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T I realized I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be 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 went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, 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 more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.