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T I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, 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.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal 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 with anything, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.