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The moment I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed 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 party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious 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. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, 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 sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me 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. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered 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 traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to grow older.