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T I realized I was about to die came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured 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 got away with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my method of handling various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.