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That instant it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we journeyed by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our families and friends receiving the notification. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I stated, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and smashed into our carriage, leading to the derailment.

Our carriage was stuck with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to hand the child over so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and scaling a ladder down on to the track.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, who it turned out had been in the lavatory during the incident. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler collapsed on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – though luckily our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a free cab to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our host was there, 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 set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, 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 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 primary reason in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who made a permanent impression. Taking care of her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, 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 now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope with anything, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to get older.