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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 made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. 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 – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking 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 broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.