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That instant I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – 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. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I went 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 blood all over his face. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, 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 front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to get older.