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T it dawned on me my life was in danger came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. 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 anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth 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 significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.