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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. 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. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, 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, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. 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 waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.