‘First signs were in Portugal,’ he says at last. ‘We’d gone to the coast for a couple of days, camping in the dunes. Chrissie always loved swimming, but she kept falling over. She’d watch the waves coming, and knew how to cope, but it didn’t seem to work any more. Her balance had gone. The waves were in charge. At first it made her laugh, me too, then there was other stuff. Back home, she’d miss a light switch with her finger. In the local store, she couldn’t get the right change out of her purse. Once, we were standing in a car park and she needed money for the machine. It was always windy down there. The coins were at the bottom and she had to take a couple of notes out first and a big gust took them out of her hand. We both did the chasing, I can see it now, the cripple and his wonky mate. We’d stopped laughing by then. Even Chrissie.’

He’d managed to find a local doctor who referred her to the local hospital in Evora, but the facilities were basic.

‘They were good people. The specialist guy suspected MND from the off, but for a proper diagnosis you need all kinds of shit, nerve conduction tests, MRI scan, an electro-something, and even if you went to Lisbon you’d be waiting for ever. So, when he said we’d be better off going home, we took the hint. He was right, too. The medics here have been brilliant. There’s fuck all they can do to cure it, but that’s not the point. We wanted an answer, and that’s what we got.’

‘No cure at all?’

‘None. There are cells in the nervous system that stop working, motor neurone cells, and without those you start losing control. There’s no magic drug, no magic bullet, so basically, you’re stuffed. What’s worse is all the guff on the subject. Fifteen minutes on Google scared us to death. Weakening grip, balance all to fuck, rubbish coordination. Then your speech starts to go, and you’re slurring like an idiot, and finally even swallowing, even breathing, becomes a problem and so you end up in a wheelchair with a tube down your throat. All that just to stay alive?’ He shakes his head.

Scared us to death. Too right, I think.

‘Timescale?’

‘They told us six months to two years. And that was back in the spring. Chrissie had the patience of a saint but there was no way she was waiting that long. She was a nurse, remember. Once she was sure that they’d got the diagnosis bang on, she knew she wanted out.’

‘She told you that?’

‘Of course.’

‘And?’

‘I agreed. Who wouldn’t?’