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That instant I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been using the restroom during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing 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 focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event 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 skill in managing with anything, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.