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T I knew my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. 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 chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, 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 put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, 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 – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, 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.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.