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T it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked 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, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little 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 likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside 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, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us 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 distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and how significant 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 whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.