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That instant I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my method of handling other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.