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That instant I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home 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 stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.