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The moment I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – 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, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away 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 key factor in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.