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The moment I knew 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 headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we conversed constantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our relatives and companions getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder 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 watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The accident additionally altered the way I approach different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.