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That instant I knew my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop 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 – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged 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 pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, 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 hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to get older.