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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like slow motion. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I stated, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the toilet during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine stayed unbroken. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which featured a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and taught 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 now been friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is always a privilege to grow older.