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T it dawned on me the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, when life was really just starting out. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way 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 party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a comfortable double seat. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a delayed sequence. All at once, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, similar to cinematic scenes. I remember thinking our loved ones hearing the tragic update. Then I heard the young girl weeping.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I whispered, 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 went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I glimpsed a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a driverless construction vehicle had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and climbing down a ladder down to the rails.

Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, we later learned had been in the lavatory during the incident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – though luckily our wine stayed unbroken. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. Not a single life was lost in the incident, although several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. The train had been slowing to come into Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. Given that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but it was the little girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her helped take my mind off myself and demonstrated the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have often wondered if she remembered anything about it, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our capacity to handle with anything, so long as we are together. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, however bad things seem, it remains a gift to age.