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 How is Connie's reaction at first described?: puzzled and baffled – 1 mark
• 1.2 Who met the overtures?: the miners' wives – 1 mark
• 1.3 What is the immediate effect on Connie of the miners' wives' attitude of 'We think ourselves as good as you'?: Puzzles and baffles Connie – 1 mark
• 1.4 How is the 'amiability' described?: curious, suspicious, false – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:

1 This stubborn, instinctive--We think ourselves as good as you, if you are Lady Chatterley!--puzzled and baffled Connie at first extremely. The curious, suspicious, false amiability with which the miners' wives met her overtures; the curiously offensive tinge of--Oh dear me! I am somebody now, with Lady Chatterley talking to me! But she needn't think I'm not as good as her for all

6 that!--which she always heard twanging in the women's half-fawning voices, was impossible. There was no getting past it. It was hopelessly and offensively nonconformist. Clifford left them alone, and she learnt to do the same: she just went by

11 without looking at them, and they stared as if she were a walking wax figure. When he had to deal with them, Clifford was rather haughty and contemptuous; one could no longer afford to be friendly. In fact he was altogether rather supercilious and contemptuous of anyone not in his own class. He stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation. And he was neither liked nor

How does the writer use language here to present the tension between Connie and the miners’ wives, and Clifford’s attitude to them? 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: Using free indirect discourse framed by intrusive dashes, the wives’ collective voice—"This stubborn, instinctive--We think ourselves as good as you"—spills into Connie’s perspective, while the oxymoron "false amiability", the aural verb "twanging" in "half-fawning" voices, and the simile "walking wax figure" construct brittle, performative hostility and Connie’s alienation. By contrast, Clifford’s entrenched class disdain is etched through cumulative evaluative lexis—"haughty", "supercilious", "contemptuous"—and clipped absolutes like "He stood his ground" and "without any attempt at conciliation", signalling an unyielding refusal to bridge the divide.

The writer uses embedded voices and parenthetical asides to ventriloquise the wives’ defiance, heightening the tension with Connie. The dash-framed utterance “We think ourselves as good as you, if you are Lady Chatterley!” and the exclamative “Oh dear me! I am somebody now…” mimic their inner sarcasm; italics sharpen the stress on “are” and “am,” foregrounding a struggle over status. This is undercut by the evaluative noun phrase “false amiability” and the hyphenated epithet “half-fawning,” which expose a veneer of politeness masking resentment. The onomatopoeic verb “twanging” in their voices creates harsh auditory imagery, suggesting a string drawn tight, ready to snap.

Moreover, sentence form heightens the impasse. The clipped declarations “There was no getting past it. It was hopelessly and offensively nonconformist.” carry finality; pejorative adverbs “hopelessly” and “offensively” judge the wives’ stance, while “nonconformist” hints at both social dissent and local religious identity. Inverted syntax in “puzzled and baffled Connie… extremely” foregrounds her disorientation. The simile “as if she were a walking wax figure” objectifies Connie as an inert exhibit, implying that she passes as spectacle rather than neighbour, while “stared” signals cold scrutiny.

Furthermore, Clifford’s attitude is encoded in a lexical field of disdain: “haughty,” “supercilious,” and the semantic repetition of “contemptuous” amplify his hauteur. The martial metaphor “He stood his ground” and the diplomatic phrasing “without any attempt at conciliation” frame encounters as conflict, not community. The impersonal construction “one could no longer afford to be friendly” universalises his snobbery and recasts friendliness as an economic liability. Therefore, the truncated clause—“he was neither liked nor”—enacts social rupture, leaving his alienation pointedly unresolved.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Through the inserted voices in dashes—We think ourselves as good as you and Oh dear me! I am somebody now—sound imagery like twanging, and the simile as if she were a walking wax figure, the writer shows the wives’ defensive pride and Connie’s alienation; the short, emphatic There was no getting past it underlines the fixed tension. For Clifford, evaluative repetition—haughty and contemptuous, supercilious—and the firm metaphor He stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation present entrenched class superiority and a refusal to conciliate.

The writer uses embedded voices and punctuation to present the wives’ defensive pride. The interjected line ‘We think ourselves as good as you, if you are Lady Chatterley!’ with italics and dashes mimics their sarcastic challenge, while the exclamative ‘Oh dear me! I am somebody now’ exposes their ‘false amiability’. The oxymoron ‘false amiability’ suggests friendliness masking hostility, and the auditory image ‘twanging in the women’s half-fawning voices’ makes their tone sound strained and barbed. This leaves Connie ‘puzzled and baffled’, the paired adjectives showing her confusion at the class tension.

Moreover, the simile ‘as if she were a walking wax figure’ dehumanises Connie, reducing her to an exhibit and highlighting the cold distance. Short, emphatic sentences like ‘There was no getting past it’ and evaluative adverbs in ‘hopelessly and offensively nonconformist’ stress an unbridgeable divide, so she ‘just went by without looking’.

Furthermore, Clifford’s attitude is conveyed through loaded adjectives: ‘haughty’, ‘supercilious’ and the repetition of ‘contemptuous’ underline his superiority. The idiom ‘stood his ground’ and the clause ‘without any attempt at conciliation’ show a deliberate refusal to meet them halfway. The unfinished line ‘And he was neither liked nor’ leaves a hanging ending, suggesting complete social breakdown.

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 shows tension through negative description and a simile: the wives’ "curious, suspicious, false amiability" and the mocking thought "Oh dear me! I am somebody now" (with dashes and an exclamation) make their tone resentful, while "as if she were a walking wax figure" shows Connie as an outsider. Clifford’s superiority is clear in the repeated "contemptuous" and the firm declarative "He stood his ground, without any attempt at conciliation.", suggesting he refuses friendliness.

The writer uses direct speech in dashes, “We think ourselves as good as you” and “Oh dear me! I am somebody now,” to present the wives’ sarcastic voices. This creates tension because Connie hears their challenge to her status. The short sentence “There was no getting past it” shows the barrier.

Moreover, the adjectives “curious, suspicious, false amiability” suggest their friendliness is fake, and the verb “twanging” makes their “half-fawning voices” sound harsh, so Connie feels baffled and kept at a distance. The simile “as if she were a walking wax figure” makes her seem stiff and unreal, showing the women do not accept her.

Furthermore, Clifford is shown as “haughty and contemptuous” and “supercilious.” The repetition of “contemptuous” emphasises his class snobbery. Phrases like “stood his ground” and “without any attempt at conciliation” show he refuses to meet them halfway, increasing the divide.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Words like "haughty" and "contemptuous" show Clifford looks down on them, and the simile "a walking wax figure" shows Connie is kept at a distance. The women’s voice "We think ourselves as good as you", the exclamation "Oh dear me!", and "half-fawning" suggest tension and fake friendliness.

The writer uses adjectives like "curious, suspicious, false amiability" to show the miners’ wives’ fake friendliness and the tension with Connie. The phrase "We think ourselves as good as you" creates a challenging tone, and the verb "stared" shows hostility. The simile "as if she were a walking wax figure" makes Connie seem unreal and distant. Furthermore, Clifford is shown by adjectives "haughty", "contemptuous" and "supercilious" to be above them. Additionally, the phrase "without any attempt at conciliation" shows he won’t make peace. Overall, the language presents class tension and Clifford’s cold attitude.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Dash-inserted chorus and exclamations channel the wives’ voices → defensive, performative pride and sarcasm towards Connie → (Oh dear me!)
• Layered triadic modifiers and evaluative noun phrase → foregrounds insincere politeness that masks hostility to Connie → (false amiability)
• Auditory metaphor and hyphenated epithet for tone → suggests strained, ingratiating yet resentful speech, heightening class friction → (half-fawning voices)
• Short declarative sentence → states the impasse bluntly, emphasising unavoidable distance between them → (no getting past it)
• Loaded adverbs plus judgmental label → condemns their stance as improper, sharpening the sense of social breach → (hopelessly and offensively)
• Colon marking behavioural shift → structurally shows Connie’s retreat into avoidance as a response to tension → (went by without looking)
• Simile → objectifies Connie as a spectacle under their gaze, intensifying alienation → (walking wax figure)
• Repetition of contempt language and explicit class boundary → magnifies Clifford’s snobbery and social distance → (not in his own class)
• Martial/defensive stance metaphor → frames his dealings as confrontational and inflexible, blocking reconciliation → (stood his ground)
• Truncated clause at the end → leaves his reception unresolved, implying broad dislike as a consequence → (neither liked nor)

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 novel.

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

You could write about:

• how alienation intensifies from beginning to end
• 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 trace a structural progression from social exclusion to existential isolation: opening with Connie’s bafflement at the villagers’ “curious, suspicious, false amiability”, the narrative shifts and narrows onto Clifford, whose outward poise (“from the top he looked just as smart”) is undercut by cumulative repetition and distancing metaphors—“He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch”, “like a man looking down a microscope”, “as if the whole thing took place in a vacuum”—so that by the end the tone crystallises into a total “negation of human contact.”

One way the writer structures alienation is through a shift in focus from public to private estrangement. The opening embeds the wives’ chorus—“We think ourselves as good as you”—so Connie passes “without looking,” while they stare at her “as if she were a walking wax figure.” A pivot—“Clifford left them alone”—moves the lens to him. He becomes “part of things, like the pit-bank,” a dehumanising comparison that establishes exclusion at the level of the whole community.

In addition, the alienation intensifies through anaphora, antithesis and punctuating short sentences as the focus zooms into Clifford’s interiority. Repeated openers—“He was… He was…”—and the blunt, iterative “He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with anybody” create a staccato rhythm of separation. Antithetical pairings—“bold and frightened, assured and uncertain”—juxtapose incompatibles to show an inner split. The scientific vantage, “like… a microscope… or… a telescope,” extends a motif of distance, culminating in “a negation of human contact” and finally “a vacuum”.

A further structural element is the late temporal shift that ironises intimacy. Adversative transitions—“Yet… Still…”—lead into the flashback, “At first she was thrilled,” so the ending reframes Connie’s hope. Closing on her absorption—“her whole soul and body and sex… pass into these stories”—the narrative displaces human contact into art; even the stories’ “blame” becomes isolating “torture.” The sustained third-person focalisation, largely through Connie yet withdrawing to cool overview, leaves contact staged but never made.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures the opening to intensify alienation by shifting focus: Connie’s failed contact with the villagers—she passes without looking at them and is seen as a walking wax figure—gives way to Clifford’s detachment, from being just part of things to stories written in a vacuum. It would note contrast and repetition to show impact: despite looking from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever, the repeated negatives (not in touch, no touch, no actual contact) build a cumulative sense of emotional distance by the end.

One way the writer structures alienation is by shifting focus from the community to the household, then to deliberate avoidance. We open with the miners’ wives’ “false amiability,” positioning Connie as a “walking wax figure.” The narrative then moves to “Clifford left them alone” and “she learnt to do the same,” so the sequence establishes withdrawal as the norm from the outset.

In addition, variation in pace and contrast intensify detachment. After detailing Clifford’s outward “smart and impressive” surface, the focus zooms inward to his being “a hurt thing,” with a voice “bold and frightened, assured and uncertain.” This antithesis fractures him. The tone then hardens into blunt, short sentences—“He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with anybody”—whose repetition foregrounds isolation.

A further structural feature is the progression towards an artistic “vacuum” at the end. The focus shifts from social relations to Clifford’s writing, described as having “no touch, no actual contact” and being “meaningless.” By culminating in his stories and the “torture” of blame, the ending narrows to his mind, turning social alienation into psychological and creative estrangement.

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 text starts with Connie kept at a distance by the villagers (curious, suspicious, false amiability, treated like a walking wax figure) and then shifts to Clifford, repeating ideas like He was not in touch and no actual contact. This change of focus and the ending image as if the whole thing took place in a vacuum and a negation of human contact show alienation growing stronger across the extract.

One way the writer structures the text to create alienation is the opening focus on Connie against the villagers. Her ‘overtures’ are met with ‘false amiability’ and she is stared at ‘as if she were a walking wax figure’. The short line ‘There was no getting past it’ signals a barrier.

In addition, the focus shifts to Clifford in the middle. Repetition of negatives—‘He was not in touch. He was not in actual touch with anybody’—builds a rhythm of separation. The contrast ‘bold and frightened’ shows inner distance.

A further structural feature is the ending move to his writing. The stories are ‘in a vacuum’ with ‘no actual contact’, echoing earlier phrases, so alienation intensifies from beginning to end. Even when ‘he needed her every moment’, the final focus keeps real contact away.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the beginning Connie is 'puzzled and baffled' by the villagers’ 'false amiability', then the focus shifts to Clifford and repetition like 'He was not in touch' with phrases 'like a lost thing' and 'in a vacuum' make him seem more cut off.

One way the writer structures alienation is by starting with Connie and the miners’ wives. At the beginning the focus is on their "false amiability" and Connie being stared at "like a walking wax figure", which sets a distant mood.

In addition, the focus then shifts to Clifford. The writer uses short, simple sentences like "He was not in touch" and repeats "no touch" to show he is cut off from people.

A further structural feature is the ending about his stories. The tone gets colder, with "a vacuum", which makes the alienation stronger and leaves him and Connie apart.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening interpolation of villagers’ voices (parenthetical/italicised) creates immediate social division; Connie meets suspicion, not welcome; as good as you
• Cumulative negatives make the barrier feel fixed and impassable; alienation is inescapable; no getting past it
• Shift to action shows withdrawal and spectacle; Connie averts while they stare, dehumanising her; walking wax figure
• Perspective moves to Clifford’s public stance; he becomes part of the scenery, met with indifference; neither liked nor disliked
• Juxtaposed descriptors of his manner expose inner split; self-division breeds self-alienation; bold and frightened, assured and uncertain
• Anaphoric negation foregrounds lack of connection; estrangement is stated as a condition; He was not in touch
• Distance imagery structures his relation to others as observation-only; he studies life from afar; looking down a microscope
• Paradox of dependence without intimacy turns marriage into isolation; even Connie cannot reach him; negation of human contact
• Shift into his writing frames a sealed world; art becomes sterile and disconnected; no touch, no actual contact
• Tricolon of adverbs enacts obsessive self-absorption that encloses Connie in his process; monotonously, insistently, persistently

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, Clifford’s smart clothes and impressive appearance are shown to be very important to him. The writer suggests this is just a way to hide how helpless and afraid he really feels inside.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Clifford's impressive appearance and his inner helplessness
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Clifford's vulnerability
• 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 perceptively argue that Clifford’s sartorial polish is a deliberate façade—he is "just as carefully dressed as ever" in "the careful Bond Street neckties" so that "from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever"—while antithesis ("bold and frightened, assured and uncertain") and visceral metaphors ("a hurt thing"; "helpless...like a lost thing"; blame as "torture, like knives goading him") expose his fear and dependence. It would further evaluate how perspective and imagery ("as if...in a vacuum"; "he could not bear to have them look at him now he was lame"; "no actual contact") sustain the writer’s viewpoint that the appearance masks profound isolation, with even his "ambitious" writing functioning as another fragile performance.

I largely agree with the statement. The writer presents Clifford’s sartorial polish as a deliberate façade, but he simultaneously exposes the raw fear and helplessness it seeks to conceal. From the outset, Clifford is “extremely shy and self-conscious now he was lamed,” and he “hated seeing anyone except just the personal servants,” establishing a baseline of vulnerability. Against this, the adverbial pivot “Nevertheless” introduces a sustained performance: he remains “just as carefully dressed as ever,” with “Bond Street neckties,” so that “from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever.” The structural contrast here suggests compensatory display; the locational phrase “from the top” is telling, implying a curated upper-body sheen that masks the constraining reality of the “wheeled chair” beneath.

Yet the writer refuses to let the mask hold. Through antithesis in description, Clifford’s “very quiet, hesitating voice” and eyes “at the same time bold and frightened, assured and uncertain” reveal his divided interiority. Even his “offensively supercilious” manner slips into being “modest and self-effacing, almost tremulous.” This oscillation functions as a characterisation method that undercuts the solidity of his impressive exterior: the clothing projects assurance, but the voice and gaze betray it. The stark metaphor “He was a hurt thing” dehumanises him to a wounded creature, foregrounding a psychic injury the wardrobe cannot mend.

His fear and detachment are further developed through distancing imagery. He sees the miners as “objects rather than men,” “parts of the pit rather than parts of life,” and confesses he was “in some way afraid of them,” unable to “bear to have them look at him now he was lame.” The paired similes—“like a man looking down a microscope, or up a telescope”—construct a semantic field of observation without contact, echoed by the emphatic repetition “not in touch… not in actual touch” and the chilling abstraction “a negation of human contact.” The juxtaposition “Big and strong as he was, he was helpless,” and the simile “like a lost thing,” intensify his dependency on Connie, needing her “to assure him he existed at all.”

Even his literary ambition becomes another mode of appearance. He is “morbidly sensitive,” craving “ne plus ultra” praise, while blame is “torture, like knives goading him.” The stories exist “in a vacuum” on an “artificially-lighted stage,” an extended metaphor that aligns his writing with performance—another Bond Street polish for the self.

Overall, the writer validates that Clifford’s impressive appearance matters to him and functions as armour. However, through sustained contrasts, simile, and metaphor, the façade is made permeable: his fear, isolation and helplessness keep showing through, making the disguise both understandable and ultimately inadequate.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: I agree to a large extent: the focus on him being "just as carefully dressed as ever" in "Bond Street neckties" so that "from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever" shows appearance matters, while the writer’s contrast and imagery—his "eyes... bold and frightened", being "helpless" and "like a lost thing", and that "blame was torture, like knives goading him"—expose a fearful dependence the smart exterior conceals.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer clearly shows that Clifford’s appearance matters deeply to him, and sets it against signs of inner fear and helplessness. Structurally, the adverb “Nevertheless” signals a turn: despite being “lamed” and confined to a “wheeled chair,” he is “just as carefully dressed as ever,” with “Bond Street neckties,” so that “from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever.” This contrast between surface and reality suggests his clothes function as a protective veneer. The precise, class-coded lexis (“expensive tailors,” “Bond Street”) emphasises status and control, implying he clings to outward polish to maintain identity.

However, the writer immediately undermines that façade through antithesis and description of voice and eyes. Clifford’s “quiet, hesitating voice” and eyes “bold and frightened, assured and uncertain” juxtapose confidence with fear, revealing instability beneath the smart exterior. Similarly, his manner shifts from “offensively supercilious” to “modest and self-effacing, almost tremulous,” implying the hauteur is a defensive pose. The metaphor “He was a hurt thing” reduces him to vulnerability, encouraging the reader’s pity while exposing the fragility his clothes can’t cover.

Clifford’s helplessness is made literal and emotional. The repeated idea of “no touch” and the metaphor of life occurring “in a vacuum” present profound disconnection. He is “afraid” of the miners and “could not bear” their gaze, which suggests shame and insecurity. Dependence intensifies this: he is “absolutely dependent” on Connie—“alone he was like a lost thing,” needing her “to assure him he existed at all.” In his writing, the simile “blame was torture, like knives goading him” and “morbidly sensitive” show a fragile ego seeking validation, another kind of mask.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the careful sartorial image is important to Clifford and often works as a façade. Yet it also reflects habit and class identity, not only concealment. Even so, the writer’s contrasts and metaphors convincingly reveal a smart exterior overlaying a hurt, fearful interior.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would agree to some extent, noting the contrast between Clifford’s outward appearance and inner weakness: he is "carefully dressed" with "Bond Street neckties" and "from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever", but also "helpless" and "like a lost thing". It might also point to his eyes "bold and frightened" and his dependence—"He needed Connie to be there, to assure him he existed at all"—as simple evidence that the smart look hides fear.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer makes it clear that Clifford cares about looking impressive, but this seems to cover up his fear and weakness since he was lamed.

At the start of the section, his appearance is stressed. He is “just as carefully dressed as ever” by “expensive tailors” and still wears his “Bond Street neckties”. The phrase “from the top he looked just as smart and impressive as ever” is important. “From the top” suggests a surface image, almost a mask. This sits next to the detail that he has to use a “wheeled chair” and a “bath-chair”, so the contrast makes his smart clothes feel like a cover for disability.

However, the writer also shows his inner state. The adjectives “extremely shy and self‑conscious” show how damaged he feels. His “quiet, hesitating voice” and eyes that are “bold and frightened, assured and uncertain” are clear opposites, which makes him seem insecure under the smart look.

His helplessness is also shown through simile and repetition. He is “big and strong” yet “helpless”, and “like a lost thing” when alone. He “needed Connie... to assure him he existed”, a strong metaphor of dependence. He is “afraid” of the miners and “not in touch... no actual contact”, which is repeated to show isolation. Even his stories reveal this: he is “morbidly sensitive” and blame is “like knives goading him”.

Overall, I agree: his careful appearance is a front for fear and dependence.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, simply noting that Clifford keeps himself 'just as carefully dressed as ever' with 'Bond Street neckties' so he looks 'just as smart and impressive as ever', but inside he is 'helpless', 'a hurt thing', and 'like a lost thing'. It might also briefly point to his eyes being 'bold and frightened' as basic evidence of his fear.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer shows that Clifford cares a lot about looking smart, but inside he feels weak and scared.

At the start of this section he is “carefully dressed” with “Bond Street neckties” and looks “just as smart and impressive as ever”. The adjectives here show appearance matters to him. The phrase “from the top he looked” suggests he wants people to see only the smart surface, even though he is in a “wheeled chair”.

However, the writer also shows his inner fear. He is “shy and self-conscious” and his voice is “quiet, hesitating”. The description of his eyes as “bold and frightened, assured and uncertain” uses opposites to make him seem not confident. Calling him “a hurt thing” is a metaphor that makes him seem vulnerable.

His helplessness is clear with “absolutely dependent on her” and he is “like a lost thing”, a simple simile. He is “afraid” of the miners looking at him and has “no actual contact… in a vacuum”, which suggests isolation. Even his stories show insecurity: “blame was torture”.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. His smart clothes are very important to him, and they act like a cover for his fear and helplessness inside.

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:

• Visual emphasis on meticulous attire and branded detail → projects a deliberate, impressive facade of control → (Bond Street neckties)
• Irony in the partial view "from the top" → implies the smart exterior masks what is hidden/maimed below → (from the top he looked)
• Antithesis in voice and eyes → exposes inner conflict and fear beneath outward confidence → (bold and frightened)
• Shifting manner from arrogance to trembling → suggests defensive performance covering insecurity → (offensively supercilious)
• Direct authorial judgement of his wounded state → foregrounds vulnerability the smartness seeks to conceal → (a hurt thing)
• Fear and shame before his "own men" → shows he uses status/appearance as barrier because he dreads scrutiny → (afraid of them)
• Extended imagery of scientific distance → reveals detachment from life and people, belying the impressive surface → (looking down a microscope)
• Dependency versus physique juxtaposed → undercuts the big, strong image with stark helplessness → (he was helpless)
• Stage and pain-of-criticism imagery → the need for acclaim exposes a fragile self behind performance → (blame was torture)
• Ambition to write and seek praise complicates the reading → he asserts agency, yet the work lacks authentic contact → (in a vacuum)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At the town hall next month, a photo exhibition on working lives will include a page of short creative writing, and you decide to contribute.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an old town archive from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about rediscovering a forgotten skill.

(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 old town archive did not shout; it murmured. When the door eased open, a cool, papery breath met you—a careful climate, measured and dry, perfumed only by the faint vanilla of old lignin and the iron whisper of ink. Light pooled on the doormat and refused, politely, to trespass far. Even the floorboards seemed to conspire to hush their own memory of footsteps; they sighed rather than creaked.

High windows, clerestory-thin, rationed the day into shafts, and in those beams the dust did not dance so much as hover, deliberate, like pollen deciding where to land. The only loud thing was the clock: not obtrusive, but exact—tick, tick—each minute pressed like a seal into wax. A dehumidifier purred with the practical affection of a cat (though not entirely friendly). Now and then a box slid from a shelf with a breathy shush.

Ranks of shelving held their line, dark wood ribbed and steady, as if the building had grown a second skeleton for keeping what the town could not carry. The aisles were narrow, parsimonious with space. On the spines and lids: handwritten labels and brittle stickers; brass numbers bright where fingers had polished them. A litany of contents ran coolly on: Land Tax, 1823–1829; Baptisms and Burials; Wharfage; Air Raid Precautions; Petty Sessions; Lost Dog Notices.

At the centre, the catalogue stood: a chest of shallow drawers whose oiled runners whispered when pulled. Cards with softened corners—some typed, some in looping blue—filed under names that once answered. A blotter lay green and blotched; a bone folder, a magnifying glass and a bell were aligned beside it. The custodian, sleeves polished shiny at the elbows, pointed and did not touch; he shepherded dates with a fingertip, locating the past as one might locate a vein.

Here a map unfolded, crackling at its worn creases, rivers engraved like mercury threads; there a ledger, foxed and freckled, held the tidy ferocity of someone who counted everything. A letter—singed at the corners—smelled faintly of smoke; an envelope coughed up a pressed violet and a curl of hair. Labels muttered their own weather reports: damp; soot; mould treated. Gloves tugged over hands crisped the air; edges, once dangerous, were tamed by silk tape.

Meanwhile, outside thickened with traffic and talk; nevertheless, in here the present behaved itself. It was, perhaps, the town’s quieter heart—not its heartbeat but its held breath—where births queued beside bankruptcies, where victories shuffled alongside broken windows. Facts were stored, yes, but also their shadows; margins held complaints, jokes, a doodle of a crow. Leaving, you understood the archive’s contrariness: that stillness could be vigorous. What endures, after all? The door clicked behind you, and the murmur went on without you.

Option B:

Silence. The patient, dust-laden kind that settles in corners and makes even a cough feel like trespass. It lay across the room like a thin frost, silvering the picture frames, muting the clock. Beneath the window, the piano crouched under its felt cover, a sleeping animal, lacquered flank dulled, ivory smile sealed; in its shadow, dust motes drifted—lazy, luminous.

Maya hovered on the threshold, the key still warm in her palm from the lock she had not turned for years. The scent—beeswax, old paper, the faint metallic tang of strings coaxed by winter air—tugged at an older version of herself: sleeves rolled, wrist loose, a metronome’s heart ticking sternly. Four years is not long, she told herself; yet knowledge corrodes quietly when you turn your back. She set the key on the mantelpiece as if it might clang the entire room awake.

The felt cover rasped when she drew it back. The fallboard lifted with the same soft gasp she remembered, and the keyboard lay before her like a row of tiny doors. Her fingers—unpractised, faintly tremulous—hovered, then landed. The first chord stumbled. A sour interval bled into the stale air; somewhere in the street a car laughed, unkindly. She winced, then laughed too, because the sound was ridiculous and because she was suddenly, overwhelmingly relieved to have begun.

She tried a scale. C major: cautious, white keys only, safe as a well-lit pavement. The ascent was halting, the descent marginally braver; her left hand, ever the recalcitrant sibling, thudded when it should have flowed. How had the easy geometry of scales become so foreign? Still—under the clumsiness—something stirred. Tendon remembered what the mind had mislaid. Her wrists softened. That awkward fourth finger uncurled; the thumb slid under in a shy, delayed arc.

Images arrived in syncopation: Miss Patel’s chalk-dry voice counting, two-and-three-and-four; the moth-flecked curtains of the practice room; her mother’s silhouette in the doorway, a mug steaming between careful hands. The repertoire surfaced in fragments, like a shoreline at low tide: a Schubert waltz, a hymn, those obstinate arpeggios she used to dream about and dread. She played a phrase—hesitated—played it again. The second time, the note landed true. The room, which had been holding its breath, seemed to exhale.

It was not that the skill had vanished; it had simply gone to ground, burrowed deep, waiting for the footfall of her resolve. Little by little, the rhythms arranged themselves. Staccato gave way to legato; corners smoothed; the sound grew less apologetic. She dared a bar from a nocturne she had loved and then abandoned: the melody rose thin as smoke then thickened, acquired grain, began to glow.

Outside, clouds lugged themselves across a hard winter sky. In here, her reflection in the lacquer wore a concentration she had missed—fierce, almost unfamiliar. Her shoulders dropped. She leaned into the resonance, felt it travel through wood and bone. She would not get all of it back today; nevertheless, a door had opened, not noisily, not grandly, but with the humble, decisive click of a latch. And in that small sound, she recognised herself.

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

Option A:

The door sighs as it opens; a ribbon of cool, paper-scented air uncoils from the room. Light falls in narrow ladders through high, dusty panes, each beam thick with motes that float as if reluctant to land. Flagstones dip underfoot from long-ago footsteps; it is quiet—moth-wing quiet—but not empty: the faint tick of a far clock, the dutiful hum of a dehumidifier, a breath of a drawer sliding back to rest.

The aisles are narrow enough to make the shoulders draw in. Steel uprights carry shelf after shelf, grey and stippled with rust; parcels of paper and cloth sit in regimented lines, their linen ties pale as river weed. Labels—typewritten, yellowed, frayed—declare contents in careful capitals: maps, deeds, council minutes. Card drawers with brass cups wait; when an index is thumbed the cards make a soft, sibilant flicker—in and out.

Here, memory feels stacked and stratified, a geology of paper. I pull a box forward; it releases its scent—starch paste, old glue, a breath of camphor—an aroma as particular as winter linen. Within lie surveyors’ maps where rivers run like blue veins, letters with ink the colour of tea, a ledger with marbled edges thumbed thin. Dates marshal themselves down the margins—1790, 1846, 1919—numbers that look both authoritative and oddly fragile.

The archivist rolls the ladder along its rail and steadies it (almost tenderly). Her cardigan is the colour of lichen; keys at her belt chime once. She lowers a bound volume to the table and lifts the cover with gloved care. Names appear in tidy lines—births, marriages, trade apprenticeships: Tom, Sarah, a bootmaker, a seamstress. Who will remember them if not this room?

Further in, oddments lean against the past: a tin tag stamped 1902; a cracked wax seal the colour of dried cherries; a map frayed to a fine fringe. It is fussy, perhaps, this care—yet it dignifies what might have been thrown away. Outside, buses bellow and shop doors shudder; gulls are greedy. Paper breathes; drawers close; you can almost hear the town thinking to itself. When I leave, the door settles with a polite click—the archive remains, slow and exact, a heart under the ordinary streets, keeping names where they cannot fall.

Option B:

Morning slipped through the blinds, thin and pale, turning the sitting room into a shaken snow globe. Dust hung in the air, a quiet weather I had made by forgetting. Under the old floral throw the piano waited; a hulking, patient animal with its back to the wall. The silence looked up, expectant. When I lifted the cover, it exhaled polish and paper—a breath that remembered me better than I remembered it.

I folded back the lid; the hinges complained but yielded. The keys were not white any more but the tired ivory of old teeth, nicked and smudged with pencil where my teenage self had scrawled fingering. My hands hovered—older hands, thinner at the knuckles, no concertina of calluses. Somewhere a metronome clicked in memory—a wooden heart I once mistook for courage.

I pressed middle C. It answered, a little flat, like someone clearing their throat. Another note; another—a cautious ladder. Left hand; right hand; both together. The first scale stumbled; the second found its feet. It was not smooth, not yet, but something shifted—some long-banked spark discovered air. My wrists loosened; I breathed, and that tiny miracle felt like a triumph.

The score on the stand was softened, its corners furred from years of turning. I had loved how those notes fell like water and demanded control (and patience) I never quite had. My eyes slid over black ladders and moons; my brain supplied names, then meanings. What if it isn't mine any more? The thought rang as clearly as any chord. I began the opening—hesitantly, then with fewer hesitations.

The music did not return whole. It came in fragments, like shells set down by a considerate tide: a phrase, a cadence, a fingering arriving late yet finding its place. Mistakes announced themselves and were corrected; patience—a skill I had to relearn—hovered and, for once, stayed. When I stopped, my fingers hovered, surprised and a little amused. The room held what I had done: small, imperfect, undeniable. But mine again, and enough to begin. Tomorrow would be louder.

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

Option A:

Behind the heavy municipal door, the air cooled and thinned to a dry, papery scent; it smelt of glue, dust and a faint metallic tang, as if a filing cabinet had a memory. Silence lived here. It wasn’t complete, not exactly—rather the soft hush of old paper resting, of a building breathing slowly. The entry light blinked; a thin strip of fluorescent shivered and steadied, casting a pale, agreeable wash over narrow aisles that rose like hedgerows. Row upon row; measured shadows; a corridor of spines and string. It is like a library, but older and smaller, and it feels careful.

Further in, the shelves squeezed closer, their steel uprights freckled with spots of rust that looked almost like freckles on a tired face. Box files slumped slightly at the edges where the cord had bitten; leather-bound volumes kept their proud backs despite the years. Labels curled at the corners: Planning 1948–1953, Ship Manifests, Cemetery Registers. The handwriting was a study in itself—looped capitals, flourishes that stubbornly insisted on being seen. Above, the bulbs hummed, the ceiling felt lower; a long low drone that made any whisper sound too loud. Dust motes climbed and fell in a slow ballet, caught in the anxious light.

Here, the town lay folded and refolded: maps the colour of weak tea, rolled like sleeping snakes; minutes from meetings with meticulous underlinings; birth notices tucked beside grim inquests. Names and dates, names and dates, and between them a thin trail of lives. The pages had gone to sepia at the edges, feathery to the touch; if you ran a finger there it might shed a leaf of itself—so you didn’t. Ink browned where once it had shouted. It felt, strangely, like a palimpsest: stories on top of stories, a slow accumulation, not hurried, slightly stubborn.

At the back, beside a high window misted with grime, a wooden index waited. Little drawers with brass lips; cards whispering in their sleep. Pencils lay in a jam jar. A clock ticked too loudly, and sometimes stopped. Someone had left a ring of coffee on a ledger, careless, ordinary—human.

When you leave, the door thuds gently, and the corridor outside seems brighter than it should. The archive stays behind, unruffled, keeping its own time—quietly, reliably—turning the town over in its careful hands.

Option B:

Morning. The hour when old routines creak into place; windows silvered with condensation; pavements glistening under thin light. The rink at the park’s edge looked like a chilled coin set in concrete, ordinary outside, except for the sweet trace of ice and rubber when the doors sighed.

Maya paused on the threshold. Cold laid its palms on her cheeks; her lungs tightened, then widened. The canvas bag bumped her hip: skates she hadn’t touched for three winters. Less white than she remembered, the leather was scuffed; the laces feathered; the blades flashed, a film of rust she wiped away. She sat on the wooden bench—the varnish held a ghost of hot chocolate. In, over, under, pull: the lacing pattern came back to her fingers before the rest. Last time, a fall had bloomed a purple flower on her hip and a doubt; she had walked away, saying she was busy.

Now the ice waited, silent and bright. She stepped through the gate and tested her blades on the rubber, clack, clack, as if learning to speak. The rink was quiet: a couple tracing loops; a boy shuffling at the barrier. One blade, then the other; the first scratch of steel made a thin, shy note.

Maya moved. Left, right, left—knees soft, arms quiet. Her coach’s words returned, soft and insistent: bend, push, glide; don’t fight the edge. She wobbled on a circle; corrected; felt momentum gather like a tide under her feet. The first crossover was clumsy, the second less so. She tried a three-turn and almost lost it; then, as if a door unlatched inside her ankles, she pivoted and slid backwards, laughing a white puff into the air.

It wasn’t a sudden miracle; the skill returned in fragments—the burn in her thighs, the way a corner should be taken like a question, the quiet counting she’d forgotten. The ice stopped being something to survive and became a page for her blades. She wasn’t brilliant, not yet; she was better than stuck. As she traced a slow figure eight, she realised she hadn’t lost anything; she’d simply misplaced it, and now it had found her.

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

Option A:

The archive smells of old rain and ink; a cool, papery breath that meets me at the door. Dust hangs in the strip of light like tired snow, turning slowly. The air is still, almost stubborn, and every sound seems to arrive late, softened by cardboard and cloth.

Row after row after row, the shelves run in narrow lanes, metal uprights slightly bowed under years. Brown boxes crouch side by side, their labels faded to tea-stain colours; some are tied with string that remembers fingers. Registers, minute books, maps: their spines line up like disciplined backs. A drawer slides out—reluctant, murmuring—and shows its thin secrets, thin paper labelled with harder handwriting. My fingertips pick up a film of dust; it feels like a thin veil, like quiet itself.

Somewhere a clock ticks—stern, unhurried; it scolds the room with evenly spaced patience. The fluorescent light above me hums, and sometimes it flickers, a small pulse that makes the shadows shiver. A map crackles when unfolded, and the smell lifts—glue, leather, a ghost of smoke. The archivist’s trolley rolls past, rubber wheels whispering; she pauses to adjust a spine, then writes a date on a card. Her pen makes a tiny scratching noise that feels loud here, and then it stops, and the quiet returns.

Beyond the stacks, the reading desks wait with green lamps and clean squares of light. People come to find grandparents, boundaries, the first name of someone who built a wall. The town lies in these boxes, almost asleep, yet awake when pages turn. Streets measured in inches; weddings in ink. It is not grand, this place, not glamorous. But it holds everything with steady hands—carefully, persistently—so that we do not forget. When I leave, the door whispers on its hinges, and the archive breathes out, patient as old stone.

Option B:

The piano had been quiet for years. It waited in the corner where afternoon light folded across its cracked varnish. Dust lingered like grey lace on the lid; the room smelled faintly of old polish and old rain from coats on the back of the door. Everything around it said: forgotten.

My hand hovered over the lid. The wood felt cooler than I remembered and a little sticky, as if the years had stayed on it. Mother used to leave a vase of tulips there in spring, bright heads nodding while I stumbled through scales. I cleared a path with my sleeve and lifted gently. The piano blinked open. Teeth—keys—yellowed at the edges, black notes shining like little islands. Somewhere under the lid, pencil lines still showed where a younger me had drawn stars next to difficult bars.

It had been so long, I thought, almost aloud. What if I couldn't do it? I lowered myself onto the wobbly stool. The clock ticked; my heart tried to match it. Hands floated, unsure, then landed—awkwardly—over middle C. One note first. It rang thin, a metal taste in the air, and faded quickly. Another. Then the first simple tune I had ever learned began to crawl into shape. My fingers hesitated, tripped, paused; muscle remembered faster than my mind. The pattern under the weeds began to show, the path I knew but had not walked. Wrong notes crashed like pebbles, but some fell into place, smooth and right.

By the end of the line my shoulders had dropped. Sound stitched the room together again. The piano did not mind that I was clumsy. It only gave back what I asked, quietly at first, then braver. I smiled at the keys. Maybe the skill was never lost—only sleeping. I pressed on, bar by bar, letting it wake.

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

Option A:

At the end of a thin lane, the old town archive waits behind a chipped wooden door. The blue paint flakes like dried sea. Inside, the air is cool and musty; it tastes faintly of glue and old rain.

Rows of shelves stand close, like tall hedges in a maze. Labels tilt at odd angles, their ink faded to a faint brown. The aisles are narrow, so my shoulder brushes the spines. Ledgers sit with cracked leather, tied by tired ribbon; cardboard boxes huddle together with frayed string. Row after row, box after box, name after name.

On a long table, a wooden card catalogue invites a cautious hand: small drawers with brass handles worn smooth. I pull one and hear a light shush. Inside, narrow cards whisper neat handwriting—Baker, Thomas—Rates, 1921; Births, Ward 3; A Map of the Lower Wharf. The paper feels dry, almost crumbly, but still strong.

Light falls from a high window in a pale sheet. Dust swims in it like tiny fish. Somewhere a clock ticks, stubborn and slow. The fluorescent strip hums along the ceiling, and the old radiator coughs once, as if waking.

Here, time is stacked, not loud but present. A place for deeds and debts, for promises and fines. Who remembers them if not this room? It is not grand, yet it feels steady, careful, official. The archive holds the town’s breath; it doesn’t rush, it simply stays.

Option B:

Afternoon. The hour of long shadows; a quiet house; a clock that ticked too loudly. Dust swam in the slant of light, floating like tiny moths. In the front room, the piano sat under its faded cloth, patient and heavy. Its lid wore a line of fingerprints.

Leah stood in the doorway, as if the room might change if she blinked. She had not touched the keys since Year 9, since the day she decided it was easier to listen than to play. Her grandmother had taught her; soft hands, firm voice — wrists up, count, breathe. She crossed the carpet, slow. She lifted the cloth, the bench was lower than she remembered, it creaked when she sat. The lid opened with a faint gasp; the keys showed yellow at the edges, like old teeth.

Just one note, she thought. Middle C answered with a round sound that hummed. Her fingers hovered, unsure, then they moved almost by themselves. Scale first: C to C, uneven, a bit clumsy, but there. Then a chord—careful, simple—her hand shook. A wrong note flashed; she winced; tried again. Notes clustered and then spread, a tune trying to remember itself. At first it was broken like stones across a stream; by the third try the melody reached the other bank. Grandma's voice was somewhere near: wrists up, count, breathe. The room felt larger as the sound curled into the corners. The skill hadn't vanished, not exactly: it had been hiding, waiting—under the dust, inside her hands—for her to come back.

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

Option A:

The old town archive sits behind a thick door that sighs when it opens. Inside, the light is dim; a long strip hums above me, pale and buzzing. The aisles are narrow, they feel like a maze. Shelves lean slightly like tired guards. Dust hangs in the air, floating in the weak light, and the smell of paper and polish is dry, almost sweet, like biscuits left too long in a tin.

Further in, the floor creaks. Boxes are stacked in careful towers, tied with frayed string; faded labels dangle, names of streets and years written in small, neat hands. A leather-bound register rests on a slanted desk: it looks important but shy. When I turn a page, it crackled. Somewhere a clock clicks, slow and sure, and the room feels like it is holding its breath—listening. Who touched these folders before me, who trusted them with secrets, who cried here?

I trail my fingers along the spines and my skin comes away grey. The ink on some cards has bled, time pushing through its small lines. A chair waits in the corner, one leg wobbling, and the radiator coughs even though it’s not cold. Row after row after row; the town’s memory filed away. I close the door softly.

Option B:

The old piano sat in the corner of the small lounge, half hidden under a dusty quilt. Sunlight through thin curtains drew stripes on the black lid like a quiet barcode. It had been years since I last tried. Back then my hands were quicker and the songs came without thinking.

Now I pulled back the cover and the smell of polish and dust came up, familiar and strange. The keys were yellowed, chipped like old teeth. My fingers hovered like shy birds, unsure where to land. I felt two things at once: hope and fear; I hadn’t played for ages; since Mum packed away the books. The first note trembled. It was thin, like a voice waking up.

I pressed another, then two together. Wrong. I flinched and looked at the door, as if someone would laugh. So I tried again, slower this time, counting under my breath, one-two-three, one-two-three. I breathed out, my shoulders were tight. The rhythm stepped forward, a small brave step. My hands remembered before my head did. Not perfect, not even neat—but something. A little melody circled the room and came back to me, and I smiled, because the skill wasn’t lost, just hiding.

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

Option A:

Cold air comes from the old town archive. The door is heavy and it groans when I push it. It smells of dust and paper, like a old book left in a shed. Tall shelves go on in narrow isles. Boxes and files are labled in faded pen. A flourescent light buzz and flickers on the cieling.

It is quiet. When I touch a folder the pages whisper, whisper. A small clock goes tick tick tick.

The shelves are like tired men standing still. There is cobwebs in the corners and the floor boards creak. I walk careful, my breath makes little clouds in the cold. Them boxes is heavy and the string is rough on my hands. I see names of people from years ago and the paper feels thin. The town is here, in dusty pieces, in dates and stamps. I think somebody should clean it but I don't, it will wake the quiet and the memorys.

Option B:

Morning. The old piano in the front room is quiet and cold. Dust sits on the black keys like grey snow and the room smells like polish and old air.

I pull the stool, it scrapes the floor, my heart makes a small jump. I havent played in years, maybe I cant now. Gran used to sit here and say do it slow, slow, slow.

I press one note. Then two... It sounds thin, like a bird that forgot to sing. My fingers feel big, they slip, they shake. Left hand. Right hand. Left hand.

I try again.

I dont really know where to put them, I mess it up, start again. The tune hides, it runs away, but a bit comes back.

The room seems warmer. I see grans smile in the shiny lid, like a mirror, not really there but like its there. Im breathing different.

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

Option A:

The old town archive is small and long like a maze. Shelves are high and lean, the boxes are brown, labels peel. So many numbers. It is quiet, but my shoes make a soft echo and the air smell of dust and old paper. I see a weak yellow light in the ceiling, it buzz a bit and it shakes shadows. I go back and forth, back and forth. I touch a book, it flakes, little bits fall like sand. Somewhere a clock ticks, then I think about the street outside for no reason. There is a chair that wobbles and a door that dont shut.

Option B:

Autumn. The path is wet and brown. My old bike leans by the shed with dust on it. I used to ride it all the time, I cant remember it now, but I try, my hands shake. My knees feel like jelly, like a baby lamb on thin legs and the chain squeeks and my phone is out of battry and my lace is lose. I push off and wobble, wobble, I almost fall and I laugh a bit and feel sick. Dad said keep going. I breath hard and turn the handle, only a little, and the wheel goes straight. Maybe I didnt forget, it was sleeping.