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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and another traveler instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard 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 involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to age.