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T I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me 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 also climbing out 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 looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn 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 escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event 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 whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.