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T I realized 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 traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, 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 searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, visibly shaken. 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 hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day 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, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.