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T I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.