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T it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to give the girl to him so he could help her out the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse 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 toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.