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T it dawned on me I was about to die occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, 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 flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” 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 gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – 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, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.