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T I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed 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 got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse 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 in the lavatory when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers 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 proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.