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The moment I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. A woman screamed 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, eyelids tightly closed, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

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

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder onto the railway line.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse 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 lavatory when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.