AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

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.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. 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).

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 kind of portrait does the narrator describe?: a full-length portrait – 1 mark
• 1.2 What is the dress like, according to the narrator?: a white dress, made in a very simple old fashion – 1 mark
• 1.3 What does the narrator say about fixing the date of the costume?: too little accustomed to female costume to fix the date – 1 mark
• 1.4 What expression does the narrator notice in the face?: youth, candor, and simplicity – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 seen,--or so, at least in my surprise, I thought. The eyes were a little wistful, with something which was almost anxiety which at least was not content--in them; a faint, almost imperceptible, curve in the lids. The complexion was of a dazzling fairness, the hair light, but the eyes dark, which gave individuality to the face. It would have been as lovely had the

11 eyes been blue,--probably more so,--but their darkness gave a touch of character, a slight discord, which made the harmony finer. It was not, perhaps, beautiful in the highest sense of the word. The girl must have been too young, too slight, too little developed for actual beauty; but a face which so invited love and confidence I never saw. One smiled at it with

How does the writer use language here to describe the young woman’s face and the effect it has on the narrator? 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: A Level 4 response perceptively explores contrast and musical imagery, explaining how the antithesis in "the hair light, but the eyes dark" and the metaphor "a slight discord, which made the harmony finer", reinforced by evaluative detail like "dazzling fairness" and the delicate "almost imperceptible" curve, constructs an individuality that complicates conventional beauty. It also analyses tentative, self-correcting syntax and listing—dash-punctuated hesitations ("or so, at least in my surprise, I thought"), modal adverbs ("perhaps", "probably"), and the tricolon "too young, too slight, too little developed"—to show the narrator’s reflective captivation, culminating in a face that "invited love and confidence" so that "One smiled at it".

The writer uses tentative modifiers and parenthetical asides to render the face’s delicacy and reveal the narrator’s unsettled response. The aside “or so, at least in my surprise, I thought” acts as a caesura, signalling self-correction and shock. Evaluative lexis like “wistful” and the hedged “almost anxiety” complicate the mood, while the micro-detail “a faint, almost imperceptible, curve in the lids” implies reverent scrutiny. Adverbs of degree (“a little”, “almost”) create nuance, showing him feeling his way towards an impression, which conveys fascination and caution.

Furthermore, the writer crafts antithesis to give the face “individuality”: “a dazzling fairness” and “hair light” set against “the eyes dark”. The concessive structure “It would have been as lovely... but their darkness gave a touch of character” subverts conventional blue-eyed beauty. Musical metaphor intensifies this: the “slight discord” that “made the harmony finer” suggests a refined judgement, where imperfection enriches the whole and the narrator delights in the unexpected depth her dark eyes imply.

Additionally, syntax and listing chart his judgement and its emotional fallout. The disclaimer “not, perhaps, beautiful in the highest sense” is followed by a tricolon—“too young, too slight, too little developed”—which emphasises fragility rather than grandeur. Yet personification shifts the register: “a face which so invited love and confidence” portrays the face as actively welcoming, and the hyperbolic “I never saw” heightens his wonder. Finally, the impersonal “One smiled at it” universalises his involuntary response, underscoring the face’s disarming effect on the narrator.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify how emotive adjectives and contrast present the face as delicate yet striking: a little wistful, almost anxiety, and dazzling fairness set against eyes dark which gave individuality to the face, with musical imagery like a slight discord that made the harmony finer. It would also comment on sentence forms and cumulative listing—parenthetical dashes and the list of three too young, too slight, too little developed—to show the narrator’s hesitant admiration and the effect on him, as the face invited love and confidence so that One smiled.

The writer uses emotive adjectives to present the young woman’s eyes as expressive, describing them as “a little wistful” with “almost anxiety … not content.” The repeated “almost” and the delicate phrase “a faint, almost imperceptible, curve in the lids” create vivid imagery. This tentative diction suggests fragility and depth of feeling, so the narrator, “in my surprise,” reads vulnerability and is disarmed.

Furthermore, contrast and a musical metaphor emphasise her individuality: “the complexion was of a dazzling fairness… the hair light, but the eyes dark,” while this “slight discord … made the harmony finer.” The juxtaposition of light and dark and the paradox that discord improves harmony suggest complexity rather than prettiness, so the narrator values her distinctive “touch of character.”

Moreover, sentence forms and modality reveal his conflicted response. Dashes and hedging (“It was not, perhaps, beautiful in the highest sense”) show self-correction, while the modal phrase “must have been too young, too slight, too little developed” is a list of three that tries to explain away his attraction. Personification in “a face which so invited love and confidence” and the hyperbole “I never saw” show the face compels trust; “One smiled at it” implies a universal effect.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses adjectives like "wistful" and "dazzling fairness", and contrasts "light" hair with "dark" eyes; the musical metaphor "slight discord" and "harmony finer" shows she is unusual but still attractive. The hesitation dashes "--probably more so--" and phrases like "invited love and confidence" and "One smiled at it" show the narrator feels warmly drawn to her.

The writer uses emotive adjectives to describe the eyes as “a little wistful” with “almost anxiety” and “not content”. This suggests feelings in her face and makes the narrator pay close attention. The phrase “dazzling fairness” for the complexion and the contrast “the hair light, but the eyes dark” creates individuality. This shows the face is striking and unusual.

Furthermore, the writer uses metaphorical language like “a slight discord” and “made the harmony finer”. The music words make the beauty feel delicate and more interesting. It suggests the narrator sees the darkness of the eyes as giving “a touch of character”, so he admires her even more.

Additionally, the repeated list “too young, too slight, too little developed” and the dashes show hesitation. He knows she is not perfect beauty, but the face “invited love and confidence” and “One smiled at it”, so it has a warm effect on him.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple descriptive words like "dazzling fairness" and "wistful" and contrast in "hair light, but the eyes dark" to show she is pretty but different. A list like "too young, too slight, too little developed" and reactions such as "invited love and confidence" and "One smiled at it" show the narrator feels warmth and trust.

The writer uses adjectives to describe the face, like “wistful” and “dazzling fairness”. This makes the woman seem gentle and very pretty, and it shows the narrator’s surprise and admiration. Moreover, there is contrast in “hair light, but the eyes dark”, which gives the face “individuality”. Additionally, the musical words “slight discord” and “harmony” show a metaphor. This makes the face feel special and balanced, and the narrator even “smiled”, showing a warm effect. Therefore, the narrator admires her and smiles at her face.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:

• Emotive adjectives for the eyes → suggest gentle sadness and depth that humanise her → "a little wistful"
• Qualifiers and self-correction → convey tentative, searching observation rather than certainty → "almost anxiety"
• Precise micro-detail → the tiny eyelid change implies delicacy and subtle beauty → "almost imperceptible"
• Intensifying adjective for skin tone → idealises her as radiant, arresting presence → "dazzling fairness"
• Antithesis of light hair and dark eyes → marks her individuality through striking contrast → "eyes dark"
• Conditional and parenthetical dashes → show reflective weighing of alternatives and evolving judgment → "probably more so"
• Musical metaphor of harmony/discord → paradoxically shows imperfection enhancing overall effect → "made the harmony finer"
• Hedging and concession → nuances admiration by challenging conventional standards of beauty → "not, perhaps, beautiful"
• Tricolon of reasons → builds a measured rationale for lacking “actual beauty” in form → "too young, too slight"
• Hyperbole of response → stresses the face’s irresistible warmth and trustworthiness → "invited love and confidence"

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the start of a story.

How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of revelation?

You could write about:

• how revelation unfolds 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 typically identify how the writer engineers revelation through controlled withholding and shifts in pace—moving from detached description to foreshadowed silence (after an interval, long-drawn breath), to the loaded prompt Does nothing suggest to you who she is and the declarative shock That is your mother—then tracing the tonal shift into fragmented exclamatives and interrogatives (My mother!, What did she ask), so the closing interior monologue reframes the portrait and culminates in a felt mysterious relationship.

One way in which the writer structures revelation is through delayed disclosure and controlled focus. The opening sustains ekphrastic close-up of “a very young woman… in a white dress,” zooming from dress to “eyes” to “complexion” while withholding identity. Uncertain temporal markers (“a hundred years… or twenty”) and cumulative detail lull us into aesthetic appraisal. Dialogue and punctuation then modulate pace: the dash in “Was?—then she is dead” gives a preliminary, misleading ‘reveal,’ while “after an interval” and “at length” slow time to prime the moment of truth.

In addition, the revelation is delivered via a structural pivot in dialogue and paragraphing. The father’s prompt, “Does nothing suggest to you who she is, Phil?” tightens focus, and the clipped declarative “That is your mother” functions as the volta that compels a re-reading of all prior detail. His evasions—he “turned away” and “walked suddenly away”—and the isolation of this line give the disclosure shock value, converting a neutral “she” into the intimate “your mother.”

A further structural feature is the aftermath: a shift from external description to interior monologue that deepens the revelation. Anaphora and exclamatives (“My mother!”) register astonishment; interrogatives (“What did she ask…?”) and the hypothetical mood (“those lips had language”) show him processing it. The illusion and denial—“the lips to move… Ah, no!”—create oscillation, slowing pace. The tonal movement from wonder to “consternation” to “giddiness… in the sense of a mysterious relationship” carries the revelation from fact into meaning.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would identify that the writer builds revelation by moving from detailed description of 'a very young woman—a girl scarcely twenty' to delay and silence ('My father made me no reply', 'after an interval'), so the abrupt 'That is your mother' is a turning point that changes how we see the portrait. It would also note the shift into the narrator’s reaction ('My mother!', 'a sudden laugh broke from me', 'tears in my eyes'), using questions and reflection to show the mood moving from admiration to shock and reveal the emotional impact.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create revelation is through delayed identification and controlled pace. The opening functions as exposition, focusing on the portrait (“a very young woman… in a white dress”) while withholding who she is. Long descriptive sentences slow the pace and build curiosity; the “wistful” eyes foreshadow significance. The pause “after an interval” further extends suspense.

In addition, the writer engineers a clear turning point via dialogue and a shift in focus. The father’s prompting question, “Does nothing suggest to you who she is, Phil?” primes the reader, and the abrupt declarative, “That is your mother,” forms the climactic reveal. His “long-drawn breath” and then walking “suddenly away” mark a shift from calm admiration to shock.

A further structural choice is the movement from external observation to interior reflection after the reveal. The first-person viewpoint turns inward: the refrain “My mother!” and a series of rhetorical questions slow the pace again, creating a reflective close. By the end, the focus settles on the unresolved “mysterious relationship,” so the revelation both surprises and lingers.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer first slows the pace with detailed description and pauses ("we stood gazing", "after an interval,", "with a long-drawn breath") to withhold who the girl is. Then the delayed dialogue "That is your mother" creates the revelation and shifts the mood to shock, shown by the narrator’s reaction "My mother!".

One way the writer structures the text to create revelation is by beginning with detailed description of the portrait without telling us who she is. The focus at the beginning is on appearance: "a very young woman... in a white dress". This withholding builds curiosity and sets up the reveal.

In addition, in the middle the writer uses dialogue and pauses to delay the answer. The father's "long-drawn breath" and question "Does nothing suggest to you who she is?" slow the pace. Then the short sentence "That is your mother" is the turning point and climax, creating shock for the narrator and reader.

A further structural feature is how the ending shifts focus to Phil's reaction. The tone changes to confusion and awe, with repetition of "My mother!" and questions. This end section extends the revelation and shows its emotional effect and consequence.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer describes the full-length portrait of a very young woman, using a pause (after an interval) and a question (Does nothing suggest to you who she is) to delay the answer, and by the end the sudden statement That is your mother creates the revelation. The reaction My mother! shows simple shock and a change in mood.

One way the writer builds revelation is by opening with description of the girl in the portrait. This delays the identity and keeps focus on details, making the reveal feel bigger.

In addition, dialogue structures the reveal. The father pauses “after an interval” and then the short sentence “That is your mother” creates a sudden shock. The question “Does nothing suggest...” also signals it.

A further feature is a shift in focus after the reveal. The viewpoint moves from the picture to the narrator’s reaction at the end, changing the mood to shock and confusion. This shows the impact.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:

• Delayed identification through extended portrait description builds curiosity so the later disclosure lands as a revelation ("Who is she?")
• Temporal ambiguity about the portrait’s date sustains uncertainty, priming a reveal that resolves this vagueness into personal significance ("a hundred years old")
• Pauses and withheld response from the father pace the scene to heighten suspense before naming her ("after an interval")
• Stepwise unveiling uses a smaller disclosure (her death) to foreshadow the larger one, creating a layered revelation ("she is dead")
• The structural climax is the direct naming, which abruptly converts an object of admiration into intimate kinship ("That is your mother")
• A sharp tonal shift and exclamatory fragments enact the shock of recognition, showing revelation turning into personal upheaval ("My mother!")
• A momentary misreading corrected in real time marks the mind catching up with the news, intensifying the sense of dawning truth ("Ah, no!")
• Reflective questions and brief allusion extend the aftermath, turning the instant reveal into sustained contemplation of meaning ("those lips had language")
• Juxtaposition of observers with the image frames the reveal as a clash of ages and roles, sharpening its strangeness ("two men")
• An unresolved closing note leaves the revelation emotionally open, suggesting understanding is incomplete and ongoing ("mysterious relationship")

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 31 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the narrator laughs after finding out the portrait is of his mother, his reaction seems strange. The writer suggests this is not a cruel laugh, but a sign of his complete shock and confusion.

To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the narrator's strange laugh
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the narrator's shock and confusion
• 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 the writer frames the laugh as shock rather than cruelty, foregrounding its involuntary impulse (without any will of mine), the uneasy juxtaposition (something ludicrous, as well as something awful), and destabilising aftermath (with tears in my eyes, vertigo and giddiness, beyond my power to understand). It would analyse methods—rhetorical self-questioning (What did she ask..., What would she have said...), momentary personification (the lips to move), and the infantilising description (white-robed innocent creature)—to show how these craft a curious incongruity that supports the writer’s viewpoint of shock and confusion rather than cruelty.

I largely agree with the statement. The narrator’s laugh is undeniably strange in context, yet the writer frames it as an involuntary eruption of shock and cognitive dissonance rather than cruelty. From the moment Phil reveals, “That is your mother,” the narrator registers “profound astonishment” and “consternation,” a tonal bedrock that predisposes us to read the laugh as a physiological reflex to an overwhelming revelation.

The description of the portrait as a “white-robed innocent creature, to me no more than a child” immediately sets up a profound incongruity. Exclamatives and anaphora in “My mother!” work like shock-waves, the repeated exclamation crystallising a concept he cannot assimilate. When “a sudden laugh broke from me, without any will of mine,” the adverbial clause foregrounds lack of agency; the oxymoronic pairing “ludicrous” and “awful” compresses incompatible registers—comic absurdity and reverent dread—capturing the clash between the childlike image and the sacralised idea of “mother.”

The text then pivots from laughter to tears—“when the laugh was over, I found myself with tears in my eyes”—a structural shift that defuses any reading of cruelty. Personification of the portrait (“the lips to move,” “the anxiety in the eyes”) is instantly retracted by the self-correcting aside, “Ah, no! nothing of the kind; only because of the water in mine.” The fractured syntax and abrupt negation dramatise his confusion: his senses mislead him; reason lurches to restore control.

An apostrophic address—“oh, fair and gentle creature, scarcely woman”—draws on a lexical field of purity (“fair,” “gentle,” “candid,” “sweet”), repositioning the subject of his laugh as an object of reverence, not mockery. The dash-led parenthesis (“had heard it laughed at, scoffed at, reverenced”) offers a tricolon of cultural responses to motherhood; by placing his experience among these polarities, the narrator signals bewilderment rather than contempt. The intertextual allusion to Cowper—“If I had known her only as Cowper did… ‘those lips had language’”—underscores his lack of even a “faint… link,” intensifying the pathos of a bond he cannot access.

Finally, his reclassification of her as “poor child… little sister… a child of mine” is not derision but a coping strategy, a misapplied tenderness that deepens the “curious incongruity.” Temporal dilation (“I cannot tell how long I stood”) and the somatic metaphor “curious vertigo and giddiness” embody his destabilised state. By closing with a “mysterious relationship… beyond my power to understand,” the writer completes a structural arc from shock to empathetic bewilderment.

Overall, the laugh is a jarring symptom of astonishment, not cruelty; the narrative voice, imagery, and structural shifts collectively position it as the audible crack of confusion under an emotional load he cannot bear.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining the laugh as shock rather than cruelty by noting the narrator’s loss of control ("without any will of mine"), the mixed tone ("something ludicrous, as well as something awful"), and physical/emotional responses ("tears in my eyes", "holding my breath"). It would also identify methods showing confusion—repetition and word choice—through "My mother!", "curious incongruity", and "vertigo and giddiness" to evidence overwhelming disbelief.

I largely agree with the statement. The narrator’s laugh does seem strange, but the writer presents it as an involuntary response to shock and bewilderment rather than cruelty. The build-up to the laugh frames his reaction: he turns “with profound astonishment” and stands “in a kind of consternation,” so the laugh “broke from me, without any will of mine.” That lack of control signals shock. The oxymoronic pairing “something ludicrous, as well as something awful” captures the clash of emotions; the discovery is both absurd (because the “white-robed innocent creature” looks “no more than a child”) and terrible. Any suggestion of meanness is undercut by “tears in my eyes,” immediately after the laugh.

The writer uses personification and self-correction to show confusion. The features “seemed to melt,” the “lips to move,” and the eyes become “a personal inquiry,” but the exclamative interjection “Ah, no!” followed by the clarification “only because of the water in mine” shows a mind reeling and then correcting itself. Rhetorical questions—“What did she ask… What would she have said…”—dramatise his groping for meaning. Structurally, the dash in “I had little idea…—had heard it laughed at, scoffed at, reverenced” mimics a faltering thought process, while the tricolon charts his mixed cultural attitudes to “mother.”

Crucially, the lexis of tenderness reveals the laugh is not cruel. He calls her “fair and gentle,” “scarcely woman,” and repeatedly “Poor child!… Poor girl!” The similes and role inversion—“as if she had been a little sister, a child of mine”—show pity, not mockery. Finally, the metaphor of “curious vertigo and giddiness” and the admission that the relationship is “beyond my power to understand” confirm his disorientation. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer positions us to see the laugh as a reflex to the incongruity and emotional shock, not as a sign of cruelty.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Typical Level 2 responses mostly agree the laugh shows shock and confusion rather than cruelty, pointing to "without any will of mine" and "tears in my eyes" to show it wasn’t deliberate or unkind, and mentioning "curious incongruity", the questions "What did she ask", and the sympathetic "Poor child!" as simple evidence of his confusion and care.

I mostly agree that the narrator’s laugh is strange but not cruel; it shows his shock and confusion. The writer makes the laugh feel involuntary: “a sudden laugh broke from me, without any will of mine.” This suggests he cannot control it. He even admits there was “something ludicrous, as well as something awful” in it. Although “ludicrous” could sound unkind, the mix of tones points to shock rather than mockery.

After the laugh, his physical reactions show the impact: “tears in my eyes” and “holding my breath” are clear signs of being overwhelmed. The exclamation and repetition in “My mother!” emphasise disbelief. The gentle imagery of the portrait—“white-robed innocent creature,” “fair and gentle creature, scarcely woman”—creates a tender mood. He calls her “Poor child!” which shows sympathy, not cruelty.

The writer also uses personification and questions to reveal confusion. The face seems to “melt,” the “lips to move,” and then he corrects himself, “Ah, no!... only because of the water in mine.” This quick shift shows he is unsettled. The rhetorical questions—“What did she ask…? What would she have said…?”—show he is searching for meaning. He even labels the feeling a “curious incongruity,” admitting how strange it is.

Structurally, the passage moves from the sudden laugh to reflection and regret: he is “sorry, with a profound regret,” and ends with “vertigo and giddiness” at a “mysterious relationship.” Overall, I agree to a large extent that the laugh is a sign of shock and confusion, not cruelty.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Level 1: Simply agrees the laugh shows shock/confusion rather than cruelty, using basic quotes like "a sudden laugh", "without any will of mine", and "tears in my eyes" to show he is overwhelmed.

I mostly agree with the statement. The narrator’s laugh does seem strange, but the writer shows it comes from shock and confusion, not cruelty.

At first, he is told, “That is your mother,” and he feels “consternation.” Then “a sudden laugh broke from me, without any will of mine.” This suggests the laugh is involuntary. He even says there was “something ludicrous, as well as something awful” in it, which shows mixed feelings and shock.

The writer also shows it is not cruel by the physical reaction: “When the laugh was over, I found myself with tears in my eyes, gazing, holding my breath.” The exclamation “My mother!” is repeated, which sounds like disbelief. The rhetorical questions, “What did she ask…? What would she have said…?” show confusion and trying to understand.

There is contrast between the “white-robed innocent creature… no more than a child” and the idea of “my mother,” which makes it feel wrong to him. He calls it a “curious incongruity,” and the words “vertigo and giddiness” suggest shock. Adjectives like “innocent,” “candid” and “sweet” create a gentle tone, so the laugh is not nasty.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer uses description, repetition, questions and contrast to show shock and confusion rather than a cruel reaction.

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:

• Involuntary outburst: loss of control signals shock rather than malice → supports a non-cruel reading (without any will of mine)
• Juxtaposed tones (‘ludicrous’ and ‘awful’): conveys a conflicted, nervous reaction → laughter as tension-release, not mockery (something ludicrous)
• Immediate shift to tears: physical collapse into emotion undermines any cruelty → shows overwhelm and empathy (tears in my eyes)
• Exclamatory repetition: disbelief at the revelation foregrounds shock and identity dislocation (My mother!)
• Rhetorical questioning and imagined speech: searching to connect with the image, not deride it → thinking under pressure and confusion (those lips had language)
• Admission of ignorance: he lacks a clear concept of “mother,” explaining the bewildered reaction (what it meant)
• Emphasis on her youth and purity: intensifies the role-mismatch causing cognitive dissonance behind the laugh (white-robed innocent creature)
• Compassionate address and pity: his repeated sympathy contradicts cruelty and shows tenderness (Poor child!)
• Disorientation imagery: bodily “vertigo” makes confusion palpable → the laugh stems from destabilisation (vertigo and giddiness)
• Misperception then self-correction: tears make the portrait seem alive before he checks himself → evidence of muddled shock, not malice (Ah, no!)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At a pop-up exhibition under the railway arches, short creative pieces will be displayed about life above and below the wires.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a city rooftop crowded with aerials and dishes from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a city-wide power cut.

(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.

• 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.

• 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.

• 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.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• 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:

The rooftop is a thicket of metal and intention: whip-thin aerials pricking the dusk, broad satellite dishes cupped like pale palms, a skein of coaxial cables draped from mast to mast. The city exhales heat; tar breathes out the faint sweetness of bitumen; a warm wind combs dust and pigeon feathers into eddies that sparkle for a moment then sink. Behind the distant chimneys the sun folds itself away, leaving the sky the colour of a fading bruise. Shadows elongate, fusing with the black parapet and the soot-blackened vents; a filigree of wires sketches a fragile geometry over it all.

They lean with a kind of listening patience, those antennas. They tilt and turn, tilt and turn, with that slow decisiveness of machines that know their work. They harvest voices and scatter them: a stadium’s roar; a lullaby recited so softly it almost isn’t there; laughter shelled down to pure bright sound; the hiss of weather like sand over glass. A guy-wire, taut as a violin string, thrums; another lies slack, an indolent serpent coiled in S-shapes along the gravel. The skyline chews its electricity thoughtfully — perhaps too poetically said, but tonight even the concrete seems contemplative.

Underfoot, the roof gives a little (a tired strip of tarmac surrendering millimetres), and gravel grates under boot. There are rust freckles stippling bolts; there are prints of gulls in the dust, hieroglyphs no one will decipher. A plastic bottle, clouded and dented, rolls then settles with a small click against the low wall. Someone’s washing line, improbably strung from vent to vent, lifts and bows — shirts ghosting the air with the soap-clean smell of morning though the day is dying. A cat, soot-sleek, threads a route along the parapet, tail an upright tassel. A man in a high-vis vest squints into the thinning light — screwdriver glinting at his knuckles — and nudges a dish by degrees, degrees; the tiny red LED blinks its acquiescence.

Meanwhile, below, the city flickers to itself: a daisy chain of windows brightening; the first neon chattering awake; sirens ribboning through the intervals. But up here the hum is steadier, nearly devotional. A dish shivers; condensation beads on its rim, gathers, hesitates, leaps; gone. Somewhere a radio coughs and clears its throat; fragments whip past — and he shoots, and... — then only static, the seaside trapped in a shell. The wind noses the aerials and they answer with small creaks, metal syllables, patient and precise.

Night comes, not at once but in layers. The aerials ink themselves black, fern-cut silhouettes against a thickening violet. The dishes become moons; they receive, they relay, they repeat — again and again, as if repetition alone could map the human heart. The roof is a crown on the city’s head, a palimpsest of footprints, pigeon-scratch, cigarette ash, rain-rubbed stains. Yet there: a single bent rod, listing at an awkward angle, a question mark against the wide, listening sky, as if the whole array were wondering what, exactly, it was waiting to hear.

Option B:

Night was a choreography the city knew by heart: sodium pools on wet tarmac; trains needling after-midnight promises; windows rehearsing the same laughter in a thousand rooms. Billboards mouthed bright commandments; the river carried borrowed light; lifts and fridges and traffic stitched an ordinary hymn. Then, mid-bar, the conductor lowered his hand. A click — delicate, decisive — moved through the concrete, and the city blinked. The neon narrowed to nothing; the hymn broke off; the grid went blank, as cleanly as if someone had wiped a page and left only hush.

On the fifteenth floor, Maya had been composing a sentence she had rewritten twelve times — Dear Ms Clarke, with respect, I resign — when her laptop folded shut like an eyelid. The kettle forgot what it was doing; the hum under the flat let go. For a heartbeat she held very still, waiting for the sulky flicker of a fuse. It did not come. The room grew its own bones. She heard her own breath, suddenly separate.

At the window, the estate opposite stood like a row of sleeping giants, stairwells unthreaded, panes blank as closed eyes. The chicken shop's neon had been cut; the pharmacy sign that promised OPEN OPEN OPEN lay quiet as a shut mouth. Without its electrics the city was not empty — merely audible: a child cried; someone laughed too brightly; a dog barked, then reconsidered. Above the river, stars the city had traded for glare tentatively took back their positions.

Her phone woke in her palm, a small moon — nine per cent. The hall switch sat in its neat halo and did nothing, again. The lifts would be stalled; the stairwell would smell of damp carpet; Mrs Puri in 15B would be fretting about her husband’s machine. Movement felt like an answer, so she opened her door. The corridor was reduced to foxfire along the skirting; doors opened like cautious eyes.

‘Is it just us?’ someone breathed. ‘Whole street,’ Mr Petrescu said, hoisting a battery radio. ‘Whole city, they say.’ The radio hissed, then found a tinny voice: ‘...major outage... National Grid... please remain calm.’

She gathered her cardigan — threadbare but stubborn — and joined the slow thread of neighbours towards the stairs; the building, usually a quiet machine, remembered itself as a house. On the landing a boy in dinosaur pyjamas cradled a toy that growled once, bravely, then failed. ‘Will it come back?’ he asked. ‘It always does,’ Maya said. They went down together, counting by twos.

Below, the dark was not emptiness but a kind of beginning: a match struck and cupped; a guitar testing its first squeak; voices crossing thresholds long shut. Somewhere, a siren raised a worried question and laid it down again. In the careful descent, her email contracted to a single speck — trivial and luminous. She placed her foot on the next step, and the next, as if the staircase were teaching her how to go on without instructions.

• Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)

Option A:

Dusk lays a thin glaze over the city; the rooftop becomes a steel garden. Aerials bristle like black thorns; dishes tilt like pale moons; cables wander in lazy loops, a lattice of dark vines. Tar, warmed all day, exhales a faintly chemical sweetness; rust blooms in patient oranges along the brackets; a puddle keeps the sky in its shallow palm.

The wind does a slow, methodical job: it threads the lines, it prises a tired sigh from a loose panel, it skitters grit along the parapet in small, salt-like drifts. Somewhere a relay ticks—tick, tick—then quiets. A gull lands and taps the concrete with hollow urgency, eyeing the white bowls as if they were rival birds. From an open vent, a ribbon of air brings hints of garlic and soap and yesterday’s rain; the mixture is odd, but honest.

Each dish faces the same far line, attentive, devout; the bowls wear thin crescents of grime like tired smiles. Aerials stand in ranks, spindly and uncompromising, their crosspieces like tuning forks paused between notes. There is a low thrum, almost imagined, sliding beneath the higher city-sounds—sirens far away, a bus sighing as it kneels, somebody laughing through a window I cannot see. The roof feels like the attic of the sky, full of forgotten instruments; it is almost like a forest, I think, though the leaves here are wires and the trees are metal.

Light lies shallow in rain-pocks; when a cloud loosens, the reflection shivers. The colour above shifts—bruised violet to diluted copper near the horizon—and a first star tests its voice. I step carefully between vents and chimneys; the felt gives underfoot, a soft compliance, and the ballast stones click against themselves, quiet but insistent. Under the heel, warmth lingers; the brick edge, hoarding heat like a miser, surprises my palm. I try to catalogue what I see: a stubby mast with a rust-bitten clamp; three dishes nested like moons; a cable diving into a tar seam and vanishing.

I think of conversations flying invisibly past: promises; football scores; weather warnings; late apologies. So many lives, translated into light, brushed against by the thin fingers of these aerials, then flung outward—relentless, necessary. It should feel lonely, but it doesn’t. Everything is listening. Everything is speaking, quietly, and not to me (and who am I to interrupt?).

Night presses in, gentle but certain. Out beyond the parapet, windows bloom—scattered, then gathered, then steady—and the rooftop shifts from garden to orchestra, a fretwork of strings and mouths. The aerials, faithful sentries, lift their attenuated arms against the deepening purple and keep on listening.

Option B:

At 4:27 on an ordinary Thursday, the city blinked. Lifts, lights, and screens—those glassy constellations—went out in a single, unceremonious sigh. It was as if the city’s ribcage paused between breaths; the hum that threaded through offices and cafés, the soft music of air‑conditioning and refrigeration, was cut. Signs that usually shouted in incandescence were suddenly mute: billboards, menu boards, pharmacy crosses. Darkness did not pour in like ink, because daylight still lay across pavements and glass, but something drained away—the artificial day that kept everything brisk, on schedule. Someone flicked a switch. Everyone felt it.

Leila was on the fifteenth floor, waiting for the kettle to sing; it stuttered, fell quiet, and her flat widened in an unfamiliar hush. The clock on the cooker went blind. The fridge surrendered its low purr. She went to the window and watched an odd tide move over the opposite tower: office floors dimmed in stripes until hundreds of small rectangles were black mirrors. In the stairwell, somebody knocked on a lift door—three polite taps—then shouted, “Hello? Help!” Her phone on the counter was fully charged, suddenly less important.

Down on King Street, traffic lights became dark eyes. Drivers hesitated, then inched into the junction with that embarrassed courage people use at four‑way stops in films; horns grumbled, anxious. A bakery door swung open and warm air—yeast and sugar—rolled into the cooler afternoon. In the newsagent’s, Mr Singh prodded the till and lifted a dead card machine like exhibit A. A cyclist sang a bar of something; a baby began to wail. It wasn’t quite chaos. It wasn’t anything yet. It was waiting.

We had built a nervous system out of copper and code—sliding our lives along wires and waves—and didn’t notice it until it was gone. Without that hidden skein, the city’s rhythm turned clumsy: lifts were boxes without ropes. Phones lit our faces in small, blue ponds; “No service” stared back, calm as a verdict. What do you do when the city forgets how to glow? Leila found a candle (left from a birthday), struck a match, and watched the flame kneel, then stand. Somewhere a generator coughed into life, coughed again, and failed. Her phone buzzed once—one message, three words. Outside, doors opened; voices drifted up and down. Her skin prickled. The three words on her screen hung for a heartbeat: “Don’t go outside.” Then the screen went black.

• Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)

Option A:

Dusk combs its cool fingers through the rooftops. This one is a crowded plateau of metal and cable. Aerials jab at the paling sky, thin and stubborn; dishes tilt as if cupping the last light. The tarred felt is warm yet cooling, holding the heat of the day like a kept secret. The city below exhales: bus brakes sigh, kitchen windows steam. Up here, everything seems to lean forward and listen, a rough congregation of spines and mouths—waiting.

Wind scuds across the gravel, plucking wires; the guy wires sing a faint, tinny note. Some aerials are ornate, antlered; others are blunt stubs, practical and plain. Coaxial cables snake in tidy bows, then dive under chipping concrete; their skin is ridged and gritty, black turned grey by the sun. A loose bracket ticks, ticks again, a small metronome for the evening.

Pigeons sidle along a parapet, their feathers oil-slick, their eyes bright coins. From a vent blooms the smell of frying garlic and hot water; from another, warm laundry air carries the faint, clean sweetness of soap. Far down, a siren threads the streets; up here, a radio mutters football results, the words climbing ladders of static. Dishes turn their pale faces not to us, but to invisible horizons.

Puddles left by last night’s shower hold pieces of sky—bruise-purple, then bruised no longer. A cigarette butt floats like a small boat. Someone has patched the felt with tar that shines like liquorice; boot prints, flattened and ghostly, cross it. It would be simple to call this a concrete jungle, yet these stems and petals are not wild: arranged, a garden of listening made by patient hands.

As the first stars prick the evening, a red light on the tallest mast winks; aeroplanes answer. The rooftop settles, but it does not sleep. It collects: murmurs, fragments, signals that skip and scatter. In the gathering dark, the aerials seem to bow, accepting the weight of the night. They keep watch—thin silhouettes against a slow, indigo sky—so that below, rooms fill with voices and the city keeps talking.

Option B:

Evening. The time windows glow; buses string themselves along the road like beads; the city hums with wires hidden under pavements. Air vents purr; fridges click; the river holds a ribbon of reflection that is not water but light. From tower to terrace, something electric stitches strangers together, a quiet, constant seam.

On the ninth floor, Maya balanced a too-hot mug of tea and her physics book. She had underlined Current is the rate of flow, which felt both dry and, somehow, relevant. Her charger dangled from the socket, her phone at eleven percent, a stubborn little moon in the corner of the screen. Below, sirens braided through traffic; above, the ceiling bulb—flickering again—argued with the dusk.

It happened in a breath. The kettle clicked, the fridge sighed, the television in the flat next door murmured…and then all of it stopped. Out. Out went the lights, the signs, the tiny LEDs that had held back the night: the digital clock’s red digits, the fishbowl windows across the street, the strip of neon that made the takeaway look awake. The hum the city wore like a coat slipped off its shoulders.

At first there was a thick, absolute pause, as if sound itself were stunned. Then, little by little, other noises arrived: a window thrown up; a question called down the stairwell; the creak of a door. Maya stood very still and felt the apartment expand around her, unfamiliar without its electric heartbeat. She found a torch—small, cheap, surprisingly brave—and stepped into the corridor, where an emergency bulb burned a weak orange halo.

“Power cut?” someone asked from the shadows.

“Looks like city-wide,” another voice announced, confident without evidence; we like to explain.

Meanwhile, the lift was dead, its silver doors a mirror to their puzzled faces, someone laughed too loudly. They took the stairs. The air smelt of dust and warm paint; their feet made a collective shuffle, a soft avalanche.

Outside, the road was a cautious river of brake lights. Traffic lights had retired, politely; drivers negotiated with palms and eyes. Without the lit windows, the building opposite was only a dark shape; without the squeal of a tram, the night was heavy and almost honest. Above, a handful of cold stars pricked through, tentative, like pinholes. How long would this last, and who would we be in the dark?

Maya hugged her coat and listened. The city had exhaled—and now, finally, it could be heard.

• Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)

Option A:

At dusk, this roof becomes a metal garden, bristling with aerials and dishes. The last light slips between them and pools in shallow puddles; the sky sits there twice, shivering. Wind brushes the parapet; it lifts a strip of peeling felt. The whole place smells of tar and old rain; grit underfoot makes a soft crunch.

The aerials stand thin and stubborn, like wiry stems; some lean, some repaired with tape. Dishes tilt their round faces as if drinking the fading glow—grey, dented. Cables loop and twist in black scribbles. When the breeze pushes them, they tap against brackets, a quiet percussion. In the far corner a fan exhales a warm breath; it smells faintly of chips.

Sound climbs from the city and lands up here in crumbs. A siren, thin. A laugh. The thud of a bus hitting a pothole. Then a radio, only a few words, then static again—someone’s kitchen, someone’s song. It feels like the roof is listening. The red eye on a dish blinks once; a green diode answers. Far off, the tallest mast trembles. Humming and blinking, they keep their secret work.

There are other small lives too: a scruffy cat slides along the wall and vanishes behind a water tank. An old broom lies across a vent—splintered and grey—and a bubble pops in a puddle, rings gliding toward the rusting ladder. Below, windows open like square mouths, spilling butter-coloured light. Night finishes the job the day began. The blue goes to ink, and the aerials turn to black lines, sketching the air. The wind strengthens; it whips a wire, it whistles. Somewhere a door bangs; then the roof settles, watching the city breathe, holding the sky and all those secrets a little closer.

Option B:

Evening. The hour when windows glow, kettles click, and traffic laces the roads with red and white. The city breathed in its usual rhythm; lifts climbed, screens whispered, fridges hummed a neat, reliable note.

Then the humming stuttered. One by one, streetlights blinked as if they were tired; a few died and the rest followed. It wasn't a bang or a crash, just a quiet falling, like a blanket pulled over a child. The city held its breath.

In her tenth-floor flat, Lena stood over a pan of pasta that stopped boiling mid-bubble. The hob light went black. The radio slipped to a thin thread of static, then nothing. She checked her phone—12%—and saw her face in the dark screen.

She stepped into the hallway, where the strip lights were out, leaving a tunnel of grey. By the lift, the display froze on 3. The air felt colder, or maybe it was just the sudden quiet. A laugh floated up from below, loose and nervous.

Out in the street, horns started and then faltered, like a nervous orchestra. Traffic lights were just dark glass; buses hunched at the junction. From far away, a siren curled through the air—steady, almost calm—then faded. For the first time in months the sky looked bigger: a few shy stars pressed against the night.

Lena rummaged in the drawer that ate everything useful and found a box of matches and a stunted candle. She lit it; the match flared with sulphur and a hiss, and the wick caught. Shadows leaned over the sink like tired giants.

"You okay, love?" Mrs Patel called from across the hall. "Yeah," Lena said, though she wasn't sure. How long would it last—an hour, a night? She thought of the hospital at the end of the road, and the old man on twelve.

• Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)

Option A:

The rooftop is a crowded world above the real one. At dusk the sky is bruised purple and orange, and the metal aerials scratch at it like thin fingers. Dishes tilt on brackets, pale bowls catching the last light; they look like moons left out to dry. The tar smells warm and chemical. Gravel shifts under my shoes, a quiet crunch, while below the city hums on and on. Wires criss-cross in a messy lattice and every pole leans a little, listening. Up here is windy but strangely close.

Cables snake along the ledges, taped in places, sagging in others; they gather into a knot by a vent. When the breeze pushes through, the lines tremble and sing — a faint, twitchy note, almost a tune. Rust freckles the screws. A pigeon perches on a crooked antenna, a soft grey weight, and it blinks like its thinking. In a puddle an oval dish is doubled: a reflection, broken by ripples. The city’s signs blink; neon climbs the metal and turns it a vampire blue.

From here, roofs fold away: a jagged silouette of chimney pots, aerials and dishes, all calling out. Who hears these signals, darting from house to cloud? The mouth of each dish seems to whisper; the spiky masts nod like they agree. I touch one — it’s cold, and it hums, faint. Somewhere a door slams and a dog barks; the sound drifts up and stays. Night thickens, and the rooftop hums too: steady, patient, humming, as if it remembers everything.

Option B:

Night fell earlier than it should have. It didn't so much fall as snap. One by one the windows along the block went out, and then all at once the street was a mouth closing on a secret. The shop signs died with a little sigh; the traffic lights blinked, blinked, and didn’t come back. It was Tuesday, not special, but the city behaved like it had been told to freeze. Even the trains under my feet seemed to hold their breath.

I had just left the launderette with a bag of warm clothes pressing my chin. The air felt thicker without the neon hum. My phone lit my palm like a weak candle. Across the road, Mrs Patel stood in her doorway calling up the stairs: 'Ravi? You okay?' Somewhere an alarm began and then decided no; it hiccuped into silence. Then car horns rolled down the hill, frustrated, useless. People gathered, a small crowd blooming like a bruise. We laughed a bit because what else, and then we didn’t. The quiet wasn’t peaceful, it was waiting.

Meanwhile, the sky seemed bigger. Stars peeped through the orange smear that usually hangs there; they looked surprised to be invited. A generator coughed, failed. Someone said it was the whole city. I tried to think of hospitals, of lifts stuck between floors – of my gran with her machine that buzzes night and day. How long can things last without their plugs? I tightened my coat and listened. The city, still. My heart, not.

• Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)

Option A:

At dusk the rooftop is crowded with thin black lines and oval faces, a forest of aerials in silhouette. Dishes tilt like pale moons, some chipped, some clean and glimmering; they look over a corrugated edge at the city. Cables snake across gravel and tar. The aerials crane their necks towards a stripe of orange on the horizon, as if waiting. The air is sharp, it tastes a bit like metal and dust. It is quiet, but busy.

Meanwhile, the streets breathe beneath; up here, the wind does the talking. It plucks at loose tape and makes a dry flutter—tick, tick. Little red lights blink, blink like tired eyes. A dish seems to collect a whisper. Wires cross and knot: a web made by hands, not spiders. The smell of old rain sits in the gutter, tar cooling, a faint hum running through the frames.

Then the hatch bangs once and a caretaker climbs out, in a thick coat. He checks a bracket, taps a bolted plate, he squints at the sky and at his watch. The dishes lean and listen, the aerials crowd closer. They don’t move really. Its like a metal garden that grows signals instead of leaves.

Option B:

It happened at six on a wet Tuesday. One blink, then darkness. Street-lamps died; windows turned to blank squares. Neon signs blinked out; the station clock—gone. The city held its breath; rain tapped the concrete, a far-off dog barked. The skyline became a silhouette, like paper cut-outs against hidden light. No lights. No screens. No noise except our own.

I stood in the stairwell with my phone, the battery sign at 2% like a warning. It flashed once and died. Great. My sister, Mara, was on the twelfth floor at her violin lesson; the lifts stopped, people shouted, doors banging. The hallway felt longer in the dark. I tried to breathe slow because the air felt thicker. At first I laughed, trying to be calm. Then I remembered Gran in the tower across the road and my stomach tightened.

Outside, the city was changed. Car horns were confused, buses parked like tired animals, a siren wailed then cut out. Neighbours drifted down with torches and candles: little islands of flame. Someone said it was the whole city, maybe more. For a moment we stood together under a sky that finally showed stars—and I felt small, but also ready to move.

• Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)

Option A:

The rooftop is flat and black little metal sticks stand everywhere, they look like thin trees and bones. Big round dishes sit on the edges like pale moons, staring at the sky. The tar smells warm and old, the wind tugs my coat, there is wires that ping.

It is almost dusk, orange shaddows crawl across the bricks. Pigeons stomp and coo, they flap into the smoke air. I can hear a slow hum from the antenas and the city goes on below, like a big engine that wont stop.

Some of the aerials are bent, some are taped, they point and point at nothing and also everything. The dish wobbles in the wind, it clack clack clacks - I think it might blow away. My shoes scrape, my breath clouds up. Down there lights blink, up here it is quiet, just far. i look over the ledge, I look up, up, up and the sky feels close.

Option B:

Night. The lights went out all at once, like someone clicked their fingers. The TV went black. It was so quiet you can hear the pipes in the wall.

No street lights, no shop windows, the fridge in the kitchen stopped its little hum, even the buzz from the big road was different. It was a thick dark.

I stood at the window and I could see faces lit by phones, and people saying hey what happened. Cars stopped at the crossroads and they sat there, horns and then no horns, only a dog bark.

Mum said dont move. But I wanted to see more, so I put on my trainers and went to the flat door, it was cold on the handle.

The lift was dead so the numbers didnt glow. Stairs only.

It was like the whole city was asleep, but not asleep, just off. I went down slow, one step, then another.

• Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)

Option A:

The sun is going down on the city roof top. The sky is purple and grey. There are lots of ariels and dishes everywhere, metal things, you see them poke up like spider legs and they wobble in the wind. Long shadows is across the bricks and wires go back and forth, back and forth. I can hear a small buzzing sound from the box, maybe it is from TV or something. A cold wind smell like rust. The dishes are round like bowls, they stare at the clouds. I dont like heights I look down and then I think of space ships.

Option B:

Night. The lights went off in the city and the windows looked empty. I stand on the path and I can’t see my own hand, it feels like a big black blanket on the streets. Cars stop and people shout a little, then they go quiet. The shop signs die and the fridges hum stops, I hear a dog. I try my phone but it dont turn on, the battery is gone. I remember my exam tomorrow for some reason. A bus rolls slow in the dark, then it stops and nothing moves. I think of a candle but we dont have matches.