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That instant 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 headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious 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. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. 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 – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked 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. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

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. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.