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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant 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 a delayed sequence. In an instant, 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 overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. 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 yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside 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 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 primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward 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 stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.