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That instant it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; 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 called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.