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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, vision blocked, 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 receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side 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, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Looking after her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.