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T I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – 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 using the restroom at the time of the accident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew 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.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, 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 taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Attending to her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself 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 has become shorthand for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to get older.