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That instant I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be 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 put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, 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 leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to get older.