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The moment I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. 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 whispered, 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; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness 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. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.