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That instant I knew I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. 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. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. 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 – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn 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 general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.