Tina Moore - Bobby Moore - By the Person Who Knew Him Best

She used to cut and edge little ‘Vs’ in the side of his shorts just the way he liked them, so naturally when I leapt onto the scene I decided that that was going to be my job from then on. The first time I did it, they split all the way up to the waist during a match, so the first time was also the last. Doss got her job back. My Vs just didn’t cut the mustard.

I also discovered she was a wonderful knitter, so I embarked on making Bobby a hideous green V-neck sweater. I did aspire, but she set such a terribly high standard. Whenever I ate round at Waverley Gardens, she would serve the mashed potato in exact half-moon shapes, using an ice cream scoop. The cuffs and collars of Bobby’s shirts were always as smooth as glass. She’d never rush anything as crucial as the ironing. But as I’ve said, she and Big Bob were good people, and Doss was a little wounded and put out when Bobby fell in love with me. She felt he’d excluded her from his life. But again, that was Bobby - he only ever had one passion at a time. He met me and that was it. He was absolutely besotted.

Bobby also realized that his mum was possessive and he rebelled against that to a certain degree. It wasn’t that he cut any ties with his parents. Once we were married, we constantly went round on visits. He was never derogatory about them. It was just that the intimacy, the sense of having one single, special person you shared your world with, had been transferred to me. He shut off from Doss emotionally. It must have hurt.

Bobby might have been young and a bit square, but he was very romantic and he had exquisite taste. He would send me flowers and place little billets doux under my pillow or in the pocket of my coat. He also had good design and technical skills; if the football hadn’t worked out for him, he’d planned to train as a draughtsman. Once, when I was away for a few days, he redecorated my bedroom as a surprise. He turned a little filing cabinet into a jewellery box and re-upholstered the tub chair in red satin with black buttons. It probably sounds horrendous, but it looked gorgeous.

He was also very generous. I would receive complete outfits as a surprise. Once, after I had admired what my friend Anita Barker was wearing, he phoned her to ask her to get something similar for me. He even bought a dress off her back once. By the time he went with England to play France, his taste was developing nicely. I received a pink suit, navy blue blouse with pussy-cat bow and a Paco Rabanne chain mail bag.

When I was 17, we went on holiday to Italy - separate bedrooms, of course - where he presented me with a skirt and paper nylon petticoat he’d just bought. For all his macho credentials as a footballer, in some ways he was one of the most untypical men I would ever meet. Later on, after we were married, he used to help me do my hair and I’d sit there thinking, ‘If only the fans could see him now. The captain of England is bleaching my roots.’ He loved going shopping and - even more bizarre - he actually liked shopping for clothes with me. That isn’t a job for the faint-hearted.

I’d left school by then to start my job as a junior secretary at the Prudential Assurance Company in Holborn. Every evening when Bobby wasn’t playing, he’d come up to meet me. I saw him every night bar Fridays, when he had to prepare for the match the next day. That was the night I could catch up on my girlie things and drive my mother mad because I’d monopolize the phone, talking to him for hours. He was shy and unsure of himself but he was determined to succeed in football and determined to have me. He already had nicknames for me - he called me Pet or Teen or, later, Percy, which was usually shortened to Perce. But I liked it best when he called me My Princess, and he certainly treated me as one.

One of our haunts was Sheekey’s fish restaurant in the West End, which I introduced him to. It was my mother’s favourite and I’d often gone there with her; we’d eat steamed Dover sole with lobster sauce and gaze at the Beverly Sisters, who were regulars there. Joy, Teddy and Babs were then at the peak of their fame as the British answer to America’s Andrews Sisters. Joy, a tall, lovely, slightly toothy blonde, went on to marry Billy Wright, England football captain of the Fifties. They were the Posh ‘n’ Becks of their day!

For Bobby and me, going to the Spaghetti House in Soho was a big deal, too. Neither of us had ever tried spaghetti before. It was fun trying to master the art of twirling the fork, although of course Mister Get-it-right-or-forget-it watched and observed how it was done before attempting a mouthful. We had a bottle of chianti in a straw basket and thought how sophisticated we were.

That night, on the way back through the West End, we found a shop selling little glass animals. It was still open and Bobby went inside and bought one for me. ‘I love you,’ he said. For the first time.

In a romantic daze, we missed the last bus from the station. I thought he’d be irritated, having to walk me home then get himself back to Waverley Gardens.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he said at the front door of Christchurch Road. ‘I’ll turn it into a training jog.’

‘What, to burn off the spaghetti?’

‘Yeah. Anyhow, I’m so happy I don’t care about missing the bus. Goodnight, Princess.’

Silly, but sweet and true.

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.