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That instant I knew 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 former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged 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, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out 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. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily 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, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.