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The moment I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers 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, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away 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 crucial element in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.