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That instant it dawned on me the end was near arrived during 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 made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “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 crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came 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 emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, 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 hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered 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 grow older.