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T it dawned on me my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air 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, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped 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, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – 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, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to get older.