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The moment I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I whispered, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down 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 watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we put the train crash to one side and carried on with our night out, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for over 30 years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, giving me perspective – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.