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The moment I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – above our heads and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I stated, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I saw a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our host was there, ashen-faced. 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 anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, although 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. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the key factor in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself if she remembered anything about it, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was insulated from the most terrifying aspects. The crash also changed my method of handling other types of crises, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to get older.