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T I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, 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 brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be 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 put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed 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 lavatory at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved 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 escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.