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That instant I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious 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 dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily 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 provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware 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.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.