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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. 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, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady 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 made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.