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That instant it dawned on me my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

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

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.