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The moment I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with 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 crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, 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 thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.