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T it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward 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, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, 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.

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. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.