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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, 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 thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.