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That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks 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, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent 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 guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, 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 got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, 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 with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.