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That instant it dawned on me the end was near occurred in my 20s, as my adult life was unfolding. My closest companion, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with a former classmate who had just relocated there for work. Delighted to be together, and basking in the prospect of the upcoming weekend of fun, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We put our suitcases – containing vital items such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. 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 upright in the middle of the aisle, holding each other tight. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our relatives and companions getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I whispered, primarily to calm my own nerves.

She appeared to be seven or eight, and looked like she had no guardian. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; here was my chance to help. I went to where she was standing and put my arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen shouted, the warning came after the fact. I saw a man with blood all over his face. A huge metal object had crashed through the window behind us. Afterward, we found out a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our compartment was trapped with its leading section elevated. Following that came of sirens and another traveler instructed me to give the girl to him so he could pass her through the window, while young passengers were extracted to emergency personnel below. A few minutes later, Helen and I were likewise scrambling out of the train window and descending via a ladder onto the railway line.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I searched for the little girl and observed her being embraced by her mother, who it turned out had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger collapsed on Helen’s case, causing it to burst open – but, by good fortune our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we proceeded in a provided car to Blackburn, with a teenage boy and the female passenger who had damaged the suitcase. Our host was there, visibly shaken. She had heard there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we set the accident aside and proceeded with the social outing, which featured a memorable turn by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, despite the fact that several people were taken to hospital. Helen and I got away with bruises and aches and pains from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in averting grave physical damage. The fact that nobody was badly hurt helped not to focus on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who made a permanent impression. Looking after her and calming her down shifted my focus outward and showed me the worth of looking outwards in a crisis. In the decades since, I have repeatedly asked myself if she had any memory of the event, and what a major event it had been for her.

Helen and I have now been friends for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our ability to cope whatever comes, so long as we are together. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach other types of crises, offering me a new viewpoint – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it remains a gift to age.