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T I knew my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building 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. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered 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" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.