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That instant it dawned on me the end was near 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 visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.