Читать книгу Bobby Moore: By the Person Who Knew Him Best - Tina Moore, Tina Moore - Страница 10

Bobby’s yelp of pain jerked me wide awake. Slowly, because I was heavily pregnant, I sat up and switched on the lamp. ‘Bobby, what’s the matter?’ I said.

I already had the answer. Lying next to me, he was doubled up. I went cold with fear. ‘Please, Bobby, you can’t leave it any longer,’ I said. ‘You’ve got to get it seen.’

It was November 1964. Bobby’s career was on a roll. Earlier in the year, he had been elected Footballer of the Year by the Football Writers Association and two days after accepting the award, he had led West Ham to their first FA Cup victory at Wembley. We were expecting our first child in January and both of us were absolutely thrilled at the prospect. And then this.

He had noticed the lump in his testicle a few weeks earlier. The discovery had alarmed him and he’d mentioned it to the club physio, but between them they decided it was a sports injury, caused when someone kicked him in a tender place during training. It would probably disappear of its own accord in a couple of weeks. Until then, it wasn’t worth bothering the doctor. But it didn’t disappear. Instead, it became more and more painful until, turning over in bed that night and jarring it with the extra weight of my pregnant body, I put him in agony. Something was obviously badly wrong.

The next morning, at the GP’s surgery, we saw our family doctor. Dr Kennedy was one of life’s true gentlemen and a dedicated physician who really pulled out all the stops for us. Instead of going home to Gants Hill with me, Bobby was sent straight to the London Hospital. Within twenty-four hours, he was on the operating table.

As soon as he came round, he had a nurse ring me up. She handed him the phone. ‘I just want to tell you, I love you,’ he said.

I sighed with relief. I’d had such a horrible, despondent feeling about the operation. ‘Everything’s going to be fine,’ I thought.

When I went to visit him at the hospital that evening, I expected to be told he’d be well enough to come home within a few days. I hadn’t even got as far as Bobby’s bed when the consultant called me into his office. ‘I’m afraid we found cancer,’ he said.

The consultant’s name was Mr Tresidder. I questioned the poor man over and over and he did his best to comfort and reassure me. ‘There are all kinds of tumours,’ he said.

’They come in all shades from grey to black, and Bobby’s was a light grey.’

I tried to concentrate on what he was telling me, but I was so frightened for Bobby that I could barely make sense of the words. In that situation, you don’t hear anything except the word you don’t want to hear. Cancer, cancer, cancer.

‘Don’t tell Bobby that’s what it is,’ I begged him.

From the beginning to the end of his treatment, Bobby and I never once mentioned the C word. I kept on asking the consultant questions; I must have driven him to distraction. I also went to the library and read up as much as I could about it, although the books weren’t very informative. I wanted to know every angle, every possibility. Most of all, I didn’t want Bobby to know. I thought it would really crush him and badly affect his chances of recovery.

Looking back, Bobby must have realized what was wrong with him. He wasn’t stupid and besides, he had great courage. Even if Mr Tresidder had skirted round the issue, I’m convinced that Bobby would have put two and two together and pressed him for the truth. What’s more, not only do I think he was aware what the problem was but I’m pretty sure he’d made a mental vow not to disclose it to me because he wanted to protect me. All he said to me about it was, ‘Don’t tell anyone what I’m in here for.’