bring Joey. I was nervous, but as soon as we saw each other we hugged for a good minute and a half.

Even though we were strangers, we felt a strong connection. He told me he was on medication and on a waiting list for counselling, which irritated me, knowing how much he needed it now.

We’ve met since to take Joey for a walk and we speak every week, bonded by that terrible time on the bridge. After coaxing Tommy to safety, I feel responsible for his future. I want to see him thrive, and live a happy and meaningful life. And if he gets the right help, I know that he can.

In the UK, Samaritans can be contacted on 116 123. In Australia, the crisis support service Lifeline is on 13 11 14. In the US, the suicide prevention lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. Other international helplines can be found at befrienders.org

• As told to Lauren Libbert

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