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T I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet 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, like in the movies. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded 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, ashen-faced. She knew 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 put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.