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T 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 on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She was aware 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing any situation, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to age.