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That instant I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with 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 talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant 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 slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.