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The moment it dawned on me the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” 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 went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – though luckily our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered my perspective on various difficult situations, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to grow older.