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T I realized my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best 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 reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.