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T it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly 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 – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. 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 slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.