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T it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed 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, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger 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. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities 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 violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that 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. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.