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T I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.