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T I realized the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been using the restroom during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, 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 anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Attending to her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant 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 whatever comes, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.