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The moment I knew my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder 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 observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, 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 got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, 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 remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.