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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, 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 – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.