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T I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy 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 guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains 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 averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.