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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked 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, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, 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. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal 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 with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.