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T I realized the end was near came a couple of years into 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 reveling in the anticipation of the party weekend ahead, we conversed constantly as we traveled by train from York.

We stashed our bags – containing vital items such as wine bottles and my new pair of black clogs – in the storage compartment and got seated in a snug pair of seats. Roughly halfway through our journey, I was vaguely conscious of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. Someone cried out as our carriage was thrown up into the air in what felt like a delayed sequence. Suddenly, Helen and I were standing up in the middle of the aisle, clinging to one another. Head down, eyes screwed shut, I anticipated the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, as I’d seen in films. My thoughts turned to our families and friends getting the news. That's when the sound of the child sobbing.

“Everything is okay,” I murmured, my tone was hoarse. “The worst has passed,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit.

She was about seven or eight years old, and appeared to be completely on her own. Her sobbing snapped me back to reality; this was my opportunity to be useful. I made my way to where she was standing and gave her a reassuring hug. “Don't turn around,” Helen shouted, too late. I caught sight of a man with blood all over his face. A large metallic item had penetrated the window behind us. Subsequently, we discovered a uncontrolled excavator had descended the slope and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail.

Our car was lodged with its front end in the air. Then came the noise of sirens and a fellow passenger instructed me to hand the child over so he could help her out the window, while young passengers were extracted to fire crews on standby. A few minutes later, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track.

Back on terra firma – next to a goods shed in Pudsey – my body started to shake uncontrollably. I searched for the little girl and saw her being scooped up by her mum, as it transpired had been in the lavatory when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. Following a 30-minute delay, we proceeded in a complimentary taxi to Blackburn, alongside an adolescent and the woman who had caused the luggage to burst. Our friend was waiting, ashen-faced. She knew there had been a derailment and a staff member had led her away and offered her a hot drink while she hoped for information.

With the invincibility of youth, we pushed the derailment from our minds and proceeded with the social outing, which involved a unforgettable performance by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. No one died in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the force of the sudden jolt in the carriage. Our speed had been decreasing to come into Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Given that nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to dwell on the “what ifs” but the child was the one who changed my outlook profoundly. Attending to her and soothing her distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the value of directing attention externally in a crisis. In the decades since, I have frequently pondered if she remembered anything about it, and how big a deal it had been for her.

Helen and I have remained friends for thirty-plus years and "Pudsey" is now our code word for our skill in managing whatever comes, as long as we're side by side. Her presence that fateful day created the sensation that I was protected from the worst of the situation. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and serving as a reminder that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is invariably an honor to age.