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That instant I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to visit an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the social gathering to come, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We placed our luggage – containing vital items such as bottles of wine and my new pair of black clogs – above our heads and got seated in a cosy two-seater. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was vaguely conscious 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. Suddenly, Helen and I were somehow on our feet in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Looking down, vision blocked, I anticipated the carriage to flip and explode, like in the movies. I recall pondering our relatives and companions receiving the notification. That's when the sound of the little girl crying.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It's finished now,” I whispered, more to myself than her.

She was about seven or eight years old, and seemed to be entirely alone. 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. “Don't turn around,” Helen called out, but it was already too late. I glimpsed a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a runaway digger had rolled down the hill and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, as kids were being rescued to waiting firefighters. Shortly after, Helen and I were similarly exiting 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. My eyes scanned for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. Another traveler plonked down on Helen’s case, making it split apart – but, by good fortune our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the lady who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She had heard there had been a derailment and a guard had taken her into his office and prepared some tea for her while she waited for news.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and carried on with our night out, which included a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt allowed us not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Looking after her and calming her down helped take my mind off myself and taught me the importance of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she had any memory of the event, and how big a deal 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 capacity to handle whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Having her companionship during the accident created the sensation that I was insulated from the full horror of the event. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, offering me a new viewpoint – and reinforcing the idea that, no matter how dire circumstances appear, it remains a gift to get older.