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That instant I realized the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had just relocated there for work. Thrilled to see each other, and enjoying the thought of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly 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 – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a cosy two-seater. About 50 minutes into our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. Then came another, now unmistakable. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. With my head lowered, eyelids tightly closed, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our loved ones getting the news. Subsequently, there was the young girl weeping.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

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 put my arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen shouted, too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we discovered a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and collided with the train, making the train leave the tracks.

Our compartment was trapped with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby instructed me to pass the little girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – adjacent to a storage building in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, 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, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, ashen-faced. She knew 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 pushed the derailment from our minds and carried on with our night out, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to approach Leeds station, which had been the crucial element in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to dwell on the “what ifs” but that young girl who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and reassuring her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the importance of focusing on others in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for more than three decades and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope whatever comes, provided we have each other. Being with her that day made it feel as if I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my perspective on different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it is invariably an honor to age.