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The moment it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

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 put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of 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, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, 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 waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event 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 whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to grow older.