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That instant I realized I was about to die occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, 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 – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked 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. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, 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. 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 impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.