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T I realized the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, 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. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

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 wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – 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, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily 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 provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since 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 reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered 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 thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, provided we have each other. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.