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That instant I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward 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 anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side 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, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, 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 remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.