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That instant I knew I was about to die arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. 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 caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily 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, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved 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 sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.