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That instant I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and my brand-new black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“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 weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over 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 value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to grow older.