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T it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, 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 glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.