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The moment it dawned on me my life was in danger occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling 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. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers 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 provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.