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T I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. 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, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.