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The moment I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright 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. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” 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 crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily 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 free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to get older.