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T it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, 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 ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.