"How long do you think all this red tape will take?"

Jack's bringing his face as close as possible to the glass protected desk at the Italian embassy in Manchester.

The bespectacled blonde lady behind the counter is shuffling through paper folders while simultaneously tick-tacking on the keyboard of a computer. The screen is reflecting an abnormal white glow which frames her serious face.

"Is the birth registered in Bergamo town hall now?" Jack queries.

Mrs Jeanette Martin, as the name plate facing us under the protective shield says, taps more keys, pauses, clears her throat before replying. "It looks like everything is going through. Little Simon is now officially registered on the system, in Bergamo comune."

She pronounces this word 'communay', which throws me off balance as I have no idea what that is.

Jack sighs loudly and smiles at me. "Well at least that's one thing out of the way! And everything else?"

More clicking and clacking from Mrs Jeanette Martin then, "Okay. That's a good sign..."

We shuffle and change our standing positions, both of us heating up in our thick jackets, slowly melting in the central heating of this sparse official room.

"What's that?" asks Jack.

"The application for residency is all in order and the passage of property now is more or less in place. So, as far as I can see, your next step is to go to the 'comune' in Bergamo and hand in the physical documents necessary to get your identity cards issued and then it's just the proof of residency they will need to check."

"In other words, we're good to go?" I ask, peeking over Jack's shoulder.

The lady looks up from her screen and smiles. "Yes, the codice fiscale is set up for your new job and so you can send it to the company now. You're lucky you got everything into action before August, you'd have been waiting forever otherwise."

The codice fiscale, or national insurance number as we know it, is the last hurdle of three months struggle to land myself a very lucrative and extremely lucky position in a Bergamo language school. We had decided between us, Jack and I, that this was an opportunity not to be missed. Poor Great Aunt Maria's passing had left us with a lot of soul searching and heated discussions well into the early hours of several nights.

The property left to us, well, I suspect more to Jack than us as such, is a one bedroomed apartment in a very old part of Bergamo called Bergamo Alta. From the photos I've been shown recently by lawyers and various contacts over the internet, it's part of a row of buildings clinging to the side of a road which leads up to the main ancient hilltop hamlet. Bergamo Alta is sort of a pretty crown that sits on top of the modern, commercial and industrial centre of Bergamo below it.

Jack doesn't remember much of the place, he was just a baby when his parents left their home town and moved to Tuscany. Luckily, for this reason though, Jack still had his name listed as being a resident of that town.

Zio Alberto has set Jack up with a job. A friend of his who does building renovation work said he could do with a labourer to assist with the more back-breaking lifting and such, so Alberto dropped Jack's name into the conversation and hey presto, job-o! Cash in hand of course to start with.

I came across my work offer by pure chance. I spent a lot of time - since we got the news about the apartment, searching on websites for job vacancies and looking around for what's available in that area. Initially I wanted to get something in the vocation I'm used to, but time and time again, once I'd put in my details as English, the search engines kept coming back with teaching offers. One in particular was too good to be true.

Private language school in Bergamo requires English teachers for dynamic post. Only mother tongue need apply. Recompense €35 an hour net.

I couldn't believe my good luck and neither could Jack. I did the application and was offered an interview by Skype.

The interview was at 10.00 am the following week and I was pretty nervous.

I clicked on the icon on our old laptop and prayed that the webcam wasn't going to give me problems as usual.

We were over at Mum and Gran's that morning and Jack was helping Mum in the garden while Gran was keeping Simon entertained in the kitchen. That way I had the living room to myself along with the invasive ticking of the mantlepiece clock.

It was a bit windy outside that day, I could see the rose bushes edging the driveway bending and springing back again in time to an unknown symphony.

The music chimed for the Skype call to begin.

Okay. Where was the video icon?

Click.

Okay. I quickly passed a hand over my new haircut to make sure it was all still in place. Relax, smile and say hello.

A slight slip of a woman came to the screen. She was about the same age as me with long, straight dark brown hair. She had a very attractive face, adorned with bright red lipstick, she was dressed in a smart black jacket.

"Buongiorno!"

I fiddled with the lid of the laptop as I tried to get myself perfectly in the frame of the little box in the corner of the picture.

"Buongiorno?" the lady repeated.

Oh shit. Did I have to speak Italian?

"Ah, hello?" I answered hopefully.

The woman smiled in a tight lipped way and then continued to speak in a clipped, precise English. "Yes, hello Mrs. Firenze. I am Chiara, we spoke on the phone yesterday, yes? How are you today?" Even though she was smiling I didn't pick up any impression of particular interest in her voice. Maybe it was just because she wasn't speaking her native language, so I shrugged the feeling off.

"I'm fine thank you and you?"

"Yes. I am well. Can you tell me a little more about your reason for coming to Italy, please?"

"Of course. My husband is actually Italian and we have inherited a property in Bergamo. As he has lost his job recently, we thought why not give it a go." I began to rattle on rushing as I usually do when I'm nervous.

Chiara stared at me, not moving an inch. Had the screen frozen? No, she picked up a pen and started clicking the button on the end of it. "That's fine, thank you. And will it be possible for you to start work in October?"

It was that easy?

"Yes. We are moving there the last week of September."

"That's fine. The payment is starting at €17.50 an hour and you will receive this off the books for the first month as a trial period. After this we will write a contract, for which we will pay you the hourly rate of €35. Do you have any questions?"

"Um yes, will somebody be helping me to plan the lessons? As I haven't done this before."

I felt disappointed for the starting money, even if it was more than I earned at the pub, but I guessed it was just for the trail month.

"We will tell you all you need to know in October. Goodbye."

Oh, short and sweet.

"Goodbye, thank you."

Kind of dazed I closed up the computer and went to find Jack in the back garden, Gran and Simon had long since departed for the playpark.

Mum was gathering up the hedge clippings and scooping them into a big green plastic bag. She wore thick black gardening gloves and had a loose pink shirt and light grey capri trousers on. Her pink painted toe nails were showing through the cotton mesh sandals she had on. She spotted me coming out of the kitchen door and stopped work to brush away her sweaty strands of fringe, Ignoring me, she took a look at the work she had accomplished.

"Where's Jack?"

"Oh, he's gone down the road with Harry."

Typical. Down the pub more like it.

"I got the job, Mum."

Mum leaned in closer to the hedge and pulled off a long protruding twig. "That's good."

"It looks like I'm starting in October."

Mum was still finding and picking at the missed pieces. Reaching up to get the higher ones, pulling her shirt out of her waistband as she did so.

"If you're sure that's what you want, dear?"

"Mum. Come and sit down a minute."

She turned to me and I could see that there were tears misting her eyes.

I sat down at the white, slightly rusty bistro table and patted the place opposite me in suggestion.

Stripping off her gloves in a rough manner, she pulled out the heavy metal chair, scraping its feet noisily across the concrete path area.

The garden was beautifully kept and in July, there existed a peaceful sensation encased between its tall hedges. The wind had died down to a slight breeze and the washing on the line that stretched down, alongside the garden path, flapped happily.

Mum adjusted her shirt, tucking it back into her trousers before sitting down. She avoided looking me in the eyes and concentrated her gaze on the hedges behind me. I took her hands into mine and kept watching her. This was hard for me too.

"I can't pass this up, Mum. I think it's the best thing for us to do."

Mum was still searching the hedge as she responded. "What about Simon? Have you stopped to think how difficult it's going to be when there's no one there to call on, no one who can just pop round to help out when you need it?"

Speaking softly I tried to set her mind at ease. Emotionally charged conversations are something I try to avoid, I can never get to grips with explaining my true feelings. Seeing my family in pain is not a thing I enjoy. "There's Zio Alberto just down the road and my job's mainly in the evenings, so Jack will be back by then."

"And what about this old apartment? Jack said something about it needing a lot of work - to the bathroom and kitchen. How are you going to afford all that? It's not fun with a small child and no bathroom you know!"

"Yes, I know, but we'll do the work bit by bit and Jack's working for a renovation firm anyway so we should get it done cheaper."

"And what about the language? Jack's alright, but you can only say 'ciao'. How do you think you're going to get by without Jack around. What if something happens to Simon when you're alone and you need to get help?"

"I'm going to take Italian lessons when I get there. The local library runs a course for immigrants to learn the basics for free." My palms began to sweat, my nerves jangling far more now than they had done in the interview.

"And what about your Gran? She's not getting any younger. She's really upset that you're leaving and she says that she might not get to see Simon ever again. Do you think Jack will have another of his episodes and go off punching someone? If he's in jail you'll have terrible problems."

"Gran's a superhero, Mum, you know that. She'll probably outlive all of us. She can always come and visit and we'll be coming over at some point too. It's not like we're moving to Australia!"

I purposely ignored the remark about Jack, as it was something I'd been mulling over myself. What if he did go off the rails, leaving me alone while he rots in some mafia-ridden prison cell?

Mum finally looked me straight in the eyes as she lost her battle to fight back her tears, they burst from her, her voice breaking while she spoke, "And what about me?"

"Oh, Mum..." I had no control now either, I reached out for her hand, rivers drenching my cheeks.

"How am I supposed to get myself up in the morning knowing that not only will I not see my husband's face, but now I have no chance to see my daughter's either?"

I jumped up from the chair, screeching it across the concrete and rushed to put my arms around her. I buried my face into her hair on her shoulder and we sobbed together.

"I'm not dying, Mum. I'm always here."

"I love you, Jilly..." Mum's shoulders rose up and down as she cried uncontrollably.

"I love you too!" My reply was muffled and distorted by her hair. "You can come and visit anytime you want. I promise I'll keep calling on Skype, you'll be sick of the sight of us after a while."

At that moment, as we huddled together like a weird, abstract statue in the middle of the garden path, Harry the aviator opened the back door. I could see him out of the corner of my eye. He stood still for a while, seemingly assessing the situation and how he should best react. Then he came to the round table, bent forward so he would get our attention, and cleared his throat loudly. "Ahem..."

We looked up, our faces streaked with tears streamed into black mascara lines and runny, dripping noses.

Harry raised his aviator sunglasses and commented. "By God, you're both ugly."