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T I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent 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 staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds 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, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped 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 helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.