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That instant I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – 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, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through 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 onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.