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T it dawned on me 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 visit a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – above our heads and settled down in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was faintly cognizant of a bang. Another one sounded, this time impossible to ignore. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like slow motion. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, similar to cinematic scenes. My thoughts turned to our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It’s all over,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler asked me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Not long afterward, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the woman who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a notable act 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 got away with 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 crucial element in preventing major harm. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her shifted my focus outward and taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for more than three decades and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our capacity to handle whatever comes, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is invariably an honor to grow older.