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That instant I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” 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. Afterward, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event 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 whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.