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T it dawned on me the end was near arrived during my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit a friend from college who had recently moved there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and enjoying the thought of the social gathering to come, we talked incessantly as we journeyed by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – in the storage compartment and settled down in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Afterward, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, leading to the derailment.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Next was the sound of sirens and a fellow passenger asked me to hand the child over so he could assist her exit through the opening, where children were being evacuated to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder down to the rails.

Once back on solid ground – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. I looked for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been in the lavatory at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. One of the passengers collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. After a half-hour wait, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our university friend greeted us, ashen-faced. 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.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and continued with our evening plans, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people required hospital treatment. Helen and I escaped with bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have often wondered if she had any memory of the event, 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 capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was shielded against the most terrifying aspects. The derailment further transformed my method of handling other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.