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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. 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, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle any situation, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.