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T I realized my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.