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The moment it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly 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 – in the storage compartment and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

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

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. 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. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, 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, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to grow older.