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T I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had recently moved 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 – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. 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, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I went to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, pale with worry. 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 waited for news.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and showed me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.