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That instant I knew the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My best friend, Helen, and I were traveling to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had made a new home there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we made our way by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines 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 faintly cognizant of a bang. Then came another, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, vision blocked, I waited for the carriage to flip and explode, as I’d seen in films. I remember thinking our families and friends getting the news. Subsequently, there was the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, my voice sounding croaky. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and looked like she had no guardian. Her crying shook me out of my trance; here was my chance to help. I moved to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had crashed through the window behind us. Subsequently, we found out a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Next was the sound of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and scaling a ladder down onto the railway line.

Once back on solid ground – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, as it transpired had been in the toilet at the time of the accident. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger plonked down on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our university friend greeted us, visibly shaken. She knew there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and prepared some tea for her while she anticipated updates.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. The fact that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to focus on the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of looking outwards in a crisis. As time passed, I have repeatedly asked myself if she recalled any details, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for thirty-plus 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 gave me the impression I was insulated from the worst of the situation. The derailment further transformed the way I approach other types of crises, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.