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The moment it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I recall pondering our loved ones receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – 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, who it turned out had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent 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 railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself 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 skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day created the sensation that I was protected from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to get older.