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The moment I knew I was about to die occurred in 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 just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting 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 was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and showed me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.