Читать книгу Bobby Moore: By the Person Who Knew Him Best - Tina Moore, Tina Moore - Страница 9

Our romance progressed more smoothly than Bobby’s football career at first. As a result of the disastrous game at Nottingham in September 1958 he was dropped by West Ham’s manager of the time, Ted Fenton, and didn’t become a first team regular until the 1960-61 season after the first-choice defender, John Smith, was sold to Spurs.

Boosted by Bobby’s new-found career stability, we got engaged on Christmas Day, 1960. Bobby was 19 and I was 17. Naturally, the proposal was planned and carried out in style. He’d even asked my mother’s permission beforehand. That meant she knew what was in that big parcel, with my name on it and tied up with a huge bow, that I had been prodding expectantly ever since it had appeared a few days earlier under the Christmas tree in Christchurch Road.

We were due to go that night to a party at Nanny Wilde’s, as we always did at Christmas, but I had a terrible cold and wasn’t really looking forward to it for once.

‘My nose is red,’ I complained to Bobby, ‘and besides, I haven’t got anything to wear.’

Bobby grinned, then picked up the parcel and placed it in my arms. When I opened it, I found a brown and black check mohair skirt and a mohair jumper.

‘I want you to wear those,’ Bobby said, ‘when you put on what’s inside that.’ He pointed to another box, a very small one, nestled in the folds of the outfit. I opened up the small box and inside was a ring with one lovely, perfect diamond.

Half-joking, Bobby went down on one knee. ‘Tina, I’d like us to get married.’

My cold miraculously cured, Bobby and I went off to Nanny Wilde’s in Cranbrook Road, me flashing my engagement ring and wearing the mohair outfit despite the fact that it made me look ever so slightly like the Michelin Man.

When we got there, it was to find Nanny Wilde none too pleased because my cousin Danny, Aunt Glad’s son and a trainee plumber, had brought round a crowd of his mates from East Ham, uninvited. One of the mates was his best friend David, who had dreams of making it as a celebrity photographer. I vaguely remembered David asking me, two years previously, if I’d let him take some photos of me in Epping Forest. My mother, deeply suspicious of his quite innocent motives, had said, ‘Over my dead body.’ If she hadn’t guarded my virtue so closely, I would now be able to boast of owning a set of portraits of me as a 15-year-old by David Bailey.

By the time we got engaged, Bobby was experiencing his first full season in the first team. For this he was paid £8 a week, which these days wouldn’t buy a cheap Alice band for David Beckham. At the time, players were still paid according to the Football League’s notorious maximum wage limit of £20 a week during the season and £17 a week in the summer lay-off. That didn’t change until 1961, when Jimmy Hill, then a Fulham player and chairman of the Professional Footballers Association, forced through its abolition after threatening a players’ strike.

To give an example of how comparatively low footballers’ wages were, Bobby’s £8 a week was £3 less than I was earning at the Pru, so you could say that I was the breadwinner. Most of our money went into saving like mad for our first home, but life was still a lot of fun. We’d go round in a crowd with the other young West Ham players, like Alan Sealey and Tony Scott, and their girlfriends - Janice, who went out with Alan, was that year’s Miss Dagenham and very glamorous. After games we’d go to a private club, Harlene, in Forest Gate, where we girls drank Bristol Cream sherry because we thought it was genteel. Then we’d move on to Room At The Top. Another local hotspot was the Dick Turpin, the place to be on Thursday nights. There we’d bump into other young players like Terry Venables and Brian Dear. We used to keep the bar open, but the owners loved us because we were such good customers.

By then, Bobby had bought his first car, a red Ford Zephyr. It was such a momentous occasion that I can still remember its registration number: 2394 PU. A friend of my mother’s sold it to him and he paid for it in cash. The transaction took place in Lyons Tea Shop in Ilford, where we had our usual fruit bun with two pats of butter, a bowl of tomato soup and a cup of tea. Bobby arrived with the money in a paper bag. Naturally he had sorted the bills out into denominations first, from pound notes to fifties. They were all in piles facing the right way up and secured with elastic bands. I think he fell short in one way, though - they weren’t arranged in numbered sequence.

Bobby loved that Ford Zephyr. It shone, it was immaculate. It was the beginning of his love affair with cars, especially red ones. He was determined to get a Jaguar as soon as he could afford one.

As Bobby became a bit more established in the West Ham team, older players besides Malcolm Allison began to accept him. Chief among them were Johnny Bond and Noel Cantwell. Johnny was known as ‘Muffin’ after a puppet who featured on a children’s TV programme, Muffin the Mule. Johnny was alleged to have a kick like the said creature. Noel was nicknamed ‘Sausage’, which was short for sausage roll and thus meant to rhyme with Noel. Oh, but he was gorgeous. I loved Noel.

Bobby was ravenous for football knowledge and worldly wisdom, so he loved it when the older men included him. He almost sat at their feet. In the first flush of his romance with me, he looked up to them. They represented what he wanted to be.

Malcolm Allison lived a social whirl and during this time he was friendly with a fishmonger’s daughter. Bobby and I were invited round to the fishmonger’s house one New Year’s Eve and after sampling it for the first time in his life, Bobby devoured an entire side of smoked salmon on his own.

It was, after all, the start of the Sixties, when the more luxurious kinds of food were just becoming available after the dreary diet and relative deprivation of the postwar period. We were getting a taste of melon, avocado, French cheese and Italian wine at last. Even broccoli was an exotic luxury to Bobby, as it was to most people in that era. Up to the time I met him, his mum never dished up any vegetables other than the standard staples of those days: peas, cabbage and potatoes.

My mother was very indulgent to me in all sorts of ways, but one thing she was almost draconian about was table manners, as I knew to my cost. When I was young, should I offend, I was despatched from the table. Bobby, who was dazzled by her, set enthusiastically about brushing up his style. He so wanted to be correct in everything he did. He also began to be aware of formal etiquette that he hadn’t experienced before, but he really watched and learnt. He was naturally polite and courteous, but now he was adding polish to his manner.

Soon we graduated from the Spaghetti House in Soho. Our next discovery was the 21 Club. Johnny Haynes, Bobby’s old childhood hero, introduced us to that. Not only was Johnny very attractive, he had a great personality. He was set to become part of football history - the first player to earn £100. He was captain of England from 1960 to August 1962, when a car accident put him out of the game for a year. It would have made a poignant twist in the tale if Bobby had been his direct replacement as captain, but Jimmy Armfield had a short spell in the job first.

Johnny was also the prototype one-club man. He went on to stay with Fulham for all eighteen years of his career, even though he could have made fortunes more if he had accepted all the opportunities offered to him by other, higher-placed clubs. He was commercially shrewd, though, taking advantage of his brooding, Italianate, Forties film star looks to become an early icon for Brylcreem - with his trademark dark, slicked back hair, he obviously believed in the product he endorsed.

He was a regular at the 21 Club. This was really elegant and exclusive, although the diners sometimes fell short of expectations. Johnny ordered an amazing starter for the three of us - a large silver bowl lined with ice and so full of prawns that they hung over the edge. The prawns were so utterly delicious that as soon as I started eating them, I just got carried away. The next thing I knew, I was looking down at a mountain of empty shells. I couldn’t believe I’d eaten so many. I was overcome with remorse. ‘Were they very expensive?’ I stammered to Johnny.

‘Enormously,’ said Johnny. ‘They’re so expensive they have to charge by the prawn.’

‘Oh no,’ I gasped. ‘How do they know how many you’ve eaten?’

‘They count the shells and tails,’ said Johnny.

Quickly, I emptied the shells and tails into my handbag. Bobby and Johnny kept straight faces. I had no idea they were winding me up - and did they pull my leg afterwards!

1962 was a big year for us. Bobby turned 21 in April, made his England debut in May and married me in June.

Getting his first full England cap wasn’t completely unexpected. He had been doing well in the England Under-23s, which was managed by Ron Greenwood, now his manager at West Ham. Ron was also a good friend of Walter Winterbottom, England team manager at the time, and had been singing Bobby’s praises.

In those days it was traditional to have an England v Young England fixture the night before the Cup Final, and Bobby was pleased with how he’d played because there was still a chance of him making the squad for the 1962 World Cup in Chile. But he’d heard nothing and was resigning himself to go with the rest of the West Ham squad on their close season trip to Africa. Then Ron called him into his office at Upton Park. ‘You won’t be going on the Africa trip,’ he said.

Bobby was startled. He thought he’d done something to offend Ron. Then he saw that Ron was smiling broadly. ‘You’re off to Chile instead,’ he added.

I was absolutely delighted for Bobby. I knew how much it meant to him just to be selected. He warned me not to get my hopes up on his behalf. ‘The chances are I’m only there to make up the numbers in training,’ he said, ‘but at least it’ll be good experience for the future.’ In fact, he became a fixture in the team from the first match, making his England debut against Peru on 20 May. He was bowled over and so was I. It’s every young footballer’s dream, and here he was, the man I was about to marry, fulfilling that dream.

Bobby’s absence on England duty also gave me the space I needed to organize our wedding with the help of my mother. I’d managed to save around £100 and ended up spending the lot on my wedding dress and accessories. Before the wedding, I had a perm. According to dear mama, it wasn’t curly enough, so I was despatched back to the hairdresser to have it re-done. My hair was fine on the day, although later, on honeymoon, Bobby and I had an argument that he won by ducking me in the sea. When I surfaced, I had an Afro.

We were married on 30 June 1962 at St Clement’s, Ilford. Noel Cantwell was best man and the Dreaded Eddie gave me away. I wish my mother had given me away herself. After all, she had been mother and father to me, she had always been there for me and it was a shame that a man who had come into my life relatively late ended up taking the limelight.

When we arrived at the church after the customary slight delay, I was amazed at the crowd of well-wishers, as well as all the reporters and photographers waiting to preserve the bridegroom in his navy mohair suit, white shirt and silk tie for posterity. If I’m honest, I suppose I was rather excited to see them there. All the West Ham team were there and after the ceremony we walked out of the church under an arch of football boots. People plied us with England and West Ham banners along with the more traditional blue garters and black cats. The reception was at the Valentine’s public house in Gants Hill. We opened the dancing with ‘Blue Moon’ - what else?

Afterwards, we were chauffeured to the airport by Budgie Byrne, one of the West Ham lads Bobby used to go gambolling through the night with. It was a wild drive and after being thrown around in the back all the way from Ilford to Heathrow, I staggered into the Skyline Hotel battered and bruised. Bobby and I were starving, so we had beef sandwiches and a pot of tea. I had a white nylon nightie and negligee trimmed with blue daises - looking back, they were revolting. The next day, I changed into my going away outfit, a red Polly Peck suit with a pleated skirt that I’d bought in a sale. Eat your heart out, Victoria Beckham.

We’d booked our honeymoon in Majorca, the Isle of Love. Coincidentally, Malcolm Allison and Noel Cantwell were due to be in Majorca at the same time as us, as my mother was horrified to find out at our wedding reception. ‘Look, Tina’s only young,’ she said, taking Malcolm’s arm and drawing him to one side. ‘I really do think it would be better if you didn’t make any contact with her and Bobby on their honeymoon.’

Malcolm nodded solemnly. A few minutes later, I overheard him telling Bobby, ‘I’ve booked the Astor Club for later.’

It was like a knife through my heart, until I realized he was only joking! Malcolm was a tease.

But my mother was one hundred per cent right about the honeymoon. She knew it would be a disaster if Malcolm and Noel showed their faces in Majorca, because they always led Bobby astray. True to form, they showed up within a week. The three of them got plastered. Bobby was violently sick and spent the night in Noel’s room and I ended up sobbing with his wife, Maggie. Can you imagine being on your honeymoon and ending up in bed with the best man’s wife while the best man and your husband of one week are together down the corridor?

After we returned home to Gants Hill, Bobby bought me a Hillman Minx for £100, and a Siamese cat. We called it Pele and it quickly became famous when it attacked John Bond. It was a real hard cat, was Pele.

Our first home was a three-bedroomed terrace house in Glenwood Gardens. We’d wanted a slightly grander one nearby but couldn’t stretch to the extra £600. It was a shame Brylcreem didn’t seek out Bobby’s services earlier. Later that year they paid him £450 to appear, with strangely tamped down curls, on an advertising poster. That was a one-off, quite possibly because, unlike Johnny Haynes, Bobby was not a credible Brylcreem man. He didn’t have the kind of hair you could slick back. No Brylcreem jar ever graced the bathroom shelf at Glenwood Gardens.

The house had French doors at the back which opened onto a pretty garden where Bobby and I planted a magnolia tree - our favourite. Indoors, the lounge had a green carpet patterned with pink roses and a plate rail going round the walls where we put Bobby’s memorabilia.

We were especially proud of our hostess trolley. One Christmas morning, after I’d prepared the turkey and all the trimmings, we went to a drinks party where we met up with our friend Lou Wade. Lou was 6ft 6in tall, thin and Jewish, and he adored Bobby so much that he followed him all over the world. He wore really outlandish clothes and was noted for his garish check jackets, but he was very definitely not a spiv, just an enormous character - his children went to top public schools and his wife was a lady. He used to laugh standing on one leg and he would wind the other leg around it like a snake because he was so tall.

By the time we got back from the Christmas drinks party, Bobby and I were a little bit ‘under the weather’ and when we went to push the hostess trolley plus contents into the dining room, everything shot onto the floor. We picked up what was salvageable, then rang Lou. ‘Bring it round here,’ he said, so we had Christmas dinner chez Lou Wade that year.

I suppose that, by today’s standards, our Gants Hill house was pretty modest, but Bobby had previously lived in a small house close to an industrial site and I’d had a flat with an outside loo, so to us it was fantastic. Even so, I found the first year of our marriage a bit uncomfortable. It took a long time to adjust to such a huge change in my life. Bobby didn’t want me to work, because he trained in the mornings only and came home for lunch. In those days, the close season started in May and stretched on until well into August, so we could get away for lovely long summer holidays. But I missed the company and stimulation of working life at first.

In so many ways, Bobby was a paragon among husbands - I never had to tidy up after him. Not only immaculately dressed, he was also obsessively neat. He just had to arrange everything in order and just so. The clothes in his wardrobe were lined up as though they had been prepared for inspection. His jumpers were hung in sequence from dark to light. It was almost an aesthetic pleasure to open the wardrobe. Something I did find difficult about those early days, though, was that Bobby had been cosseted by his parents, whether it was Big Bob cleaning his muddy boots for him on a Saturday night after the game or Doss’s five-star ironing and sewing service. But the incident of the sub-standard Vs in his shorts should have been a warning to me. I had trouble coming up to Doss’s standards.

In my own way, I’d been equally spoilt. My mother felt guilty about leaving me to go to work every day and I’d usually be treated to breakfast in bed before she set off. I never ironed. I hadn’t really learnt to cook, either, although as my family always ate well, at least I knew how things ought to taste.

After I’d been married for six months, I solved the problem of the ironing. Sometimes I’d visit West Ham to help out in Bobby’s sports goods shop. My mother had given up her job as manageress of a large clothes shop to run it for him. It was opposite the stadium in Green Street and one day I took a wander up the road and discovered a Chinese laundry. That was the end of my ironing angst - I just took everything there from then on. I never let on to Doss, though.

It wasn’t only the housework which got me down. In that first year of marriage, Bobby’s England career began to take off big time. That, plus his West Ham commitments, meant he was often away. I felt isolated because I’d been used to the warmth and security of Christchurch Road, with Auntie Mum, Uncle Jim and my three cousins, Marlene, Jenny and Jimmy, just a flight of stairs away.

A while before I got married, Auntie Mum and her family had moved to Barkingside, so I reverted to the bosom of my family, driving round there in my Hillman Minx, Pele in his cat basket beside me. It meant I could spend time with my cousin Jimmy, to whom I’d always been close. Although Jimmy wasn’t much older than me, he was now more or less housebound. He had been doing his National Service when he came home for a spell on leave and started staggering when he walked. Soon he couldn’t even carry his bike indoors. Uncle Jim thought he was malingering because he didn’t want to go back to the Army, but the reality was much, much worse; he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.

Jimmy suffered from a particularly virulent form of the disease and he wasn’t with us for much longer. After he died, Bobby helped me to organize an auction of West Ham and England autographed memorabilia, which made enough to buy and adapt a transport van for MS sufferers to use, so at least Jimmy’s death resulted in some benefit to others.

It was after the World Cup in Chile that Bobby’s fame really started to spread. By the end of 1962, Walter Winter-bottom had decided to stand down as England manager and Alf Ramsey, who replaced him, made it clear from very early on that he saw Bobby as his future captain. Alf was quiet, self-controlled and introverted. He also knew exactly what he wanted and I think he saw his mirror image in Bobby. England’s first game under Alf was against France in the European Championships. England were beaten 5-2, but Bobby came back full of the joys because Alf had actually sat down next to him as the team bus was leaving Paris. ‘He was asking me all sorts of questions about the team under Walter and where I thought I should play,’ marvelled Bobby. ‘I get the idea he’s really going to sort things out.’

In spite of the fact that Bobby was young and relatively new to the team, Alf made him captain within a few months of that France defeat, against Czechoslovakia on 12 May 1963 - Bobby’s twelfth cap. Bobby revelled in leading the side out in front of the fanatically partisan crowd in Bratislava. England won 4-2 and the big occasion inspired him to a performance that brought rave reviews from the English press.

I had to wrestle with my feelings about Bobby’s increasing fame. On the one hand I was thrilled for him that things were going so well. On the other hand, now everybody wanted to be Bobby Moore’s friend. That was a little difficult to deal with at first. Before we got married, we’d been an ordinary courting couple. Having the press at our wedding and all those strangers crowding around to wish us well had been lovely, but beyond that it really hadn’t occurred to me that we’d be in the public eye all the time and what that would entail.

I’d been used to having Bobby to myself more or less one hundred per cent and, naively, thought that was how it would continue. Now the hangers-on were starting to appear. I was actually quite taken aback when we kept getting interrupted while we were out for a quiet dinner.

Through friends we met one Stanley Flashman, king of ticket touts and future owner of Barnet FC, where he achieved legendary status by employing Barry Fry as manager, then sacking and re-instating him almost on a weekly basis at one stage. Stan’s industrial-sized figure made him instantly recognizable. He would come up with tickets and backstage passes to all the top shows and introduce us to a whole host of people who then invited us to parties, weddings, bar mitzvahs . . . you name it. Some of those events were great. Others, where it would turn out that Bobby was the prize exhibit and used for photo opportunities, were a pain. He caught on to it soon enough. He hated letting people down and was never, ever abrupt or rude, but he had a way of withdrawing behind a wall of politeness if necessary.

I loved the real fans. They were wonderful. What I didn’t like was the idea of Bobby being exploited by people for their own benefit, or used and taken advantage of. I was protective of him. In fact, we had an understanding: when it got too much for him, he would give me a special look. Very soon after, I would rush up to him and say, ‘Oh! Bobby, don’t forget we’ve got to . . .’ and then produce some fictitious commitment which meant we had to leave tout de suite. Then we would head off somewhere where we knew we wouldn’t be disturbed, like the White Elephant Club. Bobby’s party trick there was to stand behind the bar, seemingly innocuously. It was only if you looked behind the bar that you would see he had his trousers down.

Totally out of character for the dignified, self-controlled Bobby Moore? Not a bit of it. It’s a thing young men do. It wasn’t even terribly naughty. Mind you, he did keep his boxer shorts on.

It was around this time, incidentally, that Bobby’s existence was noted by the world of high fashion. The September 1962 issue of Vogue pictured him in his West Ham strip, surrounded by four gorgeous models. The rest of the world was discovering what I already knew - that Bobby Moore was beautiful as well as brilliant. And soon he would prove that he was brave as well.