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That instant I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled 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, 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 somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, 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 learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. 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 hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.