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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of 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 requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady 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 hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.