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T it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to visit a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as wine bottles and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. 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 catapulted upward 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. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had descended the slope and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers plonked down on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, pale with worry. 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 waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and general soreness from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and soothing her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, provided we have each other. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my perspective on other types of crises, giving me perspective – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.