Mark Scheme
Introduction
The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.
Level of response marking instructions
Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.
You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.
Step 1 Determine a level
Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.
Step 2 Determine a mark
Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.
Advice for Examiners
In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.
- Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
- Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
- Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
- Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
- If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.
SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives
AO1
- Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
- Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.
AO2
- Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.
AO3
- Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.
AO4
- Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.
SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives
AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)
- Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
- Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.
AO6
- Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).
| Assessment Objective | Section A | Section B |
|---|---|---|
| AO1 | ✓ | |
| AO2 | ✓ | |
| AO3 | N/A | |
| AO4 | ✓ | |
| AO5 | ✓ | |
| AO6 | ✓ |
Answers
Question 1 - Mark Scheme
Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]
Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).
- 1.1 What was found in the shop?: a string of diamonds – 1 mark
- 1.2 What price were Loisel and Mathilde offered for the replacement necklace?: Thirty-six thousand francs – 1 mark
- 1.3 How long did Mathilde and Loisel ask the jeweller to reserve the necklace?: For three days – 1 mark
- 1.4 According to the narrator, what was the string of diamonds worth?: forty thousand francs – 1 mark
Question 2 - Mark Scheme
Look in detail at this extract, from lines 11 to 25 of the source:
11 He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there. He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers and all the race of lenders. He compromised all the rest of his life, risked signing a note without even knowing whether he could meet it;
16 and, frightened by the trouble yet to come, by the black misery that was about to fall upon him, by the prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures that he was to suffer, he went to get the new necklace, laying upon the jeweler's counter thirty-six thousand francs.
21 When Madame Loisel took back the necklace Madame Forestier said to her with a chilly manner: “You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it.”
How does the writer use language here to show Loisel’s efforts and fears as he tries to replace the necklace? You could include the writer’s choice of:
- words and phrases
- language features and techniques
- sentence forms.
[8 marks]
Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)
Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Perceptive responses explore how cumulative listing and pejorative financial lexis present relentless effort and predatory pressure: the staccato "asking a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there," alongside "ruinous obligations," "usurers" and "all the race of lenders," culminates in the hyperbolic "compromised all the rest of his life," while an anaphoric tricolon ("frightened by the trouble yet to come," "black misery," "physical privations and moral tortures") uses metaphor and personification to intensify fear. They also analyse how the long, multi-clausal build ends with the concrete heft of "thirty-six thousand francs," before the cool, balanced rebuff "You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it" delivered with a "chilly manner" undercuts his sacrifice through cold understatement.
The writer uses accumulative listing and quantitative lexis to foreground Loisel’s efforts. The sequence “a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there” layers numbers and parallel phrases to suggest a piecemeal, humiliating trawl. The asyndetic triad “He gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers” compounds relentless bargaining, while the pejorative “usurers” and sweeping “all the race of lenders” construct a hostile semantic field that dehumanises those he must face.
Moreover, the cumulative syntax and present participles convey breathless urgency. Participles such as “asking…” and “laying … thirty-six thousand francs” keep the action ongoing. The hyperbole “He compromised all the rest of his life” foreshadows devastation, and the legal register in “risked signing a note… whether he could meet it” underscores precariousness, suggesting he gambles with obligations he barely understands.
Furthermore, Loisel’s fear is crystallised through a tricolon with anaphora: “frightened by the trouble yet to come, by the black misery… by the prospect of all the physical privations and moral tortures.” The chromatic metaphor “black misery” gives his anxiety a suffocating colour, while the antithesis of “physical privations” and “moral tortures” implies total, body-and-soul suffering.
Additionally, the precise sum “thirty-six thousand francs” is a concrete weight; the verb “laying” implies surrender at the counter. Finally, Madame Forestier’s “chilly manner” personifies coldness; the modals “should” and “might” in “You should have returned it sooner; I might have needed it” form a clipped reprimand whose semicolonic balance cruelly undercuts his sacrifice.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain that the listing of amounts — "a thousand francs...five louis here, three louis there" — and loaded terms like "ruinous obligations" and "usurers", plus the hyperbole "compromised all the rest of his life", show relentless, costly effort, while emotive metaphors "black misery", "physical privations" and "moral tortures" convey his fear. It would also note how the long, multi-clausal sentence builds pressure to "laying upon the jeweler's counter thirty-six thousand francs", contrasted with Forestier’s "chilly manner" and curt direct speech "You should have returned it sooner", which undercuts his sacrifice.
The writer uses listing and precise amounts to show Loisel’s relentless efforts. The list "a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there" piles up small sums, creating a sense of tireless borrowing. The verb cluster "gave notes, took up ruinous obligations, dealt with usurers" builds a semantic field of debt, while "the race of lenders" suggests predatory creditors.
Furthermore, hyperbolic and emotive language exposes his fear. "Compromised all the rest of his life" and "ruinous" make the sacrifice feel total, and the clause "without even knowing..." shows panic and risk. The long, cumulative sentence, with a semi-colon and anaphora in the repeated "by the...", creates a three-part build of dread that is overwhelming. Personification in "black misery... fall upon him" makes fear feel physical.
Additionally, the climax "laying upon the jeweler's counter thirty-six thousand francs" gives a weighty, concrete image of the price of his efforts. Finally, Madame Forestier’s "chilly manner" and curt direct speech undercut his sacrifice, contrasting her indifference with his turmoil and reinforcing how fear has driven him to replace the necklace at any cost.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: Level 2 responses might identify listing and numbers like "a thousand francs of one, five hundred of another, five louis here, three louis there" to show constant effort, alongside emotive phrases "ruinous obligations", "black misery" and "physical privations and moral tortures" to show his fear and suffering. They may also point to the big amount "thirty-six thousand francs" and the "chilly manner" of Madame Forestier, and suggest the long, piling sentence makes his situation feel relentless.
The writer uses listing to show Loisel’s effort. The repeated numbers — “a thousand francs… five hundred… five louis… three louis” — and “usurers and all the race of lenders” suggest he tries everywhere. Words like “ruinous obligations” and “compromised all the rest of his life” hint at how costly his actions are.
Furthermore, emotive language presents his fear. He is “frightened” of “black misery” that will “fall upon him”, a metaphor that makes the suffering feel like a weight. The list “physical privations and moral tortures” builds a sense of dread and shows he knows the pain ahead.
Additionally, the long sentence with commas and a semicolon creates a rushed tone as he is “laying … thirty-six thousand francs” on the counter. Finally, Madame Forestier’s “chilly manner” and the direct speech “You should have returned it sooner” make his effort seem ignored, increasing his worry.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies simple features: the list of amounts (“a thousand francs”, “five hundred”, “five louis here, three louis there”) shows he borrows from many people, and words like “ruinous obligations” and “usurers” suggest it is serious and costly. Emotive words (“frightened”, “black misery”) show his fear, and the “chilly manner” in the speech makes Madame Forestier seem cold.
The writer uses listing to show Loisel’s efforts: “a thousand francs… five hundred… five louis here, three louis there.” This makes it seem like he asks many people and works very hard. The strong verbs “borrow,” “dealt,” and “risked” also show action.
Furthermore, emotive language shows his fears. Words like “frightened,” “black misery,” and “moral tortures” make the reader feel his worry about the future.
Additionally, the precise number “thirty-six thousand francs” shows how much he pays, which feels huge. The long, flowing sentence makes his problems pile up and seem overwhelming.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:
- Cumulative listing of amounts and sources shows relentless, piecemeal scrambling, implying scattered, frantic effort: five louis here
- Tricolon of actions with harsh lexis widens the scope of what he attempts and the moral cost: ruinous obligations
- Pejorative collective noun frames creditors as a hostile class, heightening entrapment: race of lenders
- Hyperbolic sacrifice magnifies the long-term toll, suggesting a life mortgaged to this act: all the rest of his life
- Modality of risk and ignorance conveys desperate gambling with an uncertain future: risked signing a note
- Anaphora builds rhythmic pressure and escalates dread, mirroring rising panic: by the
- Dark imagery blends economic and psychological suffering to intensify stakes: black misery
- Cumulative syntax delays the main action so determination feels burdened by fear: he went to get
- Numerical precision makes the sacrifice concrete and vast, stressing finality: thirty-six thousand francs
- Curt, cold rebuke (tight syntax with a semicolon) starkly contrasts their ordeal with indifference: You should have returned it sooner
Question 3 - Mark Scheme
You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the end of a story.
How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of surprise?
You could write about:
- how surprise emerges by the end of the source
- how the writer uses structure to create an effect
- the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]
Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)
Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how the writer withholds and then reveals key information through structural shaping: compressing escalating hardship ("He did borrow") into summary markers ("This life lasted ten years.", "At the end of ten years") and planting ironic foreshadowing ("She did not open the case"), before shifting from reflective tone ("How strange and changeful is life!") into a dialogue-led reunion. This delayed-reveal structure makes the final line "Why, my necklace was paste!" a dramatic reversal that retrospectively recasts the couple’s sacrifice and heightens the reader’s surprise.
One way in which the writer has structured the text to create surprise is through delayed revelation after a cumulative build-up. The narrative widens into a montage of sacrifice—“He did borrow, asking a thousand francs of one,”—and compresses years—“This life lasted ten years.” Listing and temporal compression escalate cost, while the shift from detailed sums to “At the end of ten years” conditions the reader to assume the necklace’s authenticity. By front-loading debt and drudgery before any resolution, the writer raises expectations, so the disclosure lands as a sharp reversal.
In addition, the writer manipulates temporal markers and focus to prime the surprise. An analeptic glance (flashback)—“she thought of that gay evening of long ago”—juxtaposes past glamour with present poverty, while the pivoting questions (“Who knows? who knows?”) signal contingency. A precise marker—“But one Sunday”—then narrows the lens from a decade to a single encounter: “she suddenly perceived a woman.” This shift from summary to scene slows the pace and breeds expectancy, cueing a denouement without telegraphing it.
A further structural feature is sustained limited focalisation and strategic withholding, released only in dialogue. Earlier, “She did not open the case,” postponing detection; now clipped exchanges—“Yes. Well?” “Well, I lost it.”—stage a measured confession and brief uplift—“she smiled with a joy”—before the final volta. The revelation is reserved for the last line—“Why, my necklace was paste! It was worth at most only five hundred francs!”—an exclamative peripeteia. Its stark numerical contrast with “thirty-six thousand francs” retrospectively reframes everything, intensifying shock.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response explains how the writer builds surprise through chronological escalation ("This life lasted ten years", "At the end of ten years"), a reflective misdirection ("How strange and changeful is life!", "Who knows? who knows?"), and a structural pivot ("But one Sunday") into dialogue that delivers the twist, "Why, my necklace was paste!". It also notes the contrast between "looked old now" and "still young, still beautiful, still charming" to heighten the shock and irony of the ending.
One way in which the writer has structured the text to create surprise is by delaying the resolution and withholding the truth until the final line. The narrative tracks borrowing, “ruinous obligations,” and a decade of toil, marked by “This life lasted ten years” and “At the end of ten years,” before a cyclical return to the necklace. This extended chronology builds expectation of closure, so the eventual reversal feels startling.
In addition, the writer shifts focus and pace into rapid dialogue to prime a twist. After reflective questions—“Who knows? who knows?”—the scene moves to the Champs Elysees and becomes staccato: “Yes. Well?” “Well, I lost it.” This acceleration acts like a build-up to a punchline and culminates in Forestier’s final line, “my necklace was paste!”, a climactic reveal positioned at the end for maximum shock.
A further structural feature is sustained perspective and contrast. Viewing events through Madame Loisel’s limited perspective keeps the reader inside a false belief. Meanwhile, the contrast between her long “horrible existence” and Forestier’s “still beautiful” life misdirects us towards pity and pride. The last-line denouement overturns these expectations and reframes everything that came before, creating a retrospective surprise as we reinterpret the couple’s sacrifices.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies that the writer builds up the couple’s long struggle (“This life lasted ten years”) and then ends with a sudden twist in the final dialogue (“my necklace was paste... only five hundred francs”), so the surprise comes right at the end. May also notice the switch to reflective questions (“Who knows? who knows?”) just before the reveal to set up the shock.
One way the writer structures the text to surprise the reader is by building a long middle before the ending. At the beginning of the extract, the focus is on paying the debt: 'This life lasted ten years' and 'At the end of ten years'. This makes us expect the necklace was real, so the later reveal is more shocking.
In addition, there is a clear change in time and focus. The time phrase 'But one Sunday' moves us from struggle to a calm walk, then the meeting: 'she suddenly perceived a woman'. The dialogue that follows slows the pace and hides the truth, building suspense.
A further structural feature is the twist ending. The final line of dialogue, 'my necklace was paste!', is at the end to surprise the reader. The contrast between Mathilde’s ruined life and Forestier 'still young, still beautiful' makes the revelation feel unfair and shocking.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might identify that the writer creates surprise by saving the twist for the very end — “Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste!” — after building up their long hardship (“This life lasted ten years”, “At the end of ten years”), so the ending shocks the reader.
One way the writer structures the text to surprise is by saving the twist for the end. Early on they replace the necklace and suffer for “ten years,” so we assume it was real. In the final line Madame Forestier says, “my necklace was paste!” which gives a sudden shock.
In addition, there is a time jump and change of place, from debt to a Sunday walk, which moves the focus and sets up the reveal.
A further structural feature is the fast dialogue at the end (“Yes. Well?”), which speeds the pace and makes the final exclamation more surprising.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:
- Immediate problem–solution setup with the purchase arrangement creates a false sense of resolution, priming readers to assume a costly, genuine replacement, so the twist hits harder ("string of diamonds")
- Cumulative borrowing montage escalates stakes and foreboding, making the eventual reversal feel more shocking and costly ("ruinous obligations")
- Withholding discovery—her friend does not inspect the item—delays the expected confrontation and misdirects us, heightening surprise when truth comes much later ("did not open")
- Extended hardship sequence compresses years of drudgery, deepening investment and lulling us into a tragic trajectory before the twist ("This life lasted ten years.")
- Refrain and climactic closure create a sense of finality that the revelation will undercut, maximizing the jolt ("paid everything, everything")
- Juxtaposition of appearances (her worn decline against a friend’s unaltered allure) sharpens contrast just before the shock ("still young, still beautiful")
- Reflective pause with rhetorical questions foreshadows contingency and primes readers for an unexpected turn ("Who knows? who knows?")
- Clear structural pivot with a temporal signpost ushers in the decisive encounter that delivers the twist ("But one Sunday")
- Tight, incremental dialogue (short questions and answers) builds tension step by step until the final reversal lands ("was paste!")
- Placed just before the reveal, her innocent pride intensifies dramatic irony, making the final line more startling ("smiled with a joy")
Question 4 - Mark Scheme
For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 16 to the end.
In this part of the source, the story ends with the shocking reveal that the necklace was fake. The writer suggests that Mathilde's life was ruined simply because she wasn't honest in the first place.
To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?
In your response, you could:
- consider your impressions of the hardship Mathilde Loisel suffers
- comment on the methods the writer uses to present the final shocking revelation
- support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]
Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)
Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that while Mathilde’s dishonesty precipitates her suffering, the writer’s viewpoint is more nuanced: through structural irony and tonal contrast—Forestier’s chilly manner, the decade of black misery and compound interest, and the final sting of paste—the narrative critiques vanity and social pretence as co-culprits. It would analyse how the delayed revelation and details like thirty-six thousand francs and sudden heroism position readers to judge both the initial lie and the status-obsessed values that make such ruin possible.
I largely agree that the ending is shocking, and the writer certainly implies that much of Mathilde’s suffering could have been avoided by honesty; however, to say her life was ruined simply because she lied is reductive. The narrative stresses pride, social fear and the caprice of fate alongside that moral lapse, creating a more nuanced causality.
From the outset of this section, the writer foreshadows catastrophe through a sombre semantic field. The husband is “frightened by the trouble yet to come… the black misery… the moral tortures,” a trio of abstract nouns and a metaphor of “misery” that will “fall upon him,” suggesting an inescapable doom. The staggering specificity of “thirty-six thousand francs” shocks the reader with the scale of the substitution. Crucially, Madame Forestier’s “chilly manner” when the necklace is returned, and the staccato fear in Mathilde’s imagined questions—“Would she not have taken Madame Loisel for a thief?”—establish the social pressure that stifles confession. The structural irony that “She did not open the case” becomes a pivot: a withheld glance would have prevented the decade of ruin. In this way, the writer implies that secrecy is rooted less in malice than in shame and class anxiety.
The relentless depiction of hardship then amplifies the consequences. Listing and polysyndeton drive the drudgery: “She washed the dishes… She washed the soiled linen… she carried the slops… and carried up the water,” the repeated verbs and ands creating a grinding rhythm. Concrete, sensory detail—“greasy pots and pans,” “red hands”—contrasts with the earlier “dainty fingers and rosy nails,” a stark juxtaposition of vanity with toil. Structural compression—“This life lasted ten years”—and the economic lexis of “usury” and “compound interest” suggest a system that punishes error disproportionately. The triplet “strong and hard and rough” signals a brutal re-forging of identity; she has become “the woman of impoverished households.”
The final revelation is engineered through contrast and dialogue. Forestier is “still young, still beautiful, still charming,” an anaphoric triad that heightens Mathilde’s degradation as a “plain good-wife.” Mathilde’s “joy that was at once proud and ingenuous” primes an anticlimax, which the exclamative “paste!” detonates. The bald valuation—“at most only five hundred francs!”—renders the decade’s sacrifice tragically futile. The narrator’s rhetorical aphorisms—“How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!”—universalise the theme of chance and deceptive appearances.
Overall, I agree that honesty would have averted disaster; yet the writer also indicts pride and a society obsessed with display. The shock twist exposes not only a moral lesson—tell the truth—but the devastating cost of living by appearances in a world of glittering fakes.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: Level 3: A clear, supported judgement largely agreeing that Mathilde’s ruin stems from not confessing the loss, selecting relevant hardship details (This life lasted ten years, rented a garret, red hands) and commenting on how the writer crafts the shocking, ironic twist through exclamatory dialogue (Oh, my poor Mathilde!, my necklace was paste, only five hundred francs!), with brief acknowledgement of chance in How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!.
I mostly agree that the ending is shocking and that the writer implies Mathilde’s ruin stems from her lack of honesty, but the extract also suggests pride, social ambition and cruel chance play a part. The writer builds sympathy for her hardship before the twist, then uses dramatic irony to sharpen the moral point.
First, the narrator foregrounds the cost of the secret. Emotive language and listing create a relentless tone: “black misery,” “physical privations and moral tortures,” and the asyndetic chores—she “washed the dishes,” “washed the soiled linen,” “carried the slops,” “carried up the water.” The anaphora of “She” and the detail “sou by sou” emphasise grinding poverty, while the blunt structural summary “This life lasted ten years” and the financial lexis “usury” and “compound interest” stress how one concealment multiplies into a decade of suffering. This supports the idea that dishonesty triggers disproportionate consequences.
However, the narrator’s reflective aside complicates a simple blame: “How strange and changeful is life! How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!” The rhetorical questions—“What would have happened… Who knows?”—shift the tone to fatalistic, suggesting chance and the pressures of appearance also drive events. Even “She bore her part… with sudden heroism” invites respect, not just censure.
The final meeting uses dialogue and contrast to deliver the twist. Mathilde’s “joy that was at once proud and ingenuous” meets Forestier’s exclamation, “Oh, my poor Mathilde!” before the bathos of “my necklace was paste! … only five hundred francs!” This is powerful situational irony: had Mathilde confessed at the start, she would have been spared the “ten years.” Yet the earlier “chilly manner” of Forestier and Mathilde’s desire to be “admired” suggest pride and class anxiety fuel the lie.
Overall, I largely agree: the writer crafts an ironic climax that punishes dishonesty. But the extract also critiques vanity and social pretence, implying her ruin was not simply honesty’s absence, but honesty plus pride under harsh social and economic forces.
Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response will mostly agree that Mathilde’s life was ruined by not being honest, giving simple evidence of hardship like "She washed the dishes... greasy pots and pans" and "red hands", and the debt of "thirty-six thousand francs." It will also notice the writer’s shocking final reveal in the dialogue "my necklace was paste!", suggesting she could have avoided this if she had told the truth.
I mostly agree that the ending is a shocking reveal and that the writer suggests Mathilde’s ruin comes from not being honest. The build-up of hardship makes the twist feel especially cruel.
Emotive language shows the cost of the choice: “black misery” and “physical privations and moral tortures.” The writer lists chores—“washed the dishes… washed the soiled linen… carried the slops… carried up the water”—to stress endless drudgery. The new setting, “a garret under the roof,” signals a fall in status. Structurally, the time shift “This life lasted ten years” shows how long the lie costs the couple.
The revelation itself is delivered through direct speech and exclamation. Mathilde says it has “taken us ten years to pay for it” and even “smiled with a joy” before Madame Forestier’s blunt, “my necklace was paste!” The exclamations (“Oh, my poor Mathilde!” and “five hundred francs!”) heighten the shock. Strong contrast highlights the consequences: Forestier is “still young, still beautiful,” while Mathilde is “strong and hard and rough,” with “frowsy hair” and “red hands.” The comment “How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!” foreshadows this twist.
Overall, I agree to a large extent: if she had told the truth instead of risking “substitution,” she would not have been ruined. Her fear of being seen as “a thief” pushed her to hide the loss. Yet the writer also hints pride—the wish to be “so admired”—helped cause her downfall.
Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, pointing to the end twist where Madame Forestier says the necklace was “paste!” and “only five hundred francs!”, and simply conclude that if Mathilde had told the truth she might have avoided the “horrible existence of the needy.”
I mostly agree that the ending is shocking and that Mathilde’s life is ruined because she wasn’t honest. After losing the necklace, instead of telling Madame Forestier, they hide the truth and buy another for “thirty-six thousand francs,” which begins all the trouble. The writer shows the hardship with clear description. They “dismissed their servant” and moved to a “garret.” Active verbs like “washed,” “carried,” and “bargaining” make her work sound tiring. The number “ten years” and “compound interest” show how long and painful it was. Mathilde becomes “strong and hard and rough,” with “frowsy hair” and “red hands,” which makes the reader feel sorry. There is contrast with Madame Forestier, who is “still young, still beautiful,” showing how far Mathilde has fallen. The rhetorical question “How small a thing is needed to make or ruin us!” makes the message clear.
At the end, the dialogue and exclamation marks make the reveal shocking: “Oh, my poor Mathilde!” and “my necklace was paste!... only five hundred francs!” If she had told the truth at the start, she would have known. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer suggests honesty would have saved her.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward. Note: Reference to methods and explicit “I agree/I disagree” may be implicit and still credited according to quality.
AO4 content may include the evaluation of ideas and methods such as:
- Structural twist and final exclamation heighten shock and reframe the decade of suffering as tragically avoidable, so I largely agree the writer links ruin to withheld truth (my necklace was paste!).
- Rhetorical fear of disgrace frames her initial concealment as understandable yet the fatal misstep that unleashes consequences (for a thief?).
- Vivid hardship detail makes the cost feel total, strengthening the claim that her life was effectively “ruined” by that decision (horrible existence of the needy).
- Financial lexis shifts some blame onto exploitative systems, challenging the word “simply” in the statement (compound interest).
- Admiring characterisation complicates moral judgment, suggesting she meets consequences with dignity rather than mere deceit (sudden heroism).
- Stark visual contrast with her friend intensifies the pathos and irony, underscoring how one choice cascaded into lasting loss (frowsy hair).
- Aphoristic reflection widens the focus to chance and disproportion, so I only partly agree that dishonesty alone explains the outcome (How small a thing).
- Irony of her relieved confession before the twist deepens the tragedy and implies early honesty would have prevented the ordeal (proud and ingenuous).
- Social chill in the friend’s tone suggests class pressure that fuels concealment, adding nuance to the cause of her downfall (chilly manner).
- Compressed pacing over a decade magnifies the moral sting of the twist, making the finale both shocking and persuasive in its cautionary force (ten years).
Question 5 - Mark Scheme
Next week, a close friend will bury a time capsule and has asked you to add a short creative piece.
Choose one of the options below for your entry.
- Option A: Write a description of a storm-lashed lighthouse interior from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:
- Option B: Write the opening of a story about a secret coming to light.
(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]
(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]
Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)
Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.
- Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.
Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.
- Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.
Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.
- Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.
Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.
- Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.
Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.
Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).
Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)
Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.
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Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.
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Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.
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Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.
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Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.
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Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.
Model Answers
The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.
- Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)
Option A:
Wind slashes through the seams of the tower; a low, oceanic bellow climbs the stone throat and reverberates in the bones. The interior smells of brine and oil; salt sparkles like frost on the iron rail, and each pane quivers in its cradle. Rain needles the glass; gutters gurgle; somewhere, a rope knocks and knocks, a hollow heartbeat the storm cannot drown. The light, hauled by its patient motor, turns its slow eye across the room—relentless—sliding pale gold over rivets, flaked paint, the scars of years. It is lonely here.
The staircase coils up the core like a ribcage of iron; worn treads are cupped where boots have gnawed the paint to bare metal. The banister is cold, pitted, greened with verdigris, beaded with condensation that swells and drops. Each step throws back thunder in a small clank; up and up it goes, narrow as a thought. It spirals like a drill into the belly of weather—showy, perhaps, but true to how it feels. If you pause—and you must, because the air is tight with salt and iron—you can taste it on your tongue, as though the sea has licked the stone.
Below, at a cramped mid-landing, a shelf sags under jars, spanners, a lantern, a coil of damp rope; labels curl; the ledger lies open and puckered, ink feathered into a small night of words. A mug trembles and chimes against its saucer. The barometer’s needle flirts at the edge; the clock exaggerates each tick. Even the walls listen. The storm speaks in plural—hiss and hammer, thud and skirl; the tower answers with its liturgy of creaks.
Above, the lens—cathedral, honeycomb, halo—composes and recomposes the world into prisms. Lightning ricochets through those glass ribs and atomises the dark; for a breath the room is splinters and brilliance, scratches newly minted, shadows razor-edged. The lamp breathes, a steady, disciplined flame; the gearing, greased and dutiful, whispers an endless circular prayer. There is comfort: an order stitched into the weather’s chaos, a mechanism that refuses the sea’s tantrum.
At the base, the door sighs on hinges and shoulders its bolts. Wind funnels in the keyhole and moans through the interstices; a spill of water skirts the threshold and creeps towards the pump. A coat hangs on a hook, hulking, salt-crusted; boots stand at attention; their soles print the floor in salted maps. A spiral of stairs above and a circle of storm outside—the room is a compass of intentions and echoes.
Still, the lighthouse holds. It shudders; it steadies; it shudders. The tower is not brave—it is simply built to endure, to do the same stubborn thing through tempest and calm. And the light keeps turning, turning and returning, a calm, pale insistence stitched into the roaring night.
Option B:
Morning didn’t so much flood the hallway as negotiate it; light slipped under the front door, picked its way along the skirting, and climbed the banister like a quiet intruder. Dust rose and hung, a congregation of bright motes; the house held its breath. It had been holding it for years.
Eliza, sleeves rolled and patience thinned to muslin, had been assigned the hallway because she was “good with little things.” The phrase nettled; she was nearly eighteen, not a magpie. Even so, she knelt by the scuffed skirting with a butter knife and a bin bag, teasing tired wallpaper that sighed free in pale, chalky curls. The house smelled of furniture polish and the aniseed sweetness of ancient mothballs; cardboard boxes labelled in her mother’s lean script—Books; Winter; Miscellany—lined the corridor like quiet witnesses. Upstairs, her mother orchestrated the clear-out with clipped lists and a tense brightness that felt brittle.
When a wider strip tore away, the wall behind it wasn’t obediently bare. Graphite had bloomed there years ago and then been smothered; now, in the oblique sweep of nine o’clock light, the palimpsest was legible. How long had these words pressed their thin lips to plaster, waiting? Eliza leaned in. A date. A name. And then, in slanted, urgent handwriting: “Eliza—if you find this: second tread on the stairs.”
“Mum?” Her voice faltered in the stairwell. “There’s… there’s writing.”
“What kind of writing?” The answer came too fast, as if it had been preloaded. A pause; then, almost lightly, “Probably kids.”
Yet Eliza was already moving. The second tread—four nails, paint thick at the edges. She worried them out with the butter knife, wincing as one squealed; wood dust ticked her lashes. The board levered up with a breath of stale air and the faint susurration of dislodged grit. Inside the dark slot lay an envelope, its paper foxed and silk-soft, sealed with wax stamped with a ring she recognised: an R, pressed deep.
Her heart climbed into her throat and sat there, stubborn.
Her mother was suddenly at her shoulder—too suddenly. “Put that back,” she said, softly but with edges. “Eliza, please.”
For a moment Eliza did nothing. The envelope, snug in her palm, felt heavier than paper, heavier than wax; it felt like a hinge. The light had found it; the light was insisting. She broke the seal.
The first line steadied itself on the page despite the tremor in her hands: “I didn’t leave you. I was told to vanish, for both of you.” The handwriting was her father’s, unmistakable as his laugh used to be. Beneath, a date that made a mockery of the stories she had been fed, an address from months after he was meant to have gone.
“Stop reading,” her mother said, but the command frayed in the middle. Her posture had altered—something unclenched and something else braced. The house seemed to exhale. Outside, a bus grumbled past; a dog barked; life continued with its ordinary racket while a different life tilted on its axis inside the hallway.
Eliza looked up. The morning was brighter now, uncompromising. Secrets prefer darkness; they accrue quietly in corners, under treads, behind smiles. But light has a habit of being methodical. It fingertipped the paper, found the truth, and held it up. And in that uncluttered brightness, Eliza realised two things at once: the facts had always been here (immured and silent), and nothing about the people who loved her was as simple as the stories they’d told.
- Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)
Option A:
Wind drums at the tower like impatient knuckles on an iron door; inside, the lighthouse inhales and shudders, a deep-bellied creature holding its ground. Salt air lies heavy in the throat—brackish, metallic—while the beam upstairs sweeps and returns, sweeps and returns, a pale scythe cutting the dark. Every surface gleams with damp. Hinges blink and breathe. Somewhere, unseen, a cable thrums as though plucked by a careless hand. The storm lashes; the walls answer.
The stair coils upward in a tight helix, a chalky ribbon worn thin by generations of boots. Each tread curves into a crescent polished by soles and time; the middle is hollowed, smooth as a prayer stone, the edges jagged with old paint that flakes away like fish-scales. An iron rail snakes along the inner spine—cold, tacky with rust, spotted by salt crystals that glitter palely when the beam drifts past. Up and up, round and round; the geometry of persistence. A drop falls from the under-side of a step and detonates on the landing below with a small, precise sound. Voices seem to linger—footfalls, coughs, a mutter of weather notes—trapped in the corkscrew of air.
At the top, the room of light hums with a steady, obstinate purpose: cogs ticking, belts whispering, glass refracting. The lens, all ribs and facets like a translucent cathedral, turns with patient authority. It collects the storm’s ferocity and cools it; it collects the sea’s blackness and wounds it with white. A tin can of paraffin sits beside a newer, humming unit—as if the past and present must share this tight circumference. The smell is layered: oil, damp rope, sun-bleached paint that never quite dried. A thin draught needles through a keyhole, finds paper, lifts a corner, then retreats. Outside, waves thunder. Inside, a metronome.
Lower down, the keeper’s narrow room is a palimpsest of labour: a bunk that shivers in its brackets, a yellow slicker hanging like a molted skin, a logbook open to a page of staccato entries. Wind NE; pressure falling; lantern cleaned. The pencil’s scratch has gouged the fibres where the gale rose: Force 10. A mug rattles its own small alarm on the shelf. On the table, a chipped compass faces nowhere in particular—steady, stubborn.
You can feel the tower thinking—counting seconds, counting revolutions, counting chances. The storm clatters at the door, then surges and clatters again. Still, the stair keeps turning; still, the light keeps reaching; still, the stone holds its breath and does not break.
Option B:
Morning. The time of honesty; windows pried open, light pouring across the table in pale ribbons; steam unfurling from the kettle like a tame cloud. Even the dust seems candid at this hour, drifting in slow galaxies that catch and keep the sun. It feels, Eliza thinks, like the day itself is leaning in to hear.
She wipes a faint ring of tea from the worktop, the cloth sour with lemons and yesterday’s coffee, and reaches for the old bread tin. Enamel chipped, sky-blue gone to salt at the edges, it has sat in the same place for as long as she can remember. Something knocks, softly, inside—an unexpected clink. Bread doesn’t clink. She pauses. Her breath makes the tiniest fog on the tin’s lid, a flower that blooms and vanishes. Another tap. Not loud; insistent.
Under the loaf (stale, forgiving), there is a brown envelope. It is not remarkable, and yet it glows where the light crosses it, a dull satin, as if it has been waiting for this exact beam. Eliza’s name stands on the front in her mother’s looping hand, a thread of ink that wavers only once. For a heartbeat she simply stares. Secrets swell in the dark like bread dough; give them heat and they rise again, unstoppable. She tells herself she should wait—until evening, until her mother is awake, until she has the courage or the excuse—but the house is quiet, and the sun has already chosen.
She slides a fingernail under the flap. The paper sighs. Inside: one photograph, a letter folded in precise thirds, and a key no bigger than her thumb, brassy, surprisingly warm in her palm. The photograph first. A woman she recognises but doesn’t—hair wind-tangled, smile that lifts the left corner more than the right (her own smile), standing beside a man whose eyes are unfamiliar and unblinking. Between them, a baby in a knitted bonnet, the wool bobble ridiculous and perfect. On the back, in blue ink: The day we told the truth. November. The letter trembles, though her hands are steady.
Eliza reads. Words lift and settle: I should have said earlier; you deserved to know; you were loved, always; I didn’t know how to tell you without unravelling everything. A name appears that is not her father’s, and it sits on the page like a stone in the mouth. In the hallway, a floorboard answers the kettle’s simmer with a small complaint. Footsteps.
She looks up. Light knifes through the gap in the blind; the envelope gleams, brazen. How do you pull one thread without the whole jumper falling to pieces? Even the kettle, now shrieking, sounds like an alarm—like a summons. Eliza folds the letter with scrupulous care and feels, absurdly, as if she is folding herself smaller, tidier, less noticeable. It is a useless instinct. The secret is already in the room; it has stepped into the light and found its voice. She cannot unsee, cannot unknow, cannot pretend.
The kitchen door opens. Her mother’s silhouette is haloed by morning. Eliza straightens; the key presses a crescent into her skin. “Mum,” she says, and the word arrives on the table between them like a fragile plate—ready to crack, ready to be mended, but finally, finally set down.
- Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)
Option A:
The stairwell coils upward like a ribcage, iron bones slick with salt and the breath of the sea. Under a jaundiced lamp the paint blisters; flakes lie like shells along each step. Every gust presses its cold mouth to the slit windows and bawls; the tower answers with a long, tired creak. It smells of oil and old rope, of rust and wet cloth. A foghorn blares, and the reply comes from below—the heavy fist of water on stone.
Here the tarred rope rail burns the palm, then steadies it. The narrow treads climb in tight ellipses, worn to a dark shine by boots that had to go up. Tools wait on a ledge—a dented oil can, a blackened rag, a spanner that never seems to fit. A logbook lies open, pages buckled. Lightning finds the windows; light slashes the well, and for a heartbeat the rust glows like old blood.
Above, the lantern room hums and ticks. The great glass lens bends the bulb into bright knives and sends them out, turn by measured turn. The motor shivers; gears complain in the constant drizzle of salt. Wind rakes the panes and the copper frame answers in low, tired music. The keeper’s coat hangs from a hook, shoulders shiny with wear, stirring in a wet draught. A radio mutters—voices, static, then only the storm.
Down below, water seeps under the door, threading the grooves in the floorboards into little rivers that go nowhere. There is a mug with a ring of tea and a spoon that taps with each vibration. The lighthouse holds its breath and lets it out; it groans; it endures. Everything moves while nothing moves: lamp turning, stairs turning, thought turning with them. Outside the sea keeps battering—inside the light keeps answering, round and round, as steady as it can be.
Option B:
Morning. The hour when light reaches under curtains and hooks out the dust, when even forgotten things gleam. For years we had stepped around certain drawers, let certain questions sleep; sunshine is not polite.
Downstairs, the kettle clicked; my mother hummed a tune that wouldn't settle. Meanwhile, I stood on the landing, listening to the house creak awake. A thin hatch in the ceiling—a square nobody mentioned—caught a bright edge.
It felt like an invitation; it felt like a dare. I moved the chair and pushed. Warm, dusty air breathed at me. Boxes were stacked, labelled Christmas, Baby Clothes, Receipts. One sat apart, unmarked, the tape stretched and tired. Light pooled on its lid.
My fingers hesitated; then they did not. Inside: a photograph of my mother younger, smiling at someone outside the frame, and beneath it an envelope in her neat, slanting hand—To be kept. The seal had already been broken.
‘Mia? Are you up?’ Her voice rose up the stairwell. ‘Just getting my bag!’ I called, breathless.
I slid the letter out; the paper crackled like ice. A name at the top that wasn't mine but near enough to sting. Dear Eliza.
My name is Mia. The letter assumed more than names. ‘I should have told you sooner,’ it began, ‘but sometimes truth feels heavier than the life we build around it.’ The words were steady, not dramatic, like someone crossing a river on careful stones.
Downstairs the kettle began its second boil; my mother had forgotten it again. Little things started to align: the way she dodged questions about hospitals, how birthdays were ‘complicated’, the spare key kept at number six. Meanwhile, the light travelled across the page, bright as certainty.
The last line of the first page made my throat tighten. ‘You were not born to me,’ it said.
Dust floated, glittering, as if nothing had shifted. But my world tilted; even my name wobbled on its hook.
Footsteps came to the stairs; a shadow tilted on the hatch. ‘Mia?’ she called again, softer. I tucked the letter back, as if hiding it could unmake it—and every corner of morning said otherwise.
- Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)
Option A:
The door shudders on its hinges; wind barges through whatever cracks it can find. Inside, the lighthouse smells of salt and old oil, a cold, metallic breath that sits in the throat. A thin bulb swings from a wire and throws a tired circle on the floor; the light wobbles as if sea-sick. Drips thread down the curved wall and collect in a shallow tin tray—plink, plink, plink—steady as a metronome.
The stairs rise in a tight spiral. Each step is worn in the middle, edges rough and flaking; rust blooms around the bolts like reddish moss. The iron rail is slick with brine. Footsteps run ahead and come back, doubled, like a hollow drum. Wind sneaks through the slit window and turns the tower into an instrument; a long, thin whistle rides the air. Rain hammers the glass somewhere above, hard, fast, relentless.
On the first landing a porthole peeps at the blackness. Lightning snaps, and for a heartbeat the ribs of the stairs stand out like the bones of a shell. Everything quivers—the wall, the tools, even the map. A barometer needle trembles; the little clock ticks stubbornly on. The logbook is swollen from damp, its pages curled like tide lines. The keeper’s coat hangs heavy and shining; a tin mug rattles on its saucer when the tower shakes.
Higher up, the lantern room breathes with mechanical patience. The glass prisms blink and turn, round and round, sending a pale blade through the rain. Under the grating the gears bite; the motor hums a low note. The place feels like a body—the staircase a spine, the rail a vein, the generator a heart. Outside, the sea batters the rocks; inside, the light refuses. Wind claws; the door answers with a tired thud, and the lighthouse, scarred, keeps watch.
Option B:
Evening. The quiet space between day and night, when the hallway clock sounds like a hammer and the air in a house seems to thicken. Rain tapped at the window; a streetlight drew a pale stripe across the carpet. In my hand was an envelope the colour of old cream, edges softened, my name written in a careful hand that wasn't my mother's.
I found it in the attic, tucked behind a crate of fairy lights. Dust rose like small ghosts, it made me cough. The air tasted dry, a little sweet, like cardboard. In a cold tin lay the letter, red thread wound round it as if someone had tied up a thought to keep it quiet.
I shouldn't have been there, not really; I only went up for spare blankets because the weather had turned. But when I saw the thread and my name, it was as if the stairs themselves nudged me back down, holding the secret in my palm. Dad was in the kitchen, his silhouette fixed against the strip light.
I slid my thumb under the flap—paper whispered. The first words swam into the lamp's circle: Dear Elena. My stomach dropped. My mouth filled with that cold metal taste you get before you say something you can't unsay. My name is Leah. I read the line again. Dear Elena. I knew the writing—it was my grandmother's—neat and sure.
Something opened in me, like a window pulled up too fast. I didn't want to know, not really, but I couldn't not know. I took two steps and the floorboard betrayed me with a sharp click; Dad looked up, his eyes curious and tired. 'Everything okay?' he asked. The letter trembled in my hand. The secret I had not asked for lifted its face to the light.
- Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)
Option A:
Round and round the stair climbs, worn smooth by boots and the old, salty air. Underneath my hand the rail is cold and flaking; rust freckles my palm. Wind pushes up the throat of the tower like water in a pipe, and every step shudders. Somewhere a loose bolt knocks, steady and annoying, like a clock that forgot the right time. Drips thread from the ceiling and tap into a metal bucket. The smell is thick: salt, oil, damp wool.
The walls once white are blistered and scabbed, paint peeling into curled chips. The narrow window slots cough thin light, and the storm slaps at the glass so hard you feel it through the stone. The lighthouse seems to breathe — in gusts, out groans. The bannister bites my fingers; the climb is tight, tight, turning. Below, the door complains. Above, something hums.
At the lantern room the air is warmer, buzzing. The lamp thrums and the great lens turns; round and round it swings a pale blade across the panes. Chains tick, a belt flaps once, then again, and the whole mechanism works like a tired heart. The radios red eye blinks. A logbook lies open, its pages shake as the draught creeps under them. There is a chipped mug, a coil of rope, a coat that never quite dries.
Everything is moving but nothing leaves. The tower holds its ground though it feels like it's swaying. Outside, the sea rages. Inside, the light keeps going — patient, stubborn, circling, circling.
Option B:
Evening. The time when windows glow; the kettle sighs; the day folds itself away like an old letter. Our kitchen smelled of lemon and steam, and the old clock clicked too loud. Rain threaded down the glass. I wiped my hands and tried to be quiet.
Mum had sent me to find the big mixing bowl, but at the back of the cupboard I felt metal under my fingers: a tin with faded roses, tied with a stubborn ribbon. It hummed with dust and years; it felt warm, as if it had been waiting for me. How long had it hidden there? I wasn't meant to find it, I know that now. But curiosity is a small, sharp animal — it chewed through the knot before I could change my mind.
Inside: a photograph, a hospital bracelet, and a letter folded so neatly it could cut. The photo showed Mum, younger, paler, standing beside a man I didn't recognise. The bracelet was tiny, plastic, with a name scratched in awkward capitals. Not my name. Not our name. My stomach dipped like the floor had moved.
Then the kitchen light flickered, and the name on the paper flashed clear: a different surname; a different father. The words slid into my head, slow and heavy, like cold syrup.
"Tea's ready," Mum called from the hall, her voice bright and coming closer.
I closed the tin, but the secret was out. It sat between my hands, breathing, and everything else held it's breath.
- Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)
Option A:
Inside the lighthouse, the air tastes of salt and warm oil. The walls sweat with damp; paint peels in soft curls that stick to my sleeve. Every gust slams the outer door so hard the bolts jump, and the whole tower seems to shiver. A low, steady hum comes from the generator, then a long sigh. Shadows wobble across the narrow floor as the lamp flickers.
Upwards, the spiral stair climbs like a dark ribbon, round and round. The iron steps are worn thin in the middle, their edges gritty, the rail greasy with old hands. Wind pours down the shaft like water, bringing the sound of the sea booming, beating, booming. My breath knocks in my chest. I grip, I climb; the tower groans. A rope hangs from the centre—swinging a little—brushing the air with a tired whisper.
At the top, the lantern room rattles. Glass panes rattle, the great lens turns on slow teeth, catching bits of light. Rain needles the glass; streaks run like tears. On a small table a cold mug slides, taps, slides again. Everything is damp. Yet the beam drags itself around the horizon, stubborn and pale, and the storm, greedy, keeps clawing at the door.
Option B:
Morning broke pale, slipping through the blinds like thin water. On the table sat an envelope, tucked under the fruit bowl as if it wanted to hide. It had my name on it, written in a hurried, crooked way that looked familiar and wrong at the same time.
I reached for it. Stopped. Reached again. It was just paper, just white and quiet, but my fingers trembled. Secrets don’t make a sound, but you can feel them; like a buzzing under your skin. The flap wasn’t sealed. Inside was a photo, small and square. Mum smiled there, her arm around a man I didn’t know. On the back: a date, two months before I was born. My stomach dipped. I could hear the clock, loud and ordinary.
That morning had began like any other, it didn’t feel like a big day. Then Mum’s footsteps came down the hall — quick, careful. “Have you seen the post?” she called, voice too light. I didn’t answer. The photo shivered between my hands. What do you say when light finally finds a corner that’s been dark for years? I put the envelope back, not really back, and the room seemed to hold its breath. The secret was done with hiding.
- Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)
Option A:
The stairs go up and up in a tight circle. The walls are damp and rough it feels like old bone when I touch it. It smells of salt and old oil, the air is cold. A thin light leaks from above and it shakes.
The wind thumps the door and the glass rattles and the steps hum like a drum. I hear the sea, it is angry, it hits and hits at the stones. The rail is cold, it bites my hand.
A rope hangs from a hook.
The lamp above flickers, showing rust on the bolts and the peeling paint. Water moves under my boots in little pools, it slides back and forward. It has the big light and a bench and the radio, the radio crackles in and out. The tower creaks - like it is a ship and I am inside it.
Option B:
Morning. Sun on the kitchen tiles. The house was quiet as a mouse. I spilt sugar and it went under the bread bin like snow. When I pulled the bin back, I seen a little tin. It was dusty and blue - it looked old.
I didnt mean to look, but I did. My heart banged like a drum. The lid stuck, then it popped, and the smell was like paper and closets. Inside there was a letter with my name nearly rubbed off. The light moved from the window and another name came up, like it was hiding.
Dad.
I tried to breath. Mum was upstairs, the floor creaked, my chest went hot and small, and I thought I knew nothing at all.
Then the kettle screamed and I dropped the tin, it hit the tiles and something else fell out, a photo, and every thing felt wrong.
- Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)
Option A:
The stairs are wet and old. The stone is rough, it rubs my hand. The metal rail is cold and sticky with salt. The wind is loud it bangs the door and the whole place shakes. A bulb buzz in the ceiling and the light flickers, it makes the walls look green. Water drips, drip drip, it makes a small pool that moves in a circle. I can smell the sea, strong like bad soup. The steps go round and round and up, but it feels tight. A red coat hangs on a hook. A broken radio sits there. I hear a gull, or maybe it is the roof.
Option B:
Morning. The time of waking up; the house is quiet and the clock ticks. light comes in the window and lands on the table and shows a envelope. It is old and yellow. It has my name but wrote in a hand I dont know. I look around, no one is here, Mum is at work Dad is outside so I just open it. outside a bus goes past. Secret. I think it is nothing, then it is not. It says something about me, or us, I cant tell. The toast pops, I smell burn. I put the letter in my bag and I go.