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T it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions 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, more to myself than her.

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 made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a runaway digger had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting 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 – 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 lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, 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 skill in managing whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.