Before the bride takes her first step with her husband, the groom's fourth brother gently brushes the soles of the bride's shoes with a time-worn iron filled with burning coals, to give her warmth from the end of her body right up to her heart. Led by her husband, she walks slowly towards the door, where there is a horse's saddle. They have to cross over it together. The bride cannot see anything through her veil and she is so afraid that she will trip, but the saddle symbolises hard times in life and they have to overcome it together. She hesitates. Her husband squeezes her hand. "Stop. Now lift your foot," he whispers. She pulls up her gown to her knees and steps over safely. But as soon as her second foot touches the ground, her heart sinks. She has shown her unbound feet to the entire world! Her in-laws will be disgusted. She wants to scream, to go home to her mother. She will be laughed at, humiliated for the rest of her life. Her husband's family will think she's brought them disgrace and shame.

Her husband feels her hesitation. "Are you all right?" he asks quietly.

She doesn't answer. What can she say?

"Let's go to the kang," he says gently.

On one of the inside corners of the kang sits a triangular wooden box called doo. Glued onto it is a diamond-shaped "double- happiness" paper sticker, and inside are different kinds of grains: wheat, corn, rice, millet, sorghum… they represent the hope that the newlyweds will have plenty of food throughout their lives. There is a pair of axes too, called fu, meaning "fortune", with chestnuts and red dates tied to their wooden handles, and there are also two thin quilts handmade by the groom's sisters, folded into square sitting-mats.

First the bride hands her husband the red handkerchief that her mother had given her. He puts it inside the doo. Then she hands him the pair of chopsticks with chestnuts and dates attached, and he carefully sticks them upright into the grain.

After a few awkward moments, the groom says in his gentle voice, "Reiqing, bu yao pa, wu bu hui shang ni." Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you.

All day the bride has longed to remove her veil. Now she hesitates. She is afraid. Her husband might not like her appearance. But she is reassured by his gentle tone.

She nervously lifts her veil and, for the first time in their lives, they are able to look at each other.

Both cannot believe their luck. The bride sees he is handsome. There is something honest and humble about him too, and he immediately captures her heart.

The groom keeps looking at his bride and is stunned by her beauty. They sit there, speechless, until their "widen your heart" noodles arrive, made by the bride's mother, to comfort the newlyweds' hearts, to symbolise acceptance of each other's fortunes and faults, the bride letting go of her old family values and adopting her new family's ones. Then comes the "warming your heart" rice wine and they drink from each other's cup with crossed arms.

The groom's brothers, their wives and his sisters come forward one by one to wish the newlyweds a happy life together, until their silver hairs and beard touch the ground. Then the groom's youngest sister, about the same age as the bride, whispers to her, "I'm so happy to see your big feet! I've got them too!" She gives her new sister-in-law a wink and flies out of the room, giggling. The young bride is overjoyed.

The groom is soon called away to the wedding banquet to drink with his friends and relatives, while the bride begins her "sitting through the time". For three days she sits, legs crossed in a lotus position, back straight, for every waking hour. She eats and drinks little, to avoid frequent trips to the toilet.

Many relatives, friends and neighbours visit during those three days, and on the first night people come to "make chaos". The newlyweds have to withstand much teasing and tricking, especially the bride. She is expected to pour visitors' drinks, light their cigarettes and peel the peanuts to feed into their mouths. "Making chaos" will go on until very late into the night, and by the time the last visitor leaves, both bride and groom will be exhausted.

On the fourth day, by tradition, the bride takes her new husband to visit her own family. They like their new son-in-law, and they are happy for their daughter. "My girl, count your blessings," her mother tells her. "Don't look back. Its only starvation and a hard life here. You're now a Li's girl. Make him love you."

She knows her mother is right. When she gets into the back of the cart and looks back at her familiar village for the last time, she has no tears. She knows her family will no longer be her main source of comfort. Her name and place are changed for ever. Her destiny lies ahead.

So it was for this bride and groom, my mother and my father, in Qingdao in 1946. My mother looked at her strong husband in the front of the cart and felt lucky and proud that day. Her new husband seemed dependable, like a rock. He seemed gentle, kind and considerate. She felt the urge to know him, understand him, and care for him. She leant over to my father in the front of the cart and asked him if she could sit beside him. Without a single word, he moved over to the side and let his new bride sit close.

My parents, as newlyweds, lived with my father's six brothers, their wives, his two sisters and their children, a total of over twenty people crammed into a six-room house. My mother was the youngest daughter-in-law, so her status in the Li family was the lowest. Family hierarchy had to be respected: she would work hard to prove her worth.

Often my mother would not see my father until late in the evenings, because he worked in two jobs, either away in the fields or carting building materials, all day long. Then the family would sit for dinner under the candlelight (there was no electricity in the village then), with men eating at one table, women and children eating at others. My parents hardly set eyes on each other during that first year of marriage. Sometimes, in the dim candlelight, my mother would even mistake one of her brothers-in-law for her own husband.

The women of the house would sew, wash, clean and cook. My mother was meticulous and efficient, and the speed and quality of her work won her mother-in-law's approval. To cook well was a sign of love and care. My mother was often the one sent to deliver the food to the men in the fields too, because of her unbound feet. Then she could see her husband in the daylight, and her sisters-in-law secretly envied her such freedom.

My mother's mother had died within the first year of my parents' marriage, so my mother would visit her father once a year with gifts and special food she cooked, even though she was never loved by her father in the same way as he loved his sons. A son could work in the fields. A son could bring home a daughter-in- law. A son could carry on the family line. To fail to have a son was considered the greatest betrayal of one's ancestors.

The people who lived in the New Village had been forced to move there during the Second World War from another village about twenty miles north. The Japanese had occupied Qingdao and built an airport where my father's family used to live. The New Village was still small then, with just over three hundred and fifty families, a two-roomed office and an open square. Later, loudspeakers, from which Mao's official revolutionary doctrines were broadcast, would hang from poles or sit on people's rooftops. The houses were attached to each other in long rows with a gap of about four feet between each row.

My parents continued to share a house with my father's family-as the family grew and more children arrived, they simply built more adjoining rooms. Their first son had arrived about a year after their marriage, their second just over two years later, their third two years after that, and then their fourth, Cunsang, in 1955. But Cunsang was lucky to have survived his first week in the Li family. When he was only a few days old, there was an accident. Two of the bigger brothers were playing, stacking up chairs, and the chairs crashed down upon Cunsang's head. He started having seizures. My mother took him immediately to the hospital where the doctor told her that he most likely had brain damage, but was too young to have any treatment. All my mother could do was take him home.