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T it dawned on me my life was in danger arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside 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, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason 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 reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant 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, provided we have each other. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.