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 is John almost lost in?: The darkness – 1 mark
• 1.2 Where is the girl positioned?: Against the fender – 1 mark
• 1.3 What is the lad doing?: Sitting and watching the girl – 1 mark
• 1.4 What do John, the girl and the lad do at the start?: Sit down to tea – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 said the child. "Do you?" said her mother. "Why?" "It's so red, and full of little caves--and it feels so nice, and you can fair smell it."

11 "It'll want mending directly," replied her mother, "and then if your father comes he'll carry on and say there never is a fire when a man comes home sweating from the pit.--A public-house is always warm enough." There was silence till the boy said complainingly: "Make haste, our Annie."

How does the writer use language here to present the child's delight in the fire and the mother's irritation? 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 would analyse how the child’s delight is conveyed through sensuous, cumulative imagery and polysyndeton—visual, tactile and olfactory details in "so red", "full of little caves", "feels so nice", and the dialectal intensifier "fair smell it"—with the metaphor of “little caves” suggesting wonder and intimacy. By contrast, it would show the mother’s irritation via clipped interrogatives "Do you?" "Why?", the fatalistic modal in "It'll want mending directly", idiomatic grievance "carry on" and hyperbolic generalisation "never is a fire", culminating in the sour aphorism "A public-house is always warm enough"; the long, dash-splintered sentence functions as a rant that structurally undercuts the child’s rapture.

The writer uses vivid sensory imagery to capture the child’s delight. The piling polysyndeton in “so red, and full of little caves--and it feels so nice, and you can fair smell it” mimics breathless wonder, layering visual, tactile and olfactory pleasures. The intensifier “so” and dialectal “fair” amplify sincerity, while the diminutive “little” and the metaphor “caves” turn the fire into a miniature landscape. Even the dash signals tumbling excitement.

Conversely, the mother’s irritation surfaces in curt interrogatives—“Do you? … Why?”—whose clipped brevity feels sceptical. Personification in “It’ll want mending directly” recasts the blaze as work; the modal “It’ll” and adverb “directly” encode inevitability and urgency. Moreover, the conditional “if your father comes he’ll carry on and say there never is a fire...” anticipates conflict; the idiom “carry on” connotes nagging, and the hyperbolic “never” intensifies it. The grim detail “sweating from the pit” sharpens her resentment.

Additionally, the dash introduces a bitter aside—“A public-house is always warm enough”—a sardonic generalisation. After “There was silence,” the adverb “complainingly” and imperative “Make haste, our Annie” spread impatience through the room. Thus, lexis and sentence form deftly contrast childlike rapture with weary exasperation.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The child’s delight is shown through sensory imagery and child-like metaphor, e.g., “It’s so red” and “full of little caves,” with repeated conjunctions (“--and it feels so nice, and you can fair smell it”) creating an excited, cumulative listing effect. By contrast, the mother’s irritation appears in clipped interrogatives (“Do you?” “Why?”) and pragmatic, future-looking complaints (“It’ll want mending directly,” “if your father comes he’ll carry on,” “sweating from the pit”), while the bitter “A public-house is always warm enough” and the dash suggest sarcasm and exasperation.

The writer uses sensory imagery in the child’s direct speech to present delight. The colour adjective “so red” and the childlike metaphor “full of little caves” create vivid, playful imagery, suggesting an imaginative, fascinated gaze. Tactile and olfactory details in “it feels so nice” and “you can fair smell it” use touch and smell to show pleasure; the intensifiers “so” and the dialectal “fair” amplify the child’s excitement. The polysyndeton in “and… and… and” gives a breathless, enthusiastic rhythm.

Moreover, the mother’s irritation is conveyed through idiom, modality and hyperbole. The modal contraction “It’ll want mending directly” and the adverb “directly” show her brisk, practical annoyance. The colloquial idiom “he’ll carry on” signals anticipated complaining, while “there never is a fire” is exaggerated, revealing exasperation. The loaded phrase “sweating from the pit” evokes the father’s hard labour, justifying her fretfulness, and the barbed comment “A public-house is always warm enough” suggests bitter sarcasm.

Additionally, sentence forms and punctuation reinforce the contrast. The mother’s clipped interrogatives, “Do you? … Why?”, sound sharp and testing, whereas the child’s longer, flowing clause spills over with delight, even breaking with a dash. The narrative aside “There was silence” and the adverb “complainingly” widen the atmosphere of tension, heightening the mother’s peevish mood against the child’s innocent joy.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would spot the child’s delight through sensory language like "so red", "full of little caves" and "feels so nice, and you can fair smell it", and the mother’s irritation through direct questions ("Do you?", "Why?") and complaining, negative phrases such as "It'll want mending directly", "he'll carry on", and the bitter line "A public-house is always warm enough."

The writer uses sensory language to show the child’s delight in the fire. The phrase “It’s so red, and full of little caves” uses colour and imagery to make the flames seem exciting and playful. The repetition in “feels so nice” and “you can fair smell it” appeals to touch and smell, so we see her enthusiasm and wonder.

Furthermore, the mother’s irritation is shown through short questions: “Do you?… Why?” This sounds sharp and dismissive. Moreover, “It’ll want mending directly” uses the adverb “directly” to show impatience, and “he’ll carry on” suggests she is fed up with constant complaints.

Additionally, the dash before “A public-house is always warm enough” makes it feel like a bitter aside, which adds to her annoyed tone. The boy speaking “complainingly” — “Make haste, our Annie” — also increases the pressure, highlighting the mother’s irritation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The child’s delight is shown with simple sensory, positive words like "It's so red", "feels so nice" and "you can fair smell it", making the fire seem pleasant. The mother’s irritation is shown through short, sharp questions "Do you?" and "Why?" and negative comments like "It'll want mending directly" and "he'll carry on".

The writer uses sensory words to show the child’s delight, like "so red", "feels so nice" and "you can fair smell it". This makes the fire sound exciting and pleasant. Furthermore, the mother’s dialogue shows irritation: "It'll want mending directly" and "he'll carry on". This suggests she is fed up and worrying about the father. Additionally, the longer sentence about "never is a fire... sweating from the pit" and the short question "Why?" make her tone sharp and complaining. This presents the mother as irritated.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Polysyndeton in the child's listing creates breathless delight and momentum in her praise of the fire → and it feels so nice
• Intensifier highlights the child's wonder at the vivid colour, amplifying excitement → so red
• Imaginative metaphor and diminutive present the fire as playful and inviting, showing innocent delight → little caves
• Sensory (olfactory) detail makes the pleasure tangible and immediate, anchoring her joy in the body → fair smell it
• Modal certainty and practical lexis mark the mother's impatience and task-focused mindset → It'll want mending directly
• Colloquial prediction of complaint conveys weariness with expected nagging, sharpening irritation → he'll carry on
• Hyperbolic generalisation suggests a long-standing grievance, voicing exasperation → never is a fire
• Dash to a sardonic aside adds a barbed, resentful tone that underlines annoyance → always warm enough
• Brief interrogatives create a clipped, testing voice for the mother, contrasting the child's flow → Do you?
• Structural pause then complaint sustain an atmosphere of tension and impatience in the scene → There was silence

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 despair?

You could write about:

• how despair builds 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 typically traces how despair accumulates structurally from the muted opening ("They sat down to tea", "Their faces were hidden from each other") through the literal deepening of gloom ("almost in total darkness") and the lamp’s revelation—"The light revealed their suspense"—to the symbolic recurrence of "chrysanthemums" ("It was chrysanthemums when I married him..."), culminating in the time-check pivot ("Twenty minutes to six!") and fatalistic forecast ("he'll not come now till they bring him"). It would analyse how shifts from dialogue to the mother’s interiority, strategic pauses ("There was silence", she "sat rocking"), and the broken ending ("he's begun now-") slow the pace and foreshadow collapse, intensifying an inexorable sense of despair.

One way in which the writer structures despair is through spatial placement and light in the opening. John sits "at the end of the table near the door," "almost lost in the darkness," while "their faces were hidden": this withholding of sight stages estrangement. The slow routine—tending the fire, punctuated by "silence"—controls pace so despondency accrues in pauses. When the mother "ate very little" and "drank her tea determinedly," her contained anger is framed by a room sinking to "almost... total darkness."

In addition, the lamplighting operates as a structural pivot that promises relief but heightens despair. As the mother "turned up the lamp," "the light revealed their suspense," turning brightness into exposure. The child's rapture over the "flower" and "pale chrysanthemums" is immediately recast by the mother's analeptic list: "when I married him... when you were born... first time... drunk." This recurring motif threads past and present, shifting focus from innocent perception to hardened memory, thickening the tone from warmth to bitter inevitability.

A further structural strategy is the management of time and delay. The temporal marker "Twenty minutes to six!" propels us to a foregone conclusion; "he'll not come now till they bring him" reads as foreshadowing and fatalism. The iterative phrasing "Twice last week—he's begun now—" implies a destructive cycle. Finally, the writer truncates speech—"She silenced herself"—and resolves the scene with anticlimax: she "rose to clear the table." This deflation from prophecy to routine seals the despair, suggesting nothing changes and hope is extinguished.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how despair builds across the whole extract: it opens with isolating darkness (John is almost lost in the darkness and Their faces were hidden from each other), slows with pauses and routine (There was silence), and pivots when The light revealed their suspense. The recurring chrysanthemums link milestones (when I married him, when you were born) to disappointment, and the time marker Twenty minutes to six!, repetition what a fool I've been, what a fool and the broken ending he's begun now- leave the mood unresolved and bleak.

One way the writer structures despair is by opening with darkness and distance. John is "almost lost in the darkness" and "their faces were hidden from each other", so the initial focus on setting and placement isolates the family. Silence slows the pace, and repeated references to the unseen father ("if your father comes") delay his entrance, building bleak expectancy.

In addition, there is a clear shift in focus and mood when the lamp is lit. The movement from "almost in total darkness" to "The light revealed their suspense" exposes tension. The writer juxtaposes the girl's rapture—"a flower in your apron... don't they smell beautiful!"—with the mother's bitter repetition: "It was chrysanthemums when I married him... when you were born..." This makes the chrysanthemums a motif of disappointment, deepening inevitability.

A further structural device is the use of temporal reference and anticlimax. "Twenty minutes to six!" marks time passing and increases pressure, and the extended monologue quickens the pace towards the ominous line "he'll not come now till they bring him," foreshadowing disaster. The scene then deflates—"She silenced herself, and rose to clear the table"—a subdued return to routine that leaves the despair unresolved.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 answer might say the writer starts with separation and gloom through setting and pauses like darkness, Their faces were hidden from each other, and There was silence, which makes the family seem stuck and unhappy. As time moves on to Twenty minutes to six!, the final line he'll not come now till they bring him shows the despair has built by the end.

One way the writer structures the text to create despair is the opening focus on darkness at tea. At the beginning, setting is described: 'faces were hidden' and John is 'lost in the darkness'. The slow action at the fire delays events, starting a hopeless mood.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts from the fire to the absent father through dialogue. Lighting the lamp 'revealed their suspense', then the flower brings the repeated idea of 'chrysanthemums', linked to bad memories. This change in focus makes the mood drop and increases the sense of dread.

A further structural feature is the temporal reference near the end: 'Twenty minutes to six!' The clock and dashes in her speech ('he'll not come now till they bring him') move towards an ending where she gives up. She 'silenced herself' and clears up, an ending that leaves the reader in despair.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start, the writer uses setting details like "darkness", "Their faces were hidden" and "There was silence" to make it feel sad. Later, after "turning up the lamp" and the mention of "chrysanthemums", the time "Twenty minutes to six!" and "he'll not come now" show despair building by the end.

One way the writer structures the text to create despair is the opening in darkness. John is 'almost lost' and their faces are hidden. This focus on a dark setting makes them feel cut off.

In addition, the writer uses dialogue and waiting. The mother talks about the father at the pub. A small shift to the lamp and flowers is quickly spoiled by sad memories.

A further feature is the time reference, 'Twenty minutes to six!', and the ending. The pace slows as she rocks and says he won't come. This ending leaves a hopeless mood for the reader.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening domestic tableau immediately fixes a static, constrained baseline from which bleakness can build (They sat down to tea.)
• Early visual concealment isolates the family, seeding emotional distance that underpins despair (faces were hidden from each other)
• Focus shifts from a child’s warm fascination to the mother’s cynicism, abruptly cooling the mood and hope (A public-house is always warm enough)
• A rise from quiet thought to visible hostility escalates the emotional trajectory into bleakness (her anger was evident)
• Practical activity ironically deepens the gloom as the setting is swallowed by shadow, mirroring emotional descent (almost in total darkness)
• Repetition of the boy’s complaint functions as a bleak refrain, reinforcing ongoing deprivation and frustration (I canna see)
• The lamp’s lighting marks a pivot that intensifies, rather than eases, tension as exposure heightens strain (The light revealed their suspense)
• A fleeting uplift is introduced and then dismissed, turning beauty into another source of strain (You've got a flower)
• The chrysanthemum motif accumulates across marriage, birth, and shame to suggest inescapable cycles of disappointment (chrysanthemums when I married him)
• A late time check tightens pace and prompts fatalistic prediction, culminating in stark self-reproach that crystallises despair (what a fool I've been)

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, when the mother rejects the chrysanthemums, she could be seen as harsh. The writer suggests this is because the flowers are a painful reminder of her difficult life with her husband.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the mother and her difficult life
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the significance of the chrysanthemums
• 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 largely agree, arguing that the writer frames the mother’s apparent harshness—she 'Irritably' removes the sprig with 'Such nonsense!' and the curt 'No... not to me'—as a defensive recoil from a symbol saturated with pain, using anaphoric recollection to bind the flowers to personal crises: 'It was chrysanthemums when I married him... when you were born... the first time... drunk... brown chrysanthemums.' It would also evaluate the writer’s viewpoint through method, showing how the setting and tone—'almost in total darkness', the 'stern unbending of her head', and the compressed phrase 'fine bitter carelessness'—complicate judgment by revealing embittered resilience and a bid for control ('I won't wash him... He can lie on the floor') rather than simple cruelty.

I largely agree that the mother appears harsh in rejecting the chrysanthemums, but the writer frames this harshness as defensive, born of marital disappointment. Before the flowers even surface, the narrative primes us with deprivation and simmering anger: she ‘ate very little’, ‘drank her tea determinedly’, and rises with the ‘stern unbending of her head’. Her complaint that he goes ‘past his very door... to a public-house’ reveals habitual neglect. Around her, ‘the shadows fell... till the room was almost in total darkness’, a piece of pathetic fallacy that makes the house an outward image of her inward gloom.

When she lights the lamp, her body ‘rounding with maternity’ foregrounds burden as well as vulnerability, while the ‘copper reflector’ that ‘shone handsomely’ grants a brief, ironic halo. Yet at once a ‘pale shadow... floating vaguely’ hints at diminished brightness. Against the daughter’s ‘rapture’, the imperative rebuff ‘Go along, silly!’ and the adverb ‘irritably’ sharpen the impression of harshness. The narrator notes that ‘the light revealed their suspense’, and, as the girl tries to ‘replace the sprig’, the mother ‘took the flowers out’ as ‘such nonsense’: a deliberate rejection staged through pointed juxtaposition of innocence and severity.

Her explanation makes the symbolism explicit. The anaphoric pattern—‘It was chrysanthemums when I married him... and chrysanthemums when you were born, and the first time they ever brought him home drunk’—binds life’s milestones to one bloom, turning it into a motif of blighted promise. The colour ‘brown chrysanthemums’ drains radiance, connoting decay. With a ‘short laugh’, her flat negation ‘No... not to me’ pushes back against her child’s ‘beautiful’, locating the pain in private memory. Seen thus, the apparent coldness is a refusal to sanctify an emblem that has repeatedly let her down.

In the aftermath, the tone hardens into ‘fine bitter carelessness’. Utterances like ‘I won’t wash him. He can lie on the floor’ sound unfeeling, yet her cumulative listing of grievances—‘this dirty hole, rats and all’—the broken syntax and dashes, and the resigned ‘he’ll not come now till they bring him’ expose the humiliation and deprivation that have shaped that stance. Structurally, the shift from domestic bustle to this controlled outpouring suggests a woman shoring up dignity through severity. Overall, she can seem harsh when she rejects the chrysanthemums; but the writer’s symbolism and darkness/light imagery imply a protective bitterness rooted in a difficult life with her husband.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would partly agree, noting the mother seems harsh when she cuts off the child’s excitement with "Such nonsense!" and a "short laugh", and when she declares "I won't wash him", but it would explain why by linking the chrysanthemums to painful memories. It would show how the writer uses repetition and tonal detail—"It was chrysanthemums when I married him, and chrysanthemums when you were born", "the first time they ever brought him home drunk", plus "fine bitter carelessness" and "almost in total darkness"—to present the flowers as a symbol of her difficult life with her husband.

I mostly agree with the statement. The mother’s rejection of the chrysanthemums does come across as harsh, especially towards her daughter, but the writer suggests this sharpness is rooted in the pain of her marriage.

Early in the extract, the mother’s frustration is established through body language and tone. We are told her “anger was evident in the stern unbending of her head,” and she “broke out” that it was “a scandalous thing” that her husband does not come home. This emotive language and the structural detail of her waiting while the “room was almost in total darkness” create a gloomy atmosphere that frames her later reaction. The darkness imagery suggests a life overshadowed by disappointment, which prepares us to understand, not just condemn, her severity.

The moment with the flowers foregrounds the contrast between child and mother. The daughter speaks “rapturously,” but the mother responds “irritably,” calling it “such nonsense.” Her “short laugh” and clipped “No” seem brusque. However, the writer uses symbolism to reveal why: chrysanthemums form a painful motif. In the mother’s analeptic list—“when I married him… when you were born… the first time they ever brought him home drunk”—the flowers are bound to key memories of love soured by alcohol. The colour imagery of “pale” and “brown chrysanthemums” suggests lifelessness and decay, turning a beautiful object into a trigger. Her rejection is thus defensive rather than gratuitously cruel.

Finally, the tone shifts to “fine bitter carelessness” as she declares, “he’ll not come now till they bring him,” a phrase that foreshadows tragedy. Her apparent callousness—“I won’t wash him. He can lie on the floor”—is softened by the image of her “rocking in silence” and the semantic field of squalor (“pit-dirt,” “dirty hole, rats and all”), which reinforces how hardship has hardened her.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: she seems harsh in the moment, but through contrast, symbolism, and foreshadowing, the writer shows the chrysanthemums reopen wounds from a difficult life with her husband.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would agree to some extent, identifying the mother’s apparent harshness in rejecting the flowers — "Such nonsense!", "not to me", said "Irritably" while "turning away". It would simply link this to painful memories of her husband using basic evidence like "chrysanthemums when I married him" and "the first time they ever brought him home drunk", and notice the tone in "short laugh" and "fine bitter carelessness" to show why she reacts this way.

I mostly agree that the mother seems harsh when she rejects the chrysanthemums, but the writer also shows her reaction comes from pain. The flowers are linked to her husband and unhappy memories.

Earlier, her mood is tense. The 'stern unbending of her head' and the room 'almost in total darkness' create a bitter tone, almost pathetic fallacy. Yet she isn’t cruel to the children: 'In spite of herself, the mother laughed' and jokes, 'You know the way to your mouth.' This contrast suggests her later sharpness is aimed at the husband rather than the child.

When Annie notices the sprig, the girl is 'rapturously' excited, but the mother 'irritably' removes the 'pale chrysanthemums', saying 'Such nonsense!' and a firm 'No.' The adjective 'pale' and the symbolism of the flower hint at sadness. Through repetition—'chrysanthemums when I married him... when you were born... and... when he... came home drunk'—the writer shows the flower is tied to both joy and hurt, especially his drinking. The phrase 'fine bitter carelessness' and 'I won't wash him. He can lie on the floor' sound harsh, but the detail that he goes 'past his very door... to a public-house' and her 'dirty hole, rats and all' life justify her bitterness.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. She appears harsh in the moment, but contrast, repetition and symbolism show the chrysanthemums trigger painful memories of a difficult marriage.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree she seems harsh, using basic quotes like "Such nonsense!" and "not to me" with a "short laugh." It would also notice the writer shows the chrysanthemums remind her of bad times with her husband, such as "when I married him" and "the first time they ever brought him home drunk."

I mostly agree with the statement. The mother does seem harsh when she rejects the chrysanthemums, but the writer shows they remind her of a difficult life with her husband.

At first, the child is excited: “You’ve got a flower in your apron!” and speaks “rapturously.” The mother calls it “Such nonsense!” and takes the flowers out “irritably.” The adverb “irritably” makes her sound sharp. She even gives a “short laugh” and says, “No… not to me,” which is a blunt, negative reply. The writer uses repetition of “chrysanthemums” in “It was chrysanthemums when I married him, and chrysanthemums when you were born, and the first time… home drunk,” to link the flowers to big moments that turned bad. The “brown chrysanthemums” colour seems dull and sad. The tone becomes “fine bitter carelessness,” and the adjective “bitter” shows her pain. Her speech about the “dirty hole, rats and all,” and “what a fool I’ve been,” suggests her marriage has worn her down. This explains why the flowers feel like a painful symbol.

Overall, I agree that she appears harsh to the children, but the writer suggests this harshness comes from the memories attached to the chrysanthemums and her husband’s drinking, not because she is cruel.

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:

• Direct speech complaint frames her as sharp with frustration at neglect, but rooted in justified anger at his choosing the pub over home: past his very door.
• Gloomy light/shadow imagery mirrors her mood and foreshadows the negative symbolism of the flowers, amplifying the sense of hardship: almost in total darkness.
• Fleeting humour towards her son softens impressions and complicates a harsh reading, hinting she suppresses warmth under strain: In spite of herself.
• Comparison that aligns the boy with the father exposes habitual resentment born of experience, not simple cruelty: as bad as your father.
• Juxtaposition of Annie’s rapture with the mother’s brusque dismissal shows rejection as a defensive refusal of sentiment: Such nonsense!.
• Repetition/motif makes chrysanthemums a trigger linked to marriage, childbirth, and humiliation, so her rejection reads as pain, not pettiness: It was chrysanthemums.
• Narrative tone notes her weary fatalism, shaping the evaluation that her “harshness” is protective hardness learned over time: fine bitter carelessness.
• Categorical refusal to “wash him” appears severe but asserts boundaries against enabling his return “in his pit-dirt”: I won't wash him.
• Self-blame and squalid setting intensify sympathy, suggesting the flowers recall sacrifices that embitter her response: dirty hole, rats and all.

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A national walking charity’s website is inviting young writers to share creative pieces about memorable journeys in wild places.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a cliff path in high wind from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a journey on foot that tests someone’s resolve.

(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 path stitches the cliff-face like a pale seam, hesitant, stubborn, a narrow thought scribbled at the brink. The wind is not a companion but a condition; it harries the grass flat, it combs the heather backwards, it rattles loose stones like teeth. It howls. Below, the sea heaves and hardens to hammered pewter, then fractures into white-torn cloth; gusts snatch spindrift by the fistful and fling it uphill until salt freckles the lips. The air tastes metallic—iodine and iron—sharp as bitten foil.

Somewhere along the line an old fence sings; each wire is a taut harp string, thrumming one note and then the next until the whole length hums. Posts lean seaward in permanent apology; even the hawthorn (twisted like arthritic fingers) bows and will not straighten. Gulls are flung sideways, skidding on the gale like paper scraps; their cries are pulled thin, threadbare.

Underfoot the track is a grind of chalk and grit, white powder smearing the soles. Where it pinches, it’s barely a palm wide; to the right, gorse scours; to the left, the drop that is... not to be considered. The wind comes in surges—shoulder-shoves, petulant slaps, a sudden invisible weight—and your balance becomes deliberate, almost mathematical. Breath is snatched; eyes stream; lips are salted by spray until your mouth holds that cold coin taste. What keeps you moving is not bravado but rhythm: plant, brace, slide; plant, brace, slide.

In the lee of a fallen boulder there is a pocket of mercy, a sudden, improbable stillness. Sound tucks itself away; the gale thins to a hiss; grasses lift their heads as if surprised to be alive. One step beyond that shelter and the world resumes its argument, louder; jacket flaps whip; a hood becomes a sail; thoughts are rearranged like papers on a desk opened to a storm.

Here, between two immensities—sky scoured to a hard, thin blue and sea stippled white—you are reduced and enlarged all at once. The path ahead kinks around a headland, vanishes, reappears; the cliff lip crumbles in small, innocent avalanches that patter into the throat of air. The wind speaks in all registers: a keening through grass, a boom around the headland, a hiss along the stones. It is a bully, yes, but also a tutor; it teaches posture, patience, respect. Who would choose to walk here on a day like this? Perhaps anyone who needs to feel the edge.

Option B:

Morning prised itself from the hills reluctantly; a thin seam of light split the dark and leaked across the path like tea through gauze. Frost jewelled the hedgerows. The air, metallic and clean, cut her lungs and made her breath bloom white. Ahead, the chalk track unrolled towards the downs, pale as bone and rutted by last week’s rain.

Nadia tightened her laces—double knots, an old superstition—and shrugged her rucksack higher. Not much: a bottle of water, a creased map, a jar of sea-glass, an apple, the photograph. In the picture, the lighthouse leaned into weather as if listening. “You’ll go, won’t you?” her mother had said, a whisper that crinkled at the edges. The word soon had sounded like a promise and a deadline. So she would walk to the lighthouse. On foot. No shortcuts; no excuses.

The first stile was greasy and the wood smelt of sap. Her boots bit the bridleway and then loosened, finding rhythm. She counted steps without meaning to—thirty-two, thirty-three—until numbers became their own quiet prayer. The hedges jittered with sparrows. The sun, a thin coin, rose reluctantly and didn’t give much heat. How far could a promise stretch before it thinned and snapped? She didn’t know. She only knew that promises had a weight you couldn’t see, and this one sat between her shoulder blades, insistent as a hand.

She walked. Past the cottage with the blue door (curtains still shut), past the field where frost lay like ash, past the sign where ivy tried to swallow the arrow. The path climbed by degrees she could feel in her calves. Meanwhile, the wind got ideas, shouldering her, pressing its cold mouth to her ear. A crow croaked from a gatepost; it sounded like laughter. Nevertheless, her stride lengthened. She ate half the apple and kept the other half for later—economy, or hope.

By then the damp had climbed into her socks and announced itself with a sting. Blister. The word should have been small but it pinned her in place. She sat on a stone and laced and unlaced, pressed the sore place, winced despite herself. It would be easy to turn back. The town was behind her, warm windows and kettles and excuses. For a moment her heart was in her mouth—her mother’s scarf in that same pattern of blue and white waves flickered at the edge of thought—and the path ahead looked as long as a lifetime.

Instead, she stood. Forward. A simple imperative, repeated until it meant something. The downs opened like a book with its pages ruffling in the wind. Sheep scissored the grass. The sky dilated to a startling, unforgiving brightness. Nadia tucked the photograph deeper into the lid of the jar, as if the lighthouse could feel her looking.

Over the brow she saw it at last, small and stubborn on the rim of sea: a white tower against pewter water, a lighthouse that had pretended to wait. An optical trick, perhaps. Yet she felt the pull of it, tidal and ineluctable. Her legs were heavy—like lead, she thought, though the phrase was clumsy and she didn’t care—and the ground leaned away from her with every step.

She lowered her head, adjusted the straps, and went on—counting, breathing, tasting salt she couldn’t explain; a dot in a wide landscape, a moving comma in a long sentence she had only just begun.

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

Option A:

The cliff path clings to the headland, a pale thread pulled tight between sky and sea. Wind makes it a living thing: it presses, pries, and plucks at the edges; it combs the tough grasses flat and worries the gorse into a constant shiver. Spray leaps so high it seems to forget the sea and touch the path in sudden, stinging kisses.

Underfoot, chalk and flint grind, crisp and treacherous; the ground is eaten away in scallops where rain and tide conspire. The drop is not simply a line but a mouth — dark, open, busy — where the waves gnaw at the cliff, again and again. The air is salt-thick; each breath is sharpened, almost medicinal.

Fence posts, lichen-scabbed, lean like tired sentries; their wire hums with a taut, metallic song (so thin it sings). A warning sign creaks, indecisive, and the path itself snakes on with a stubborn narrowness. Far below, gulls tilt and hang, white strokes slowed by the gale; above, ragged cloud runs hard, smudging the sun into a cold coin.

When the wind lifts — and it does in sudden, muscular bursts — everything tilts. Coat fabric snaps; a hood drums; eyes water; the taste of brine sits on the tongue. The heather keeps low, purple-brown and tenacious, and the thrift nods as if agreeing to the terms of this weather. Even the earth speaks: pebbles skitter, the cliff face rasps, the grass hisses as it bends. There is a momentary lull, a held breath; then the whole headland exhales with a roar.

I walk with a lean I didn’t know I owned, weight on the inside foot, one hand hovering over the wire I would rather not trust. What holds you steady here but balance and a stubborn, ordinary courage? The path offers choices that are not really choices at all: forward or back; sky or sea; the dare of the edge or the dull safety of turning round. It is precarious, yes, yet compelling, like a story you think you know but must keep reading.

From a distance, this strip of chalk is almost nothing — a pale flourish on a dark book. Up close, it is everything: scent and sting, sound and sway, the raw grammar of wind written on land and water. The cliff will lose a little more each winter; the sea will chew; the path will shift its line. For now, it holds. So do I.

Option B:

Dawn. The kind that bleaches yesterday from the horizon and offers only a thin, cold promise. The path unspooled ahead of Mara in a pale ribbon between thorn and sea; to her left, fields hunched under frost, to her right, the tide gnawed the shingle with patient, grinding teeth. Wind moved over the water and came inland as a steady instruction: keep moving.

She tightened the laces of her boots, then tightened them again—superstition masquerading as preparation. The pack pulled at her shoulders with a deliberate weight; inside, the tin that held her mother’s ashes clinked softly, an unhelpful metronome. The bus went no further, and the scattering at the lighthouse was at eleven. She would walk. It was, she told herself, fitting: a last, long stride through the country her mother loved.

The first mile was almost courteous. The track meandered through gorse and bramble; dew beaded her hems; the sun threatened and retreated. Her breath found a rhythm—eight steps in, four out—and even the gulls drifted inland with laconic grace.

Then the hill rose—not monumental, not theatrical—just obstinate. Chalk and flint conspired underfoot; mud slid over the surface and promised to take her down. She leaned until her back complained; her calves simmered. Halfway she paused. The lighthouse punctuated the coast like a full stop. It looked close. It wasn’t.

“You always stop too soon,” her mother used to say, laughing. “Finish the lane, then you can turn around.” The memory arrived on the wind with the exact cadence of that laughter. Ten more steps, she bargained. Five. Another five. She resumed, hips stubborn, fingers numb inside the gloves her mother had knitted too tightly (as if heat could be commanded).

By the third mile the world had shrunk to granular things: the rasp of wool at her wrist; the staccato prickle of sleet along her hairline; the taste of salt, then the metallic suggestion of blood where she had bitten her cheek. She adjusted the straps and repeated a sentence she did not believe—Almost there. The words sat in her mouth like pebbles.

Resolve, she realised, was not a blaze or a speech; it was choosing the next footprint and then making it. She could hate it and still enact it. Step by recalcitrant step, she continued.

At the crest the sky opened—wide, indifferent, pewter. The lighthouse had crept closer, not dramatically, but enough to loosen her chest. She zipped her coat to her chin and, without ceremony, put one foot out, then the other: ordinary, exacting, hers.

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

Option A:

The path clings to the cliff like a seam hurriedly stitched, narrow and gritty under boots. Wind barrels along it, not a breeze but a blunt force; it barges the ribs, it slaps the ears. Coats snap like flags; hair whips, salt-slick, across a mouth that cannot quite close. Below, the sea is hammered tin where sun leaks through cloud. Gulls skid sideways, buffeted; their cries chopped.

Gorse crouches low, tough and spiny, smelling faintly of coconut in brief, warm bursts; the scent vanishes as quickly as it arrives. Old fence posts lean, and a strand of rusted wire sings when the gusts pluck it. The notice at the bend rattles: Danger—Unstable Edge. Grit lifts and stings the shins. The wind is a thief; it steals breath, snatches at sleeves, tries to yank me off the track.

I move anyway, heel to toe, measuring the crumble of chalk and clay. On the outer side the turf ends abruptly, a torn page; beyond, precipitous drop: not a view but a verdict. Waves comb the rocks, white and frantic; they drag back, surge, drag back again—endlessly. The cliff is gnawed, the grass frayed, the path seems to shrink from the brink. A misstep matters. I fix a hand on the wire, feel the bite through my glove, and breathe.

Sometimes the gusts ease, like a crowd catching its breath, and in that pause I hear small, ordinary sounds: the tick of pebbles skipping down, the whisper of grass blades. Then the next blast slams in. My eyes water; my cheeks prickle; my tongue tastes iron and brine. A hawthorn, stunted and tenacious, leans inland, shaped by years of this argument.

Yet the path continues, unpretentious, threading to a headland where a trig point stands and shivers. I go with it, pushed and pulled, boots finding rhythm on the knobbly earth. The world is reduced to simple things—the push of air, the white smash of surf, the steady pulse underfoot—and it is almost comforting. The wind makes everything honest; it strips away chatter, leaves you with breath and balance and the bright, cold edge of yourself.

Option B:

Morning arrived thin and pale, like a promise someone wasn't sure they could keep. Frost stitched silver into the hedges and glazed the puddles into tiny mirrors. The lane curled ahead, a narrow ribbon with a mind of its own, stubborn and mean. Eliza tightened her laces, hefted the bag, and listened to the crackle underfoot. One step, she told herself, and then another.

Cold air bit at her ears and turned her breath to smoke. The straps scissored across her shoulders; the pack dragged at her spine with a patient, nagging weight. Each footfall made a soft crunch, a metronome beating out the distance: step, breath, step. Metal sat on her tongue; damp earth rose from the ditch. It would be quicker to wait, easier to call. But easy had cost her before.

They had told her to take the bus; she had told them she’d walk. Now the road began to climb, and the hedge gave way to open field, the wind arriving with a sharper voice. Eliza’s calves burned, a sting of heat under skin that was otherwise bone-cold. She thought about turning back for a second and saw the door of her own house in her mind, cosy and soft. Not today, she thought. Not this time.

A patch of black ice flashed like glass; her boot skidded and she went down on one knee. Gravel bit, immediate. She stayed there a moment, hearing her heart hammering too loudly for the empty morning and tasting blood bright at the back of her mouth. She stood, brushed mud from her trousers, and fumbled in the top pocket for a plaster. It didn’t stick properly in the damp, but it was enough—enough to say she was going on.

Beyond the stile, the path narrowed to a strip over the hill, a thin thought in heather and thorn. Resolve is not a shout: it is a quiet agreement with yourself, remade step by step. She straightened, tightened the strap again, and moved. The wind pushed at her back now, almost kind. Still, the long miles waited, patient as stone. Eliza lifted her face to them and kept walking.

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

Option A:

The path clung to the cliff like a pale scar, narrow and gritty under my boots. The wind did not just blow; it shoved. It drove at my back, prodded my sides, tugged at my coat until the buttons strained.

Below, the sea heaved, smashing itself to white on the teeth of the rocks. Spray leapt in fists and fell in threads. Salt sat on my tongue, sharp as iron; it stung my eyes.

The gorse bushes bristled, their yellow flowers flickering like small flames. Grass lay flat, then lifted, then lay flat again, as if taking orders. The fence thrummed, a thin, angry note; the post at the bend rattled with a loose nail.

Around the shoulder of the headland the path narrowed to a hand’s width. I paused. The drop on the left was a dark mouth that tugged at my eye. Don’t look down, I told myself. Mud grabbed at my soles; stones skittered and clicked into the gulf.

A gull fought the gale, a torn scrap of white turning again and again. Clouds ran like grey sheep across the sky — driven, scattered, gathered. Between the gusts there was a thin calm: pebbles ticking, the small private sounds of the cliff. Then the wind returned, impatient, and the world tilted.

I gripped the cold rail and moved on, step by careful step. The path kept going, stubborn and pale, scratched along the edge of land. It did not care about my fear; it simply led forward, and I followed.

Option B:

Morning crept over the hill, washing the path with a thin, cold light. The lane ran out and became a track, and the track narrowed into a thread through scrub and yellowing grass. I tightened my laces, tugged the straps of my rucksack until the weight sat right on my shoulders, and took the first step. Ten miles doesn’t sound like much; today it looked like a country.

The wind nagged at my ears and the damp pressed into my sleeves. Each breath came in a small cloud. Above me, crows drifted like torn black paper. Mud, wind, miles: these were my company. The map in my pocket was soft from damp, but the red line was clear. Up to the ridge, along the spine, then down. The pack dug into a bruise; my heel rubbed—an insistent hot sting.

I had told everyone I would walk it. I’d said I was doing it to raise money for the ward that looked after Mrs Finch, and to prove to myself that I could finish something hard. I’d clicked ‘share’ and watched the first donations appear; I’d promised Mum I would be home by dark. All those words felt light when I said them. Out here, they had weight.

The hill rose like a blunt wall, steeper than it seemed from below. My legs warmed and then burned, a slow ache spreading through muscle and bone. What if I turned back? The village crouched behind me in a pocket of trees. I paused and listened to my heart—a small, stubborn drum. My phone buzzed: You’ve got this. I wanted to stop; I did not. I found a rhythm, counting twenty steps, then ten, then five when it hurt. One foot, then the other, again and again, and the path, grudgingly, let me climb.

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

Option A:

The wind hits first. It barges up the cliff and along the narrow path, a cold, invisible shoulder that nudges me sideways. Grass bows and snaps. Pebbles skitter ahead of my boots like small animals trying to get away. Salt stings my lips; my eyes water. I think the path is solid, it shifts under loose stones, so each step is careful, measured. The sky is a heavy grey lid, gulls tilt like torn paper against it.

Below, the sea heaves and lifts. Waves muscle into the cove and smash the dark rocks; white spray leaps up and falls in sheets. The tide drags backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, dragging weed and foam with it. A hoarse roar fills everything; even my chest vibrates. The cliff answers with a dusty crumble, a hiss. Somewhere a sign bangs and bangs on it's chain. A figure ahead of me leans into the gusts, coat flapping like a torn flag.

Meanwhile, up here, the wind keeps changing its mind—lulling, then striking. Around the headland it is worse; the track thins to a pale ribbon by a drop that feels bottomless. I pause, breath grabbed away, knuckles white on the splintered post. Go on. I tell myself, go on. My boots grind, grit on my teeth; the air is all salt and cold. Even the heather seems to shudder. It is dangerous, and a bit beautiful too, and I keep moving until the path swings inland and the wind finally lets go.

Option B:

Morning sat low over the town, a thin grey lid on the sky. Lena pulled up her hood and tightened both laces twice, as if knots could hold her worry together. She checked the map, folded, unfolded, then tucked it away. The first step was slow; the second came quicker. Pavement shone with yesterday's rain and her breath made tiny ghosts. She had told herself it would be simple: walk across the city, just feet and grit, just keep moving.

At first the rhythm helped: left, right, left, right, a small drum she carried. Buses hissed by and windows glowed warm; the wind nipped like a sly cat. The towpath wriggled beside brown water that kept her company. Mud clutched at her boots; a blister began to whisper under her heel. She shifted her bag and kept going, past graffiti and shuttered shops, past people who didn’t look up. Every corner promised the hill would end. It didn’t.

By midday her stomach nagged and her phone slid to red. She thought of turning back. It would be easy - call a taxi, sit on a bench, go home. Who would blame her? But the promise sat heavier than the bag: for Mum at work, for Dan waiting on the ward, for herself. So she counted small victories: five more lamp posts, then ten; to the bridge, then the church. This wasn’t about finishing quickly; it was about not stopping. Her resolve held, thin but stubborn. At the next rise the city opened like a map, and the road rose again.

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

Option A:

At first, the cliff path looks simple, a thin brown ribbon stitched to the grass. But the wind has other ideas; it barges me sideways and tugs my coat, greedy. Salt sprays my face, sharp as pins, and whisps of hair stick to my lips. The gorse bushes hiss and scrape, flowers flattened. Under my boots grit scuffs and slides — the cliff feels alive, shivering. Far below, the sea is loud and white, a restless animal.

Then the gusts rise again. Rope rails shudder, wooden posts knock together; I grip until my knuckles pale. Small stones skitter off the edge, a quick rattle, gone. Gulls tilt and shout, their wings snatched. When a stronger blast hits, I crouch, heart thumping in a messy rythm. It pushes; it pulls; it howls. The path narrows, bending round a black crack of rock.

At last I reach a wider patch: heather clings low, purple and stubborn; the grass lies flat. I pause at the corner. One wrong step: a drop into boiling water. The sky runs fast, clouds racing like torn sails. The wind is defening, yet the world feels clear. I breathe, slow, steady, and move on. Careful steps, careful hands on the rope, watching the horizon flicker.

Option B:

Morning came thin and grey, sliding over the hedges and the long lane. The pack on my shoulders felt heavier than it did in the kitchen. The buckle pressed my collar bone, and my laces curled like small snakes, already wet. I told myself it’s only walking. The map rattled in my pocket; the path ran away into the fields.

After the first mile, the hill tested me. It was steeper than it looked; the wind shoved at my chest. Mud sucked at my boots and the gravel bit through the thin soles. For a moment I stood still, listening to my breath knocking like a drum and the quiet distance.

But I kept moving. Step. Step. Step. My heel was blistered, and my calves acheing, but I counted gates and stones because numbers make things smaller. Before dawn, Mum had said I didn’t have to prove anything; I nodded, and packed the apples anyway, bright as tiny suns.

On the ridge the rain thinned. A stripe of light opened on the horizon—the town I left was small behind me. I pressed on, the strap thumping my heart in time. One more field, one more stile, one more breath. Keep going.

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

Option A:

The wind hits my face hard on the cliff path.

My coat slaps and the path is thin, it curves by the edge. I taste salt and dust in my mouth.

The wind is mad today! It shouts in my ears and pulls at me like a big hand, left and right, back and forward, back and forward. The grass is pressed flat, little stones skitter away; the rail shakes and I hold it. The sea is loud and white, it keeps smashing the rocks and running back, running back.

I step slow. My boots slide on the grit and my heart bumps, like a small drum. Gulls wheel over me and cry and cry. The sky feels close but the drop is huge, it is like a hole. I breath and the air is wet and sharp. I look ahead and the path goes on and on.

The wind will not stop.

Option B:

Morning. The path went out like a thin ribbon in the grey field. My breath came in little clouds. My bag pulled at my shoulder, it felt like a rock and my boots rubbed.

I took a step, then another, step after step. Stones clicked under my feet and the wind pushed at my face like a hand. The hill in front looked big and it kind of laughed at me.

I wanted to turn back.

But I said, keep going. Mum said that to me, keep going, even when it hurts. So I counted to ten, I counted again and I walked. My legs were fire and my mouth was dry.

How far is it? I should of asked before, but I didnt. The map in my pocket was damp and the ink ran. I kept looking down the road and it didnt end, it just kept going, like a test I couldnt cheat.

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

Option A:

The wind is strong on the cliff path. It push at me and my coat flaps. I walk and the stones slip under my shoes. The sea is loud, it bangs and bangs below, white foam everywhere. My eyes sting. Salt on my lips like dust. The grass bends over and over and the path goes thin, then wide, then thin. I think of my house but I keep going. A gull goes past sideways. I remember my dog at home, he dont like the hoover. The wind shouts in my ear. I hold the fence, it shakes and I do to, I do to.

Option B:

Morning. The road goes on and on. My shoes are too small, rubbing at my heels like sand. I want to stop, I cant stop, I keep going. The hill looks big and the sky feels low. Wind in my face. My legs shake and my bag digs in I think about home and tea and a seat. The voice in my head says turn back, my feet say no. I count steps, one to ten, again and again. It starts to rain and I laugh a bit, then I dont. A dog barks somewhere, I walk faster. I will finish, I think, even if it hurts alot.