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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend 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 – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building 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 when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.