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The moment I knew the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – packed with necessities such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our loved ones receiving the notification. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had smashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could help her out the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She had heard 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 proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and taught me the value of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Having her companionship during the accident made it feel as if I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to get older.