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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse 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. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event 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 ability to cope with anything, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.