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The moment I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and scaling a ladder down down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, we later learned had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She was aware 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that 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 locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and showed me the value of looking outwards in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to grow older.