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That instant it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to visit 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 talked incessantly as we made our way by train from York.

We stashed our bags – packed with necessities such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Another one sounded, which could not be dismissed. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to overturn and ignite, similar to cinematic scenes. I recall pondering our families and friends hearing the tragic update. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It's finished now,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we learned a driverless construction vehicle had tumbled down the embankment and into the side of the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Following that came of sirens and a man nearby requested that I to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. My eyes scanned for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. One of the passengers sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we put the train crash to one side and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to dwell on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. As time passed, I have frequently pondered 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 has become shorthand for our skill in managing any situation, 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 method of handling different emergencies, providing me with insight – and reinforcing the idea that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.