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The moment I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though 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 enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.