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That instant I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, 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. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. 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 anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with 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 primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, 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, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to get older.