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The moment I knew my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. 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 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. Afterward, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office 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 involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.