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The moment I knew my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew 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 set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only 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 primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards 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 now been friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.