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The moment I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, speaking with a rasp. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen called out, too late. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, 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 – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, 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 pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to get older.