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T it dawned on me the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I stated, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been using the restroom at the time of the accident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, 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 continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and showed me the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for more than three decades and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle whatever comes, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to age.