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That instant I knew the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were on our way to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we chatted nonstop as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – full of essentials such as wine bottles and my brand-new black clogs – on the overhead rack and made ourselves comfortable in a comfortable double seat. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, now unmistakable. A female passenger shrieked as our carriage was lifted off the tracks in what felt like a dreamlike pace. All at once, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to overturn and ignite, like in the movies. My thoughts turned to our families and friends hearing the tragic update. Subsequently, there was the child sobbing.

“It's going to be fine,” I murmured, speaking with a rasp. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

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 made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don’t look round,” Helen yelled, the warning came after the fact. I caught sight of a man with his face covered in blood. An enormous piece of metal had penetrated the window behind us. Later, we learned a uncontrolled excavator had rolled down the hill and into the side of the train, leading to the derailment.

Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to waiting firefighters. A few minutes later, Helen and I were similarly exiting of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Standing on firm land again – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – uncontrollable shivers took over. My eyes scanned for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, as it transpired had been in the lavatory during the incident. A firefighter kindly retrieved my clogs. Another traveler sat down heavily on Helen’s case, resulting in it breaking open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Following a 30-minute delay, we made our way in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our friend was waiting, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she anticipated updates.

Displaying the fearlessness of young adulthood, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which included a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, although several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I escaped with bruises and soreness and discomfort from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the key factor in avoiding serious injury. 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 taught me the worth of focusing on others in a crisis. Over the years, I have frequently pondered if she recalled any details, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have stayed close for thirty-plus years and That location's name now symbolizes for our ability to cope any situation, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day made it feel as if I was protected from the full horror of the event. The accident additionally altered the way I approach various difficult situations, offering me a new viewpoint – and serving as a reminder that, however bad things seem, it is always a privilege to age.