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T I knew I was about to die occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines 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. Then came another, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, 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. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed the way I approach various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.