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The moment it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out 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, hugging each other. Head down, vision blocked, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

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

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I got away with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered 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 capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to get older.