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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked 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, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act 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 soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to age.