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T I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated 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 now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.