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That instant I realized the end was near came a couple of years into my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My dearest friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to catch up with a friend from college who had made a new home there for work. Overjoyed at the reunion, 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 our favorite wines and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and made ourselves comfortable in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, which could not be dismissed. Someone cried out as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I expected the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. I recall pondering our relatives and companions getting the news. Then I heard the little girl crying.

“You’re all right,” I said softly, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I whispered, mostly for my own benefit.

Her age was roughly seven or eight, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; now I could do something meaningful. I made my way to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Don't turn around,” Helen yelled, but it was already too late. I saw a man whose face was bloody. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a runaway digger had descended the slope and collided with the train, causing us to derail.

Our carriage was stuck with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a man nearby asked me to give the girl to him so he could assist her exit through the opening, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. Not long afterward, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder 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 saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been using the restroom when the crash occurred. A rescuer graciously recovered my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine remained intact. Once we had waited for thirty minutes, we made our way in a free cab to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the female passenger who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and prepared some tea for her while she hoped for information.

Bolstered by youthful resilience, we set the accident aside 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, despite the fact that several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and general soreness from the impact of being thrown forward in the carriage. The locomotive was decelerating to approach Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in preventing major harm. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and reassuring her shifted my focus outward and taught me the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have repeatedly asked myself 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 Pudsey has become shorthand for our skill in managing with anything, so long as we are together. Her presence that fateful day gave me the impression I was shielded against the worst of the situation. The crash also changed the way I approach different emergencies, giving me perspective – and reinforcing the idea that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.