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 does the narrator set out to do with the ladder?: get the ladder in – 1 mark
• 1.2 What happens when the narrator pulls hard on the side ladder to bring it aboard?: The narrator is jolted backwards because the ladder does not budge – 1 mark
• 1.3 What does the narrator expect his tug to do?: bring the ladder flying on board – 1 mark
• 1.4 When the narrator gives the side ladder a vigorous tug, what happens immediately?: The narrator's pull jerks back against the narrator's body, leaving the ladder unmoved. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 20 of the source:

6 remained stock-still, trying to account for it to myself like that imbecile mate of mine. In the end, of course, I put my head over the rail. The side of the ship made an opaque belt of shadow on the darkling glassy shimmer of the sea. But I saw at once something elongated and pale floating

11 very close to the ladder. Before I could form a guess a faint flash of phosphorescent light, which seemed to issue suddenly from the naked body of a man, flickered in the sleeping water with the elusive, silent play of summer lightning in a night sky. With a gasp I saw revealed to my stare a pair of feet, the long legs, a broad livid back immersed right up to the neck in a

16 greenish cadaverous glow. One hand, awash, clutched the bottom rung of the ladder. He was complete but for the head. A headless corpse! The cigar dropped out of my gaping mouth with a tiny plop and a short hiss quite audible in the absolute stillness of all things under heaven. At that I suppose he raised up his face, a dimly pale oval in the shadow of the ship’s side. But even then I

How does the writer use language here to create a striking and eerie picture of the figure in the water? You could include the writer’s choice of:

• words and phrases
• language features and techniques
• sentence forms.

[8 marks]

Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)

Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response perceptively analyses how layered imagery and structure create uncanniness: colour-and-light metaphors and personification (opaque belt of shadow, darkling glassy shimmer, phosphorescent light, sleeping water) with the simile silent play of summer lightning render the body eerily luminous, while morbid lexis (greenish cadaverous glow) and the abrupt exclamative A headless corpse! pivot from cumulative, suspenseful description to shock; onomatopoeia (tiny plop, short hiss) punctures the absolute stillness, and synecdochic focus on a dimly pale oval plus the desperate verb clutched dehumanise the figure.

The writer manipulates light and dark imagery to render the figure uncanny. An “opaque belt of shadow” girds the “darkling glassy shimmer”, a metaphor that muffles the scene, while the sibilant “glassy shimmer” whispers hush. Against that backdrop, the body appears “elongated and pale”, drained of life, then seems to emit a “faint flash of phosphorescent light” that “issued” from it— a spectral, sea-green radiance. The flicker moves with the “elusive, silent play of summer lightning”, a paradoxically noiseless storm-image that makes the apparition feel otherworldly.

Furthermore, personification and sound heighten the eeriness. The “sleeping water” suggests an unnaturally bewitched sea, its life suppressed, while repeated sibilance—“sleeping”, “silent”, “absolute stillness of all things under heaven”—creates a whispered soundscape. Into this hush, deathly lexis intrudes: the back is “livid”, the glow “greenish” and “cadaverous”. “He was complete but for the head” is a terse, declarative clause whose restraint intensifies shock, before the exclamative minor sentence “A headless corpse!” explodes into horror. Onomatopoeia—“tiny plop”, “short hiss”—then punctures the stillness, making trivial sounds feel sinister.

Additionally, visual structure renders the figure strikingly strange. The asyndetic listing of parts—“a pair of feet, the long legs, a broad livid back”—stages an incremental reveal; through synecdoche, the man is reduced to fragments, more specimen than person. Yet “One hand… clutched” the rung: the dynamic verb hints at life, only for the face to reappear as a “dimly pale oval”, a dehumanised geometry in “the shadow of the ship’s side”. The result is a liminal, eerie apparition.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds an eerie image through sensory imagery and contrast, describing an "opaque belt of shadow" and "phosphorescent light" that "flickered in the sleeping water" (personification), while the "greenish cadaverous glow" suggests death. The exclamative "A headless corpse!" and onomatopoeic sounds "tiny plop" and "short hiss" against the "absolute stillness", plus a shift from longer description to a short exclamation, heighten shock and unease.

The writer uses vivid light and colour imagery to create a strikingly eerie vision of the figure. The ship casts “an opaque belt of shadow” across the “darkling glassy shimmer,” so the sea seems both bright and dark, which feels unsettling. A “faint flash of phosphorescent light” that appears to “issue” from the body “flickered in the sleeping water,” where personification makes the sea lifeless, while the comparison to the “elusive, silent play of summer lightning” suggests a ghostly, soundless glow.

Moreover, precise adjectives and colour imagery build horror around the figure in the water. It is “elongated and pale,” with a “broad livid back” and a “greenish cadaverous glow,” forming a lexical field of death. The listing of body parts — “a pair of feet, the long legs, a broad … back” — stages a slow reveal before the short exclamative “A headless corpse!” delivers shock. The verb “clutched” implies desperate, uncanny life at the ladder.

Additionally, sound and sentence form heighten the eeriness. Onomatopoeia in the “tiny plop” and “short hiss” is “quite audible” in the “absolute stillness,” and sibilance reinforces the hush. The long, complex build-up (“Before I could form a guess…”) increases suspense, making the apparition more striking and uncanny.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses eerie description like "darkling glassy shimmer" and "greenish cadaverous glow" and a comparison to "summer lightning" to make the figure seem ghostly and unsettling. The short exclamation "A headless corpse!" and onomatopoeia "plop" and "hiss" emphasise shock in the "absolute stillness," creating a creepy effect.

The writer uses colour imagery and adjectives to make it eerie. Phrases like “opaque belt of shadow” and “darkling glassy shimmer” make the sea seem mysterious, setting a creepy mood.

Moreover, personification and comparison create an uncanny glow: “phosphorescent light… flickered in the sleeping water” and the “play of summer lightning”. The verb “flickered” suggests a ghostly light, and “sleeping water” makes the sea seem silent and unnatural.

Furthermore, the body is striking: “elongated and pale”, a “broad livid back” in a “greenish cadaverous glow”, and the hand “clutched the bottom rung”. Words like “cadaverous” and “clutched” make him seem corpse-like and desperate.

Additionally, sentence forms and sound add shock: the short exclamation “A headless corpse!” creates horror, while onomatopoeia like the “tiny plop” and “short hiss” in the “absolute stillness” make the moment eerie. Overall, the language builds a vivid, chilling image of the figure in the water.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses descriptive words like "darkling glassy shimmer," "phosphorescent light," and "greenish cadaverous glow" to make the figure seem eerie and ghostly. The short exclamation "A headless corpse!" and sound words "tiny plop" and "short hiss" emphasise the "absolute stillness" and add shock.

The writer uses adjectives to create an eerie image, like “darkling” and “greenish cadaverous glow”, which make the figure seem ghostly and dead. Furthermore, the personification “sleeping water” makes the sea feel unnatural and still. Additionally, onomatopoeia such as “plop” and “hiss” in the “absolute stillness” adds to the creepy quiet. Moreover, the imagery of “phosphorescent light” that “flickered” makes the body look like strange lightning. Finally, the short exclamation “A headless corpse!” is shocking and makes the picture striking to the reader.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Word choice of stillness creates held-breath tension before the sighting (stock-still)
• Chiaroscuro sea imagery frames the scene with oppressive gloom, preparing for an uncanny apparition (opaque belt of shadow)
• Descriptive outline makes the figure ghostlike and uncanny through pallor and vagueness (elongated and pale)
• Unnatural luminescence and a lightning simile suggest a spectral, noiseless energy around the body (phosphorescent light)
• Personification of the sea deepens the uncanny calm, making the flicker more startling (sleeping water)
• Anatomical listing and deathly colour connotations render the body corpse-like and shocking (greenish cadaverous glow)
• Dynamic verb of grasping implies desperation and immediacy, placing the eerie figure within arm’s reach (clutched the bottom rung)
• Exclamative minor sentence captures a jolt of horror and misperception, amplifying the eerie image (A headless corpse!)
• Sensory sound detail against vast quiet magnifies the uncanny hush of the moment (absolute stillness)
• Partial, dehumanising face description in darkness sustains strangeness, and the cut-off syntax prolongs unease (dimly pale oval)

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 intimacy?

You could write about:

• how intimacy emerges by the end of the source
• how the writer uses structure to create an effect
• the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]

Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)

Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how intimacy is structurally built from detachment to connection, noting the shift from the narrator’s initial distance—“as it were mechanically” and the eerie misrecognition “A headless corpse!”—to a narrowed, face-to-face focalisation at the rail (“face upturned exactly under mine”). It would analyse how staged revelations and threshold moments—direct Q&A (“What’s the matter?”, “My name’s Leggatt”), mirrored composure (“The self-possession of that man had somehow induced a corresponding state in myself”, “A mysterious communication was established”), and the climactic crossing “began suddenly to climb up the ladder”—shift the mood from isolation to shared intimacy.

One way the writer structures intimacy is through a narrowing of focus and proximity. We begin at a distance with the ship, the “side ladder” and the sea’s “glassy shimmer”, then the narration zooms from “a pair of feet” to “a dimly pale oval” until the stranger’s face lies “exactly under” the narrator’s. This incremental revelation, reinforced by leaning “to bring my eyes nearer”, reduces spatial distance and, by slowing the pace into “absolute stillness”, draws the reader into a hushed, private space at the ship’s shadowed margin.

In addition, the writer engineers intimacy via a shift from descriptive focalisation to spare dialogue. The terse adjacency pairs—“What’s the matter?” / “Cramp.”; “Are you alone on deck?” / “Yes.”—contract the scene into a confidential exchange that excludes the crew (“no need to call anyone”). The quiet register (“in my ordinary tone”, a whispered “By Jove!”) and vertical staging (“face upturned exactly under mine”) choreograph closeness, while the restrained Q&A decelerates the tempo, transforming shock into a conspiratorial calm.

A further structural feature is the delayed disclosure of identity culminating in a narrative pivot. Withholding names yields to mirrored, declarative self-definition—“I am the captain.” / “My name’s Leggatt.”—a balanced exchange that formalises mutual recognition. This mirroring, alongside temporal pressure (“since nine o’clock”) and the liminal ladder motif, forges dependence and trust. The narrator’s aside—“A mysterious communication was established already between us two”—frames the episode as bond-making; the closing action (to “fetch some clothes”) confirms intimacy by converting private knowledge into protective care.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that intimacy is built structurally through a gradual move from startled observation to quiet, private dialogue and a calmer tone: after "A headless corpse!" the narrator moves closer ("leaned over the rail as far as I could") and the short exchanges ("What’s the matter?" / "Cramp") in the "absolute stillness" create a one-to-one focus. It would also note the turning point into mutual trust—"I am the captain" / "My name’s Leggatt"—and the explicit bond "A mysterious communication was established already between us two," with him starting to "climb up the ladder" showing intimacy emerging by the end.

One way the writer structures the opening to create intimacy is through a sustained first-person narrative that progressively narrows the focus from ship and sea to bodily proximity. We move from the “opaque belt of shadow” to the captain “put[ting] my head over the rail,” then “leaned over the rail… to bring my eyes nearer,” until the stranger’s face is “exactly under mine.” This tightening focus and close spatial arrangement draw the reader into a private, almost enclosed space shared by two figures.

In addition, the shift from extended description to clipped, whispered dialogue changes the pace and tone to something confidential. The question-and-answer exchange—“What’s the matter?” “Cramp.” “Are you alone on deck?” “Yes.”—uses short turns to create a hush within the “absolute stillness,” while “no need to call anyone” signals secrecy. The calm, measured replies and minimal speech acts heighten a sense of mutual trust forming in real time.

A further structural feature is the clear turning point when identities are exchanged: “I am the captain.” “My name’s Leggatt.” This symmetrical reveal, followed by interior reflection—“The self-possession of that man… induced a corresponding state in myself”—shows convergence of mood. By the end, the narrator states “a mysterious communication was established already between us two,” and the closing action (fetching clothes as Leggatt climbs the ladder) makes the emerging intimacy tangible.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might identify that the writer moves from mystery to direct talk, narrowing the focus as the captain leaned over the rail to the face upturned exactly under mine, then uses short questions like Are you alone on deck? to create a personal moment. By the end, the naming My name’s Leggatt and the line a mysterious communication was established already between us two show a shift from shock to connection, building intimacy.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of intimacy is by narrowing the focus. At the beginning the captain looks down from the rail, then he leans over to bring his eyes nearer, until the stranger’s face is under his. This movement from distance to closeness draws the two together.

In addition, the text shifts from description to dialogue in the middle. Short question-and-answer lines like “What’s the matter?” — “Cramp.” create a quiet, private tone. Then naming (“I am the captain… My name’s Leggatt.”) makes the exchange personal, increasing closeness.

A further structural feature is the first-person perspective and a change in mood. Early panic (“a headless corpse!”) settles into calm togetherness; by the end a “mysterious communication” is “established” and the captain fetches clothes. This ending action shows a bond forming across the extract.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer moves from early shock and distance ("A headless corpse!") to closeness as the narrator "leaned over the rail". The structure then shifts into quiet dialogue and identity-sharing ("What's the matter?", "My name's Leggatt"), which makes it feel more intimate by the end.

One way the writer creates intimacy is the first-person start and close focus. We follow “I” looking over the rail to the man. This puts us in his thoughts and makes it feel personal.

In addition, the dialogue in the middle makes a private, one-to-one moment. Short lines like “What’s the matter?” “Cramp.” create a quiet, close tone.

A further way is the ending. The reveals “I am the captain” and “My name’s Leggatt” come late, and then “a mysterious communication” shows they move from strangers to a small bond.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening mechanical action to sudden focus on a person; the shift from impersonal ladder-work to a single figure initiates closeness (put my head over)
• Mood shift from shock to calm; moving from horror to measured conversation turns fear into a private exchange (ordinary tone)
• Spatial convergence; faces aligned vertically reduces distance and creates a confidential, face-to-face feel (exactly under mine)
• Dialogic isolation through clipped Q&A; brief, direct exchanges build a quiet, two-person world apart from the crew (Are you alone)
• Strategic withholding and timed revelation; delaying identity intensifies the bond at the naming pivot (My name’s Leggatt)
• Conspiracy and secrecy; assurances about not summoning others frame the moment as a shared secret (no need to call anyone)
• Emotional mirroring; his composure reshapes the narrator’s state, forming reciprocal understanding (induced a corresponding state)
• Narrative acknowledgement of bond; the narrator explicitly marks the new closeness as achieved (mysterious communication was established)
• Shared decision point; posing a binary choice invites the captain’s complicity, tightening their tie (come on board here)
• Care-taking action closes the sequence; moving from observation to practical help enacts intimacy (fetch some clothes)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 16 to the end.

In this part of the source, the narrator’s reaction to the man in the water as a 'headless corpse' creates a moment of horror. The writer suggests that this initial shock makes the narrator's later feeling of a 'mysterious communication' with the man seem even stranger.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the narrator's initial reaction to the man
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the mysterious communication between the men
• 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, showing how the writer heightens the uncanny by juxtaposing visceral horror—"A headless corpse!", "the absolute stillness of all things under heaven", "the horrid, frost-bound sensation", and fishlike imagery ("ghastly, silvery, fishlike", "as mute as a fish")—with a sudden tonal shift to intimacy in "A mysterious communication was established". It would also evaluate how the narrator’s mirroring—"The self-possession of that man had somehow induced a corresponding state in myself"—and alignment in age ("I was young, too") partly normalise the bond, making its immediacy feel paradoxically stranger even as it becomes psychologically plausible.

I largely agree that the shock of the ‘headless corpse’ generates a genuine moment of horror and intensifies the uncanniness of the later ‘mysterious communication’. From the outset, the writer floods the scene with morbid imagery: the ‘greenish cadaverous glow’ and the exclamative ‘A headless corpse!’ foreground death. The onomatopoeic ‘plop’ and ‘short hiss’ of the fallen cigar are amplified by the ‘absolute stillness’; this auditory detail makes the silence oppressive. The metaphor of a ‘horrid, frost-bound sensation’ gripping the narrator’s chest conveys a visceral paralysis, aligning the reader with his physical terror and making the apparition seem genuinely monstrous.

Crucially, the writer then engineers a structural pivot from horror to enquiry. The supposed corpse ‘raised up his face, a dimly pale oval’, a phrase that both restores humanity and retains the uncanny through its abstract, mask-like shape. The repeated, matter-of-fact corrections—‘black-haired head’, ‘the moment of vain exclamations was past’—deflate panic and recast the figure as a ‘mystery floating alongside’. That noun ‘mystery’ is a lexical bridge to the later ‘mysterious communication’. Even the simile ‘like a resting swimmer’ begins to humanise him. Meanwhile, phosphorescent imagery—‘sea lightning’ playing about his limbs, rendering him ‘ghastly, silvery, fishlike’—sustains a liminal aura. The simile ‘mute as a fish’ intensifies the estrangement: he is present yet unreadable, a living answer that refuses to articulate itself.

As dialogue enters, strangeness and ordinariness are deftly juxtaposed. The revenant-like swimmer only wants ‘to know the time’; the narrator replies in an ‘ordinary tone’. Yet the swimmer’s voice is ‘calm and resolute… a good voice’, and his existential antithesis—‘let go… and sink’ or ‘come on board’—reads not as melodrama but, as the narrator judges, ‘a real alternative… of a strong soul’. This evaluative noun phrase and the admission of ‘pure intuition’ signal a shift from observation to identification. The mirroring is explicit: ‘The self-possession of that man… induced a corresponding state in myself.’ Such doubling creates the effect of two halves recognising each other, so when ‘A mysterious communication was established already between us two’, it feels both eerie and inevitable.

Overall, I agree that the initial horror makes the ensuing connection stranger: we move in minutes from ‘headless corpse’ to confidant. However, the writer carefully stages that transition—through controlled tonal modulation, phosphorescent symbolism, and dialogic mirroring—so that the strangeness is not implausible but charged with a fateful, almost mythic inevitability.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree, identifying the immediate horror in the narrator’s reaction—through phrases like 'headless corpse', the 'tiny plop' in the 'absolute stillness of all things under heaven', and the 'horrid, frost-bound sensation'—and then explaining how this contrast makes the later sense of 'mysterious communication' feel uncanny. It would comment on methods (imagery, simile, dialogue), for example the swimmer’s 'ghastly, silvery, fishlike' appearance versus the calm exchange ('I am the captain', 'My name's Leggatt') and the narrator’s shift as the man’s 'self-possession... induced a corresponding state'.

I agree to a large extent that the first sight of the man as a “headless corpse” creates horror, and that this shock makes the later “mysterious communication” seem stranger. The writer engineers an immediate jolt through an exclamative minor sentence: “A headless corpse!” This follows eerie colour imagery—“greenish, cadaverous glow”—and sharp sensory detail as the cigar falls with a “tiny plop” and “short hiss” into the “absolute stillness.” The sibilance in “short hiss… stillness,” together with the tactile metaphor of a “horrid, frost-bound sensation,” intensifies the uncanny pause and the narrator’s physical panic.

However, the horror begins to ebb the moment the head appears: it is “enough for the… sensation… to pass off.” Structurally, the text pivots from shock to scrutiny as the narrator “leaned over the rail… nearer to that mystery.” Sea imagery casts the figure as liminal: he hangs “like a resting swimmer,” is “mute as a fish,” yet the “sea lightning” and “phosphorescence” make him “ghastly, silvery, fishlike,” half-man, half-sea-creature. This sustained imagery sustains the strangeness even as dialogue normalises him. The calm, clipped conversation—“What’s the matter?” “Cramp.”—and the adjectives “calm and resolute,” “A good voice,” shift the tone. Crucially, the narrator’s evaluation—“The self-possession of that man had somehow induced a corresponding state in myself”—shows mirroring; the first-person voice draws us into his intuition as a “mysterious communication was established.”

This juxtaposition—Gothic horror against rational, intimate exchange—does make the sudden kinship feel uncanny. Yet the writer also makes it plausible: the captain perceives a “real alternative” facing a “strong soul,” and their shared youth—“I was young, too”—offers a psychological bridge. Overall, I agree: the initial horror sharpens the oddity of their bond; but through controlled tone, direct speech, and characterisation, the writer partly explains why that connection forms so swiftly.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would mostly agree, noticing the narrator’s shock shown by "A headless corpse!" and the cigar’s "tiny plop" in the "absolute stillness". It would then simply say this contrast makes the later "mysterious communication" and his help — "I hastened... to fetch some clothes" — feel strange.

I mostly agree with the statement. The narrator’s first reaction is clearly horror, and this sharp shock makes the later sense of a “mysterious communication” feel unusual and unexpected.

At the start of the passage, the writer creates a sudden, frightening image: “A headless corpse!” The exclamatory sentence and the onomatopoeic sounds of the cigar—“plop” and “short hiss”—break the “absolute stillness,” heightening the shock. Physical imagery shows fear as a bodily reaction: a “frost-bound sensation…gripped me about the chest.” Even when the face appears as a “dimly pale oval,” the description stays eerie. Sea imagery and similes keep the uncanny tone: the “sea lightning” makes him “ghastly, silvery, fishlike,” and he is “mute as a fish.” This all suggests horror and hesitation, as it seems “inconceivable” he won’t climb aboard, and “strangely troubling” that he might not want to.

However, the tone then shifts through dialogue to calm and control, which makes the later bond feel stranger. The quiet exchange—“Cramp,” “no need to call anyone”—reduces the panic. The turning point comes when the narrator declares, “I am the captain,” and the man answers, “My name’s Leggatt,” with a “good voice” and “self-possession.” The writer even states, “A mysterious communication was established already between us two… in the silent, darkened tropical sea.” This clear contrast in structure, from fear to connection, and the high-stakes choice to “let go… or to come on board,” make their sudden link feel uncanny.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer uses exclamation, sound and sea imagery, similes, and a tonal shift to make the narrator’s quick bond with the man seem especially strange after the initial horror.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, noticing the horror in A headless corpse! and greenish cadaverous glow. It would then simply note that the later mysterious communication makes the encounter seem strange after the shock, using brief references only.

I agree with the statement to a large extent. At first the narrator reacts with horror to the man, calling him a “headless corpse!” The exclamation shows panic, and he drops his cigar with a “tiny plop” and a “short hiss” in the “absolute stillness.” These sound details make the moment frightening. He also feels a “horrid, frost-bound sensation” gripping his chest, which shows fear and shock.

After that, the shock “passed off” when he sees the man’s head. He leans closer to the “mystery floating alongside.” The word “mystery” suggests strangeness. The man is “ghastly, silvery, fishlike” and “mute as a fish”: a simile and imagery that show he is odd and quiet. He even asks “no need to call anyone,” which feels secret. When the captain says “I am the captain,” the stranger replies calmly, “My name’s Leggatt.” Then the narrator says “A mysterious communication was established already.” This makes their sudden link feel unusual, especially after the horror. The “sea lightning” around his limbs also makes it feel unreal.

Overall, I agree that the writer first creates horror and then makes the later “mysterious communication” seem even stranger by contrast.

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:

• Initial terror dissipates after he glimpses the head; the release from fear primes the later bond to feel like a startling shift from panic to composure (horrid, frost-bound).
• Curious scrutiny replaces alarm as he leans closer; this investigative stance makes the impending connection feel eerily deliberate (mystery floating alongside).
• Uncanny sea-lightning and piscine imagery sustain horror beneath the surface; the man seems both human and other, intensifying unease (ghastly, silvery, fishlike).
• Silence and passivity feel unnatural; his failure to climb aboard heightens the sense that something is off (mute as a fish).
• The narrator’s uneasy inference deepens dread; suspecting he may prefer the water makes the situation more disturbing (strangely troubling).
• Hushed, secretive dialogue suggests complicity rather than rescue; the covert tone forges an odd, tense rapport (Are you alone).
• Understatement normalises the scene, which paradoxically makes the instant affinity feel even stranger against his composure (ordinary tone).
• Mythic framing of origin amplifies the uncanny; if he has appeared from nowhere, any immediate rapport feels unsettlingly fated (risen from the bottom).
• Stark, life-or-death stakes draw the narrator into empathetic alignment, intensifying the compelling pull toward connection (strong soul).
• The narrator explicitly names an instant bond; its speed, in that silent, darkened tropical sea, renders it inexplicable after such fear (mysterious communication).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At the spring open morning of your town’s allotment society, organisers will pin short creative pieces on the shed noticeboard for visitors to read.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a community allotment during spring planting from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about neighbours joining forces to turn an overgrown plot into a shared garden.

(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 morning arrives soft-footed, a pale sun unhooking itself from cloud and pouring, thin and clean, over the parcelled plots. Beds lie in orderly rectangles, timbers damp and dark, like frames around chocolate soil; the earth itself seems to exhale, loosened by last night’s shower. Watering cans squat in a tidy rank beside the shed—scuffed-green, dented, dependable—waiting the way old dogs wait at a back door. The shed, tarred and redolent of creosote, dozes under a corrugated lid; a spider’s web, harp-fine, trembles in the opening, tuning to the day’s first stir.

Meanwhile, arrivals: Mr Benton with his seed potatoes chitted and eager-eyed; a pair of students in borrowed wellies; a child whose gloves are two sizes too big, clutching a packet that promises radishes like rubies. Conversations start mid-breath and fold into each other—seed-swapping, recipe-trading, weather-guessing—until the thin air is warmed by voices. Twine is drawn taut between bamboo canes; labels, spiked into damp soil, declare small ambitions in biro: peas, beetroot, calendula. A robin, frankly opportunistic, hops along the edge of the nearest bed and supervises with what looks suspiciously like approval.

Hands move with reverence and economy. A trowel prises open the friable loam; fingers scatter, sift, settle. Press and pat, press and pat, press and pat: the small liturgy of planting. Someone waters with a slow, deliberate cadence, and the cans give themselves up with contented glugs; the poured water glints and meanders, a mercury thread that re-draws the surface. From the compost heap comes a rich, warm fug—banana peel, coffee grounds, last autumn’s leaves translated into something darker and kindly. A clutch of seed trays sits on the potting bench within the shed’s shadow, sprinkled with vermiculite so they look snow-dusted, improbably wintry in this hesitant spring.

Beyond the fence, traffic hushes by; within, there is a different susurration: the whisk of a hoe, the click of a seed packet, the staccato crunch of bark underfoot. It becomes (forgive the cliché) a hive of activity. Yet there is gentleness, too. Someone ties in floppy pea shoots with jute; someone else eases nettles from the path with gloved patience rather than fury. Above, clouds are thin-skinned and skittish; below, rhubarb thrusts uncompromisingly from the crown, a fist of sour promise. On the shed door, a chalkboard announces the day’s labours: sow—parsnips, mangetout, French beans; mulch—paths; turn—bin three.

Now and then, laughter runs along the beds like a breeze. A flask is unscrewed; coffee breathes its friendly bitterness into the mix of mint, damp wood, onion sets. The plots, stitched together by paths and purpose, feel communal—a patchwork quilt pegged out in hope. Nothing breaks the surface yet; there are no green commas to prove anything. Even so, as the cans are re-ranged and the tools wiped clean, the soil holds a secret brightness, water beading like little promises.

By late afternoon, the light leans golden and the robin finally tires of ceremony. The shed door shuts with a consenting sigh. Out here, everything appears exactly as it was this morning. And yet, invisibly, everything has begun.

Option B:

Saturday arrived like a shy promise; the alley yawned, the cats unspooled themselves from bins, and the overgrown plot held its breath. For years it had sulked between our terraced backs like a grievance nobody named: a tangle of thorn and bottle, corrugated sheets scabbed with rust, nettles standing to attention as if guarding secrets. The padlock on the gate had corroded to a crust of verdigris; the fence had leaned away, embarrassed at the encroachment. Even the wind seemed to hesitate, snagged in the bramble’s clenched fists.

We came anyway—sleep-creased, kettle-warmed—answering a handwritten sign taped to the lamppost: Shared garden? Saturday. Bring gloves; bring hope. Mr Watkins brought a saw that belonged to his father; Mrs Begum arrived with a basket of samosas and a bright scarf that made the weeds look drabber by comparison. Freya, who painted sets for the community theatre, wore paint-splattered dungarees and an expression of fierce optimism. Two children, Amir and Lila, carried plastic buckets like purposeful ants. Even taciturn Mr Chen turned up, secateurs glinting in his neat hands. I brought a spade and the sort of stubbornness that feels like courage until it doesn’t.

At first, we hovered at the gate, negotiating the etiquette of strangers. Our paths had crossed in nods and parcels and the occasional complaint about bins; we knew the names of each other’s dogs, not each other’s stories. “Are we even allowed?” someone murmured. “We’ll ask forgiveness,” Mr Watkins said, and cut the lock with the finality of a bell. It was astonishing how quickly the plot protested—how the nettles hissed and the ivy pulled back like hair from a face. The first shovel bit into the loam with a satisfying thunk. The smell rose—earthy, damp, ancient—as if we had cracked open a book nobody had read in a decade.

We made little clearings, islands of order in a green sea. There were discoveries: a pram, orphaned and listing; a triangle of broken mirror that caught the sky; a toy dinosaur with one eye. Brambles snagged our sleeves with obstinate affection; someone swore softly and then laughed. “Tea,” Mrs Begum decreed, like a queen of small mercies, and we stood with steaming cups, chewing pastry, already conspirators. Conversation sprouted—haltingly at first, then profuse: who used to live in number twelve; who could build raised beds; how rosemary thrives if you forget it. Above us, the sky was a hard, clean blue, as if freshly rinsed and pegged out.

What does a garden begin as, if not a decision? With each armful of detritus, something unclenched. Mr Chen’s secateurs worked with surgical patience; Freya coaxed a collapsed fence upright with baling twine and praise; Amir found a ladybird and held it like a ruby. A robin—insolent, supervisory—bobbed from spade to branch, interrogating our efforts. We found the border of a path under a skin of moss, a geometry of stones revealing itself like a map; underneath the squalor, a plan waited, incipient and intact.

By noon, our arms were scratched, our backs obstinate, our cheeks smudged with honest dirt. The plot looked less hostile—patches of soil glinting in the sun, the bramble’s tyranny interrupted, a rectangle of possibility. “We could put herbs here,” I ventured, pointing at a strip near the wall that still held warmth. “And sunflowers,” Lila said, as if saying it might compel the sun to linger. Then, as if by ceremony, Mrs Begum pressed into my palm a packet of seeds—tiny, dark, absurdly light. We stood around that scrap of potential, neighbours no longer elbow-close strangers but something else entirely, and listened to the delicate, ongoing susurration of the leaves: a whispering that, improbably, sounded like yes.

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

Option A:

The allotment exhales a damp, loamy breath; faint threads of warmth lift from turned earth as the morning opens like a palm. Raised beds, squared with new timber, sit in neat ranks; their corners are pegged tight, their surfaces combed into ridges. Along the gravel path, watering cans stand in a jaunty line—green, galvanised—each catching a slice of sky in its oval mouth. The shed leans beside the fence, its corrugated roof ticking as it warms. A coil of hose slumbers; labels on bamboo canes wink in the thin sun. The air is braided with smells: crushed rosemary, wet compost, the metallic tang left by last night’s rain.

People arrive in a patient bustle that seems to hush the place. Coats are shrugged off. Gloves are tugged on. An elderly man kneels; his knees complain, but his hands are quick and certain. A teenager wheels a barrow with one squeaking tyre; her hoodie is as bright as calendula. Two children pinch seed from packets, the tiny shells ticking from their palms like punctuation. Voice meets voice—tips swapped, jokes offered—always gentle, as if loudness might startle the soil. A robin (fierce as a captain) claims the handle of a spade and watches.

Tasks unfurl with spring’s logic: measure, mark, sow. A string line is pulled taut; the soil is stroked back to a straightness that satisfies. Paper packets crackle; the seeds within are various—dust-fine, glossy as beetle backs. Potato chits, pale-eyed, are laid in a solemn procession; onion sets, small moons, roll into the furrow. Fingers work with a practised rhythm: press and pat, press and pat. When watering begins, the cans tip; water glug-glugs through rose heads, freckles the beds, darkens the ridges. Mud climbs shins; crescents of earth lodge under nails; someone laughs at their own boots. It is hard work, but gentle.

Overhead, a shred of cloud drifts; the light softens; somewhere beyond the hedge a blackbird tries a careful phrase. The beds, stitched with neat labels—Beetroot (Boltardy), Carrot (Nantes), Broad Bean—hold more than names; they hold the quiet, ordinary daring of hope. Row by row becomes plan by plan; stories flicker with the trowels: a soup remembered, a plague of slugs defeated, a grandmother’s tip about coffee grounds. By midday the path is patterned with boot prints and the thin map of tyre tracks. Rinsed hands steam in the brittle air; laughter rises and unspools. Something has been started—modest, almost invisible—and it feels, simply, like spring.

Option B:

Summer. The tarmac shivered; washing lines hung like surrendered flags. At the end of our terrace, the council plot crouched behind a hunchbacked fence; nettles massed like a congregation that had forgotten to leave. It smelt of damp cardboard and fox: a green murmur that swallowed crisp packets. One Friday a scrap of paper appeared, blu-tacked to the gate: Shared garden? Bring gloves. Saturday, ten. The handwriting looped like ivy. I didn't know who wrote it; it made my stomach turn—nervous, hopeful.

At ten, they came: Mrs Patel with a thermos, Mr Greene (retired but restless) with a saw, Jay from twelve with headphones, and Mrs Finch bringing too many gloves. A toddler toddled; a cat vanished. We tried names we'd never used, testing them like unfamiliar tools. Fences make islands; we had been archipelagos for years. I found my trowel at the back of a cupboard—gritty—and tried not to imagine the brambles laughing.

We rolled up sleeves. Brambles clawed at us, resentful, but we pressed back with loppers and patience. The first swathe fell; ground appeared, uneven and honest. Glass glinted like cheap treasure; bags filled with the click and chime of old bottles. Mr Greene showed us a safe angle for sawing; Mrs Patel passed sweet, milky tea; Jay played music soft as a heartbeat. Even the gate paused its complaints, or perhaps we were louder.

Whose garden would it be? Where would the bench go; which seeds should we choose; who would water in August when everyone disappears? There were micro-arguments—roses versus beans, neat beds versus a wild patch—but they fizzled when we drew a plan on cardboard: a ribbon path, a compost heap, a herb corner. Compromise grew, awkward but sturdy. Planting is also about yielding; you let go of perfect to allow something living.

Someone found last year's sunflower seeds, a little out-of-date. I pressed one into the soil with my thumb, and the others followed, our fingerprints left in the dark. The earth was warm, granular, unexpectedly gentle. Above us, pale shirts flapped; a gull cried. We stood there, strangers almost rearranged into neighbours, watching a small circle of watered earth, and felt the day tilt towards the future. It wasn't a garden yet; it was a beginning, and that was enough.

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

Option A:

Dawn lays a pale hand on the corrugated roofs of the sheds. The air is damp, cool and promising; breath hangs for a second, then disappears. Raised beds wait like quiet quilts, edged with blunt timber, their soil loosened and dark, speckled with grit.

Along the path, watering cans line up in a patient queue—emerald, dented, one with a crooked rose. The shed door yawns; inside, string, labels and packets are stacked, soft with last year’s dust. People arrive with purpose: greetings, a nod, a shared joke; boots scuffing gravel, gates clicking shut.

Mrs Patel kneels by the first bed, pressing a palm flat to feel the crumb of loam. She hums as she works, gloves stained a deep brown, seed packets fluttering like small flags. A boy counts peas into his palm as if they were coins; his father draws a tight line with twine, measuring space by hand.

The sounds layer themselves, steady and domestic. A rake’s teeth comb through clods; a trowel bites; a bag of compost sighs when it is split. The tap coughs awake and water arcs from can to bed, catching sunlight in a spray of glass. The smell is particular—sharp manure, green cuttings, the metallic drift of water—and it clings in the nose.

Row by row, the allotment gains shape. Onion sets drop like pale moons into shallow trenches; potatoes, knobbly and patient, are tucked under ridges. Labels are written in hurried capitals: Carrots; Beetroot; Spinach. Over there, a wigwam of canes rises for beans, string spiralling upward, while soft hoops and netting promise to keep the pigeons honest.

Meanwhile, in the corner, a robin hop-hops, bold as a foreman, and a bee worries at the rosemary. A neighbour leans on his fork, offering advice that is more memory than rule; another swaps spare seedlings, handing over a tray as if passing a gift.

By late morning the beds shine slightly damp; the paths are brushed and the cans stand empty. Palms ache pleasantly, nails carry half-moons of earth. It is not perfect, not yet—there are gaps, and a crooked line or two—but the place breathes, settled and sure. Spring has been planted, piece by careful piece.

Option B:

The plot behind Number Fourteen slumped like a tired animal, its fur a snarl of bramble and nettle. It had been ignored for years; even the cats walked the fence tops rather than drop into the mess. There was a smell of damp cardboard. Cans flashed when the sun found them; there were other trophies: a rusted trolley, a broken chair leg, a tyre half-buried like a fossil. Between our houses it gaped like a missing tooth; we had trained ourselves to glance away. Once, maybe, it had been a garden. Now it was a rumour and a warning. People said kids got stung there. People said rats.

On a breezy Saturday, we came out as if answering the same quiet bell. Mr Khan carried a spade; Mrs Doyle had a broom; Ellie from No. 12 arrived with gloves to her elbows; I pushed a wobbly wheelbarrow we’d borrowed from the caretaker. “It’s not pretty,” Mrs Doyle said, light but honest. “But it’s ours,” Mr Khan answered, though none of us had a deed. At first we hovered at the edges, arguing kindly about where to start, pretending the nettles were discussing us back. Then Mr Chen, who rarely spoke, nudged a stem with his boot and said, “Left to right.” It was enough. We chose left.

We began. The brambles hooked our sleeves—mean, persistent—and the nettles tingled through fabric. Every tug released a scent: green, sour, old beer. We filled the barrow with rubbish that didn’t belong and found odd things that had slept there: three marbles winking like trapped planets, a toy dinosaur missing its tail, a spoon shaped like a crescent moon. Between the thorns, soil showed itself in shy squares, dark as coffee. After a while the plot stopped looking feral and started looking possible. We talked: tomatoes, a bench, who might paint the fence. It wasn’t a plan yet; it was a path. When the first patch was clear, we stood around it—surprised by the space and, quietly, proud.

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

Option A:

Morning light settles over the allotment like a pale shawl, warm in places and cool in the shadows. The soil, freshly turned, looks soft as chocolate cake and smells damp and earthy; steam rises from it where the sun touches. A robin hops along the edge of a raised bed, bold as a button. Watering cans stand in a neat row by the shed with its flaking green door, as if waiting their turn. Twine stretches between short sticks, making tidy lanes on the dark ground.

Neighbours arrive, unhurried, pulled here by habit and hope. There is a soft orchestra: the scrape of a hoe, the click of the gate, the rustle of paper seed packets. Mr Harris, in his wool cap, checks his labels twice; Farah kneels in bright gloves, her notebook open to a careful sketch of rows. A child in a bobble hat is trusted with a tiny rake—serious work for small hands. “An inch deep?” someone calls. “Two,” comes a reply, calm and sure.

We work in a steady rhythm, backs bent, faces lifted now and then to the light. The soil gives under the trowel, sighing a little; a worm curls, surprised, then slides away. Seeds sprinkle like pepper; they vanish, and we press a thin blanket of earth over them (careful, careful). Water arcs out in silver ropes, pattering softly, soaking the lines again and again. The shed seems to watch with one sleepy eye, its roof peppered with moss. A bee fusses around the rosemary, busy, important.

Between plots, conversation threads—recipes, weather, a lost glove, a borrowed spade. The kettle in the shed hisses; tea is poured into mismatched mugs, steam curling into the chilly air. The allotment looks like a patchwork now: green netting, brown squares, tiny white markers. In a week, maybe two, the first shoots will show, little commas pushing up through the sentence of soil. It feels like a promise, plain but bright, planted together.

Option B:

At the end of our road, the forgotten plot crouched behind a tired metal fence. Grass as high as my knee, nettles leaning like guards, brambles twisting over a broken tyre. For years it had been a bad habit nobody admitted; we walked past fast, eyes sliding away from cans, crisp packets and a single shoe. When the wind blew, the weeds whispered as if to say, Not today.

On a Saturday in May, neighbours gathered with faces both wary and bright: Mrs Patel in her hat; Mr Briggs with a wheelbarrow; Lena and Kofi with half-on headphones; my dad with a battered spade; and me, sleeves rolled. "Shall we?" someone said. For a moment we only listened to a blackbird. Then we unlatched the gate, and its rasp sounded like an old throat clearing.

The first cut was clumsy. The nettles leaned over, daring us, we stepped closer. Gloves thick, arms tingling, we pushed the mower and hacked at knots that had been tying the earth down. Brambles snatched at our clothes; a thorn drew a bright comma of blood on my wrist. Roots came up reluctant, long and pale, like secrets being pulled out. Laughter bumped against grunts, and our street, normally quiet and private, hummed with a new rhythm of clinks and shovels.

By midday we had a heap of green and a hill of rubbish: bottles, a cracked mirror, a sun-bleached toy car. Underneath, the soil had a dark, clean smell. Ellie sketched a rough map on a bit of slate—beds here, a path there, a bench under the elder. "Herbs along the edge," Mrs Patel suggested, and I could already taste mint on a warm evening.

When we finally stopped, our backs ached and our hands tingled, yet the plot felt different. It was not finished, not even close, but it had opened its eyes. We pressed three seeds into a patch we had cleared and watered them gently, like a promise. Tomorrow, we said, and it didn't sound impossible.

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

Option A:

Spring sits easily on the allotment. As the thin sun climbs, the plots wake; dark soil crumbles like cake under our boots. Raised beds lie in neat rows and the narrow paths still shine with last night’s rain. By the shed, dented watering cans lean in a cluster, as if dozing.

There is bright chatter and the clatter of tools. Trowels bite, bags of compost sigh, twine unrolls. The air smells of wet wood, sharp tomato stems, and coffee from a flask. When someone tips a can, silver beads run over the soil; they sink fast, leaving dark ovals. A robin hops near, bold as a thief.

An older man checks pea netting; his cap pulled low. Two children kneel like actors on a small stage, pressing seeds into lines their mum marks with a stick. Row by row, row by row, fingers make neat grooves. "Not too deep," she says — both warning and kind. At the edge, a wheelbarrow squeaks; a woman pushes it, her gloves muddy to the wrists.

Labels go in like small flags: beetroot, carrots, beans. The names look brave. Above the beds, a breeze lifts the cold a little, and the allotment seems to breathe out. We write dates in pencil; we plan; we laugh about frost. It is ordinary work: water spills, knees ache, someone loses the fork and finds it again. Still, something begins here. The ground closes over the seeds and keeps them, and hope sits in rows, waiting.

Option B:

The plot at the end of the lane had swallowed the season. Brambles climbed the leaning fence like they were trying to escape; nettles stood in prickly ranks, guarding tins and a bucket. The soil smelled like rain and old tea; the wind pushed through and the whole patch whispered, not today. We had walked past it for years and imagined. It belonged to nobody and so to all of us, but nobody dared.

That Saturday, neighbours gathered on the pavement. Mr Patel brought rusty shears. Then Leyla arrived with gloves and a roll of bin bags; me and Dan from number nine with a spade too big for him. Someone had a radio, someone else biscuits. We didn’t have a plan, not a proper one, just an idea: a garden. Shared.

‘We start at the gate,’ I said, though there wasn’t a gate, only a tangle pretending to be one. The brambles hissed when we pulled them back, thorns found skin. Snip, drag, step—repeat. Sun pressed on our necks; sweat, mud, laughter, complaining. Bits of mint leaked from somewhere and the smell was fresh enough to make us grin.

By mid-morning a slice of earth showed like a wound, and the idea got bigger. Dan banged a post in; it wobbled but held. Mrs Finch sorted cans into piles and said the plot once was an allotment. I could see, kind of, a path forming, a bench maybe, tomatoes. We were seperate people but we looked like a team.

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

Option A:

In the cool morning the community allotment wakes under a pale spring sun. Raised beds sit in neat rows, their wooden edges damp and dark. The shed gapes; two watering cans wait. The smell is earthy and sharp, like wet tea bags and mint. Spades bite the soil and turn it over, back and forth, back and forth, making soft ridges.

Meanwhile neighbours arrive with trays of seedlings and packets with bright carrots on the front. An older man shows a girl how to kneel. Children chatter, a dog sneezes. Boots leave neat prints in the path. String is stretched so rows stay straight, and labels sink into the damp bed. We swap compost and stories; it feels friendly, a bit messy. Who owns this plot? Everyone, in a way.

Later the planting starts for real. Small fingers pinch tiny seeds, tiny seeds, and drop them into shallow lines. The rain barrel is full; a can is dipped, water glugs as it pours. Soil pats down lightly—like tucking in a blanket. I breathe the clean air and think about summer: red tomatoes, crisp lettuce. For now it is simple: plant, water, hope.

Option B:

Saturday morning. The plot at the end of our road looked like a small jungle, matted grass and stubborn brambles spilling through a crooked fence. Snails hid under broken tiles, and cans blinked in the thin sun. The place had been ignored for years, neighbours walked past and looked away, because what could one person do? The air smelt of damp soil and last night’s rain. A blackbird yelled from a chimney, like it was telling us to get on with it.

First, Mrs Patel came with bright gloves and a smile that looked determined. Then Mr Jones brought a rusty spade, and Mum hauled a squeaking wheelbarrow. I fetched seed I didn't understand, hopeful anyway. We stood in a line, nervous. Could we really change this place? We pulled. We pushed. Nettles stung; brambles grabbed at our sleeves, but we kept moving. Glass went in a bucket, thistles in a sack, old wood on a pile. Someone put a kettle on—steam floated like a pale flag.

By noon the fence still sagged, yet a clearing showed fresh soil. Voices mixed—laughter, advice, names I had not learned. It was messy; it was ours. A beginning.

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

Option A:

The sun sits low over the allotment. The ground is wet and dark, it smells like earth after rain. A robin hops by the spade. Wooden beds stand in a row with small signs. The shed is small and brown - old paint peels. Watering cans lean by it like they are waiting.

People come in with gloves, they chat quietly. An old man bends, his back is slow, he presses a seed into the line. A girl holds a little blue can, she tip toes. We push soil back and pat it again and again, the soil is soft.

My hands are dirty.

Birds make a sharp sound on the fence, plastic sheets flap. Water runs from the cans, it shines in sun, it makes dark circles and the smell is strong. The day feels new and calm at the same time

Option B:

Summer. Time for green grass and tidy hedges. Our plot at the end of the lane was not like that. It was like a small jungle, long nettles like green hair, cans and a old tyre, the fence leaning and creaking.

The neighbours came out one by one. Mr Khan, Mrs Patel, Jin from Number 8, and me. We stared. We sighed.

Shall we do it, together? someone said. No one laughed. It was just a mess - but ours.

Me and Mr Khan got the spade and Mrs Patel brought a bucket, Jin had gloves and I had a small fork we all nodded.

We pulled and cut. Weeds clung to our shoes like little hands. Brambles scratched my arm. The air smelt like soil after rain, heavy and good.

Tomorrow we will plant seeds, maybe sunflowers. Maybe a bench there to sit. A shared garden, for all of us.

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

Option A:

The spring sun is warm on the plots. The allotment is busy and quiet at same time. I can smell wet earth and little onions. Watering cans sit by the small shed, green and dented, they drip a bit. People is bending over the beds, knees muddy. We poke holes with a finger and drop tiny seeds, we pat it shut. A robin bounces on a rope and looks at crumbs, it dont care. My hands is cold and then hot. There is a bike on the fence and a blue glove on the path. Clouds move slow and the soil looks black and shining.

Option B:

Saturday morning and the old plot looks wild. The weeds are tall like a small forest and cans and stones are everywere. I stand by the fence and the neighbours come out with spades, a bucket, a old fork. We say hello and we say lets make a garden for all of us. We was not sure where to start. Mr Ali pulls a bramble and it snaps! My brother chases the cat, he shouts, it runs under a car. I think about football but I start raking, weed after weed. The sun feels warm and the air smell green.