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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, 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 put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although 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 crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our skill in managing any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.