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T it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink 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 unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, 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 skill in managing any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.