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 long before the Derby was this?: two nights – 1 mark
• 1.2 Where was the mother when a rush of anxiety gripped her heart?: at a big party in town – 1 mark
• 1.3 What did the mother fight with?: the feeling – 1 mark
• 1.4 Where did the mother telephone to?: to the country – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 10 of the source:

1 Two nights before the Derby, she was at a big party in town, when one of her rushes of anxiety about her boy, her first-born, gripped her heart till she could hardly speak. She fought with the feeling, might and main, for she believed in common sense. But it was too strong. She had to leave the dance and go downstairs to telephone to the country. The children's nursery-

6 governess was terribly surprised and startled at being rung up in the night. "Are the children all right, Miss Wilmot?" "Oh yes, they are quite all right." "Master Paul? Is he all right?"

How does the writer use language here to present the mother’s worry and the tense, late-night mood? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively analyse how metaphor and personification like 'gripped her heart till she could hardly speak' and the idiomatic intensity 'fought with the feeling, might and main' physicalise the mother’s anxiety, while the temporal countdown 'Two nights before the Derby' and modal compulsion 'had to leave the dance' pull her from public festivity into a tense descent 'go downstairs' to call the distant 'country.' It would also explore how sentence forms and dialogue heighten the late‑night mood: the abrupt short sentence 'But it was too strong.', hyperbolic adverbs 'terribly surprised and startled', and escalating interrogatives with echoing reassurance 'Are the children all right? ... Master Paul? Is he all right? ... all right' use repetition and question forms to dramatise panic beneath a veneer of calm.

The writer immediately foregrounds the mother’s anxiety through visceral metaphor and emotive apposition. Her “rushes of anxiety… gripped her heart till she could hardly speak”: the personifying verb “gripped” gives panic a crushing physicality, while the litotes of “hardly speak” conveys breathless shock. The parenthetical “her boy, her first-born,” slows the rhythm to dwell on him; ‘first-born’ carries biblical weight, intensifying her protective urgency. Moreover, “she fought with the feeling, might and main” uses archaic idiom and alliteration to suggest a futile internal battle.

Syntax and sentence form build the tension: “But it was too strong.” This blunt, simple sentence, fronted by adversative “But”, marks her capitulation; its monosyllables create a thudding finality, despite “common sense”. Furthermore, the deontic modality in “had to leave the dance and go downstairs to telephone to the country” signals compulsion. The downward verb “go downstairs” and the juxtaposition of “big party in town” with “the country” enact rupture and distance, while the temporal marker “Two nights before the Derby” introduces a countdown.

Dialogue further heightens the late-night mood. The governess is “terribly surprised and startled at being rung up in the night”: the adverbial intensifier and the passive construction foreground the unwanted intrusion, while sibilance in “surprised and startled” whispers with alarm. Additionally, the staccato interrogatives—“Are the children all right… Master Paul? Is he all right?”—use repetition and an elliptical question to enact panic, the refrain “all right” straining for reassurance. Thus, the writer immerses us in nocturnal tension and a mother’s consuming fear.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer uses visceral imagery and personification to show the mother’s panic, with rushes of anxiety that gripped her heart so she could hardly speak, contrasting emotion with reason in believed in common sense, while the short sentence But it was too strong. signals her loss of control. It would also note how urgency and a tense, late-night mood arise from action and dialogue—she had to leave the dance to telephone to the country, the governess is terribly surprised and startled in the night, and the repeated questions Are the children all right; Master Paul? Is he all right? show her need for reassurance.

The writer presents the mother’s anxiety through personification. Her “rushes of anxiety… gripped her heart till she could hardly speak”, personifying emotion as a physical force; this makes her worry feel painful and immediate, and “hardly speak” suggests breathless panic. The noun phrase “her boy, her first-born” foregrounds her bond, heightening the stakes of her fear.

Furthermore, sentence form and modality create urgency. The short, simple sentence “But it was too strong” breaks the flow, mirroring how fear interrupts the party. The modal verb in “She had to leave the dance” shows compulsion. The time marker “Two nights before the Derby” adds anticipation, and the contrast between a “big party in town” and “telephone to the country” shows sudden dislocation.

Additionally, the late-night mood is made tense through adjectives and interrogatives. The governess is “terribly surprised and startled at being rung up in the night”, implying the unsettling hour. In the dialogue, repetition and interrogatives in “Are the children all right?... Master Paul? Is he all right?” show her fixation and rising panic. Question marks echo her racing thoughts, creating a taut, nocturnal mood.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer shows the mother’s worry with emotive words and a metaphor like "rushes of anxiety" and "gripped her heart" so she "could hardly speak", and the short sentence "But it was too strong." adds tension. The tense, late-night mood is created by dialogue with repeated questions "Are the children all right?" and "Master Paul? Is he all right?", the phrase "being rung up in the night", and the governess being "terribly surprised and startled".

The writer uses personification to show the mother’s worry, as “rushes of anxiety… gripped her heart till she could hardly speak.” This makes the fear feel physical and overpowering. Calling Paul her “first-born” also highlights her strong bond, explaining why she panics.

Furthermore, the short sentence “But it was too strong.” increases tension and shows she loses control. The modal phrase “had to leave the dance” suggests urgency. The contrast between a “big party” and having to “telephone to the country” creates a sudden shift from fun to fear, building a tense mood.

Additionally, the repeated interrogatives in the dialogue—“Are the children all right?… quite all right… Is he all right?”—show her obsession with Paul and keep the reader on edge. The adverb “terribly” and “startled… in the night” emphasise the late-night anxiety.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive words like "rushes of anxiety", "gripped her heart" and "could hardly speak" to show the mother’s worry, and a short sentence "But it was too strong." adds tension. Repeated questions "Are the children all right?" and "Is he all right?" and the late setting "in the night" create a tense, worried mood.

The writer uses a metaphor to show the mother’s worry: “anxiety… gripped her heart till she could hardly speak.” This makes it seem powerful and scary. Furthermore, the short sentence “But it was too strong” adds tension and shows she cannot control it. Moreover, the late-night setting is shown by “rung up in the night,” and the governess being “terribly surprised and startled,” which creates a tense mood. Additionally, the dialogue and repeated questions, “Are the children all right?… Is he all right?”, show panic and make the reader feel the worry.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Temporal countdown framing sets foreboding and an impending deadline → unease grows as an event approaches (Two nights before the Derby).
• Juxtaposition of public festivity with private panic heightens dissonance → worry intrudes on celebration (big party in town).
• Violent metaphor makes anxiety visceral and bodily → fear feels inescapably physical (gripped her heart).
• Sensory/voice impairment shows intensity of distress → emotion literally constrains expression (hardly speak).
• Idiom and alliteration suggest strenuous, determined resistance that still fails → inner conflict against rationality (might and main).
• Short, adversative sentence underscores overpowering emotion → abrupt finality intensifies tension (But it was too strong.).
• Modal necessity and downward movement signal urgency and a sinking mood → compelled flight from pleasure to concern (go downstairs).
• Late-night setting and intensifiers create a strained, intrusive atmosphere → disturbance feels abnormal and alarming (in the night).
• Repetition of reassurance emphasizes persistent doubt → fixation on confirmation keeps the anxiety alive (all right).
• Specific naming and maternal hierarchy focus the fear on one child → sharpened, personal stakes heighten tension (Master Paul?).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how foreboding intensifies 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 the escalating foreboding through structural sequencing and narrowed focalisation: chronological markers (Two nights before the Derby, about one o'clock, The third day of the illness was critical) compress time as the scene shifts from a big party to the hushed corridor, with foreshadowing in the mother’s No! Don't trouble., insistent questions (What was it?, What in God's name was it?) and oxymoronic sound imagery (soundless noise, like a madness) sustaining tension. It would then analyse the reveal-to-anticlimax arc—the sudden blaze of light, the cry It's Malabar!, the juxtaposition of the “win” with the stark finality But the boy died in the night. and the image of the tossing, dying child—to show how structural choices intensify dread by the end.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create foreboding is through temporal framing and a narrowing of focalisation. The opening temporal reference 'Two nights before the Derby' positions us on the brink of an event, and subsequent timestamps ('about one o’clock', 'The third day of the illness') compress time towards crisis, quickening pace. Simultaneously, the focus tightens spatially: from the public 'party' to the 'upper corridor', to the threshold where she 'stood … outside his door, listening.' The writer withholds the source of the disturbance, layering auditory description with unanswered interrogatives ('What was it? What in God's name was it?'), so that the reader anticipates a revelation with dread.

In addition, the writer engineers a dramatic volta at the doorway to intensify menace. The delayed reveal is staged through a dark-to-light switch ('The room was dark… Then suddenly she switched on the light'), a structural cut that jolts pace. Paul 'madly surging' and the refrain 'Malabar!' create a motif of compulsion. His 'crash' marks the climax; a temporal ellipsis to the 'critical' third day then shifts to summary, heightening inevitability.

A further structural strategy is the juxtaposition of triumph and ruin through shifts in focus and a cyclical refrain. Bassett’s intrusion—'Malabar came in first… over seventy thousand pounds'—cross-cuts the sickroom with the racetrack, producing dramatic irony as the 'tossing, dying child' lies beside winnings. The repeated cry 'Malabar!' swells like a chorus until the paratactic coda, 'But the boy died in the night,' seals the foreboding.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify that the writer structures a rising foreboding by shifting from the big party in town to a house where All was still, delaying the reveal with repeated questions like What was it? and the ominous soundless noise, before the sudden turn when Then suddenly she switched on the light and he fell with a crash. It would also explain how the narrative moves into the aftermath — The third day of the illness was critical, the obsessive refrain Malabar!, and the abrupt final line But the boy died in the night. — to show tension intensifying into tragedy.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of foreboding is through time markers and narrowing focus. “Two nights before the Derby” starts a countdown; the mother’s “rush of anxiety” sets the tone. The setting shifts from party to the silent house at “one o’clock,” and the narrative zooms from corridor to door. The repeated question “What was it?” and the paradox “soundless noise” slow the pace and hint at an unnamed threat.

In addition, a sudden reveal intensifies the mood. The switch from darkness to a “blaze of light” is a turning point that exposes Paul “madly surging,” before the climax: “he fell with a crash.” The pace then lengthens into aftermath; temporal markers like “The third day… was critical” and the detached image “eyes… like blue stones” prolong dread. The refrain “Malabar! Malabar!” recurs, a motif that implies inevitability.

A further structural feature is juxtaposition. Bassett’s offstage report—“over eighty thousand pounds”—is embedded within the vigil of a “tossing, dying child,” contrasting gain with loss. Short shifts to Oscar and Bassett widen, then narrow the focus. Finally, an abrupt sentence—“But the boy died in the night”—creates a stark conclusion that completes the arc from anxiety to fatal outcome, so foreboding peaks at the end.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds foreboding by moving from the party to the silent house as the mother’s 'rushes of anxiety' grow, using the corridor scene with repeated questions like 'What was it?' and the strange 'soundless noise' to delay the reveal. Then, 'suddenly she switched on the light', revealing Paul 'madly surging on the rocking-horse'; he 'fell with a crash', and the ending lingers on his 'critical' illness and 'tossing, dying child', so the dread increases by the end.

One way the writer creates foreboding is by the opening time marker and narrowing focus. Beginning with “Two nights before the Derby”, the scene moves from the party to the silent house at “about one o’clock”, then down the corridor. The repeated questions, “What was it?”, make us anxious.

In addition, the writer delays the reveal. We hear “a strange, heavy… soundless noise” before the light is switched on. The sudden change to brightness and the short action, “Then he fell,” speed up the pace and warn us something terrible is coming.

A further structural feature is the ending sequence. In the middle, time moves on with “The third day” and “In the evening”, while “Malabar!” is repeated to build dread. Finally, the short final sentence, “But the boy died in the night,” confirms the ominous mood.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer creates foreboding by moving from the party to the quiet house where "All was still", using questions like "What was it?" and tense moments like "Her heart stood still". It gets worse at the end with the final line "But the boy died in the night".

One way the writer structures foreboding is the time marker "Two nights before the Derby" and the mother's sudden phone call. This beginning creates worry and makes us expect trouble.

In addition, the focus shifts from the party to the silent house. The repeated questions "What was it?" and short sentences slow the pace and build fear before the door opens on Paul.

A further structural feature is the jump to his illness and the final line. "The third day of the illness was critical" shows things worsening, and "But the boy died in the night." ends it bluntly.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Framing countdown sets an impending deadline that primes unease from the outset (Two nights before the Derby)
• Social gaiety is abruptly interrupted by maternal dread and an unresolved phone check, creating anticipatory tension (had to leave the dance)
• Quiet, nocturnal return and stealthy movement slow the pacing to a tense creep, amplifying apprehension (Noiselessly she went)
• Accumulating rhetorical questions iterate the unknown threat and ratchet suspense step by step (What was it?)
• Withheld identification of the noise prolongs uncertainty, the contradiction heightening unease before any reveal (a soundless noise)
• A sudden volta from darkness to exposure delivers the shock of discovery as the scene pivots into crisis (blaze of light)
• Instant collapse transforms action into medical emergency, shifting the narrative into a perilous aftermath (fell with a crash)
• Temporal compression and the clinical marker of jeopardy sustain dread through waiting and delayed resolution (was critical)
• Juxtaposition at the bedside—race news intruding on a “tossing, dying child”—creates grim dramatic irony as success arrives amid ruin (Malabar came in first)
• The fevered refrain of the horse’s name becomes a relentless chant that crescendos foreboding toward an unavoidable end (Malabar! Malabar!)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, when the mother discovers Paul on the rocking-horse, the description makes his actions seem strange and frightening. The writer suggests that the boy's quest for luck has become a dangerous obsession.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Paul's strange and frightening behaviour
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Paul's dangerous obsession
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue to a great extent that the writer renders Paul’s behaviour strange and frightening, analysing the paradox of a "soundless noise", the relentless kinetics "plunging to and fro" and "madly surging", and the simile "like a madness" to build mounting dread. It would also evaluate the viewpoint that his pursuit of luck is a dangerous obsession by tracing the fixated refrain "It's Malabar!", dehumanising pathology ("his eyes were like blue stones", "brain-fever"), compulsive logic "If I ride my horse till I'm sure", the cold arithmetic of "over eighty thousand pounds", and the terminal consequence "the boy died in the night".

I fully agree that the description renders Paul’s behaviour both strange and frightening, and that the writer presents his pursuit of “luck” as a dangerous obsession that spirals beyond control. The passage carefully escalates from eerie uncertainty to a shocking revelation, then to the fatal consequences, so the sense of obsession hardens from suggestion into a grim certainty.

At first, the writer focalises through the mother to generate uncanny dread. Her “strange anxiety” primes us for threat, while the oxymoronic “soundless noise” and the paradox of “something huge, in violent, hushed motion” make the unseen activity feel unnatural. The staccato interrogatives—“What was it? What in God’s name was it?”—create breathless pacing and dramatise her fear. Crucially, the simile “like a madness” foreshadows that what she hears is not childish play but compulsive mania. This auditory imagery turns a domestic corridor into a space of suspense, so when the door opens, we are prepared for something aberrant.

The reveal intensifies that disturbance. In the sudden “blaze of light,” Paul is caught “in his green pyjamas, madly surging on the rocking-horse.” The dynamic verbs “plunging” and “surging” suggest violence and loss of control, while colour imagery links Paul’s “green” with the mother’s “pale green and crystal,” subtly associating the household’s longing for luck and wealth with the boy’s frenzy. Paul’s “powerful, strange voice” and the mantric repetition “It’s Malabar!” sound incantatory, as though the horse has become a ritual instrument; his “eyes blazed” for a “senseless second” dehumanises him into an emblem of obsession before the onomatopoeic “crash” literalises the danger. The immediate diagnosis of “brain-fever” makes the psychological compulsion somatically perilous.

In the sickroom, the obsession petrifies everything. The simile “eyes… like blue stones” and the extended stone motif—his mother’s heart “turned actually into a stone”—build a lexical field of hardness and lifelessness, implying emotional calcification under the pressure of money and luck. Even dying, Paul’s speech is driven by anaphora and exclamatives: “Malabar!… Over eighty thousand pounds!” The numbers themselves become talismanic, a chilling measure of how thoroughly luck has replaced life and health. Structurally, the adult world colludes: Oscar “put a thousand on Malabar,” and Bassett’s “glittering” eyes suggest complicity and greed, validating Paul’s mania even as it kills him. The final terse sentence—“But the boy died in the night”—is brutally anticlimactic, its plain syntax undercutting all the fevered certainty of “I am lucky” and sealing the obsession’s fatal cost.

Although there is a thread of maternal tenderness (“tormented motherhood”), it is overwhelmed by the uncanny, violent imagery and relentless repetition. Overall, the writer compellingly makes Paul’s actions strange and frightening, and shows his quest for luck as a lethal obsession.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the writer makes Paul’s behaviour seem strange and frightening through sensory and violent imagery — the soundless noise, yet rushing and powerful, the simile like a madness, and verbs like madly surging — while the obsessive repetition It's Malabar! shows fixation. It would also note the dangerous consequences of this obsession, citing brain-fever and the image of a tossing, dying child, to support the view that his quest for luck has become harmful.

I agree to a large extent that the description makes Paul’s actions seem strange and frightening, and that his hunt for “luck” has become a dangerous obsession. The writer builds unease from the mother’s anxious return to the house and escalates it into a shocking, tragic climax.

At first, the scene is focalised through the mother, and auditory imagery and oxymoron create dread: she hears “a strange, heavy, and yet not loud noise… a soundless noise, yet rushing and powerful.” This oxymoron makes the sound uncanny and unnatural, while the simile “on and on it went, like a madness” hints at uncontrollable obsession. The staccato rhetorical questions—“What was it? What in God’s name was it?”—and the adverb “noiselessly” convey her fear, and dynamic verbs such as “plunging to and fro” suggest violent, hidden movement.

When the light snaps on, the strangeness becomes overtly frightening. The verb choice “madly surging” and the “blaze of light” create a stark, theatrical revelation. Paul’s “powerful, strange voice” and repeated exclamation “It’s Malabar!” signal trance-like fixation. His “eyes blazed” for a “senseless second” before he “fell with a crash”: the abrupt syntax and sound effects (alliteration and onomatopoeia) emphasise sudden danger. The rocking-horse acts as a symbol of compulsion; he “urged” it as if it could deliver certainty.

The aftermath confirms the obsession’s cost. Clinical lexis (“brain-fever”) and the simile “his eyes were like blue stones” present him as cold and lifeless, while the stone motif (“heart-frozen,” “turned actually into a stone”) shows emotional damage to his mother. Even delirious, Paul’s speech is driven by anaphora and exclamatives: “Malabar! Malabar!… Over eighty thousand pounds!” The juxtaposition of financial triumph with a “tossing, dying child,” and Bassett’s eager betting update at the bedside, underline how pursuit of luck has become destructive.

Overall, the writer’s use of unsettling imagery, repetition, and contrast convincingly presents Paul’s behaviour as frightening and his quest as a dangerous, ultimately fatal obsession.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree because Paul’s behaviour seems strange and frightening, with soundless noise, like a madness, and him madly surging on the rocking-horse. The writer uses repetition and exclamations in Malabar! Malabar!, plus consequences like fell with a crash and brain-fever, to show his quest for luck has become a dangerous obsession.

I mostly agree that the description makes Paul’s behaviour seem strange and frightening, and that his hunt for luck has become dangerous. As the mother creeps upstairs with a “strange anxiety at her heart,” the sound is called a “soundless noise” and “something huge, in violent, hushed motion.” This unusual, even contradictory, description and the repeated questions, “What was it? What in God’s name was it?” build suspense and show her fear before the door opens.

When the light snaps on, the verbs “plunging” and “madly surging” make his riding feel wild and out of control. The simile “on and on it went, like a madness” suggests he isn’t playing but losing control. His “powerful, strange voice” screaming “It’s Malabar!” and the repetition of “Malabar” make him sound fixed on one idea, which is frightening for the mother and the reader. The sudden “blaze of light” also increases the shock of the scene.

After he falls “with a crash,” the obsession continues: even in “brain-fever” he “talked and tossed,” still repeating “Malabar.” The simile “his eyes were like blue stones” and the image that the mother’s heart “turned…into a stone” create a cold, lifeless feeling. The way the good news about “over eighty thousand pounds” arrives while he is “tossing, dying” is a strong contrast that shows the cost of luck. Paul’s boast, “I am lucky!” proves he cannot stop, and the boy dies. Overall, I agree to a large extent.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because Paul seems strange and frightening when there is a 'strange, heavy, and yet not loud noise' and he is 'madly surging on the rocking-horse' shouting 'It's Malabar!'. This shows a dangerous obsession with luck as he ends up with 'brain-fever' and then 'the boy died in the night'.

I mostly agree with the statement. When the mother discovers Paul, the description makes his behaviour strange and frightening. In the corridor she hears a “strange, heavy” and “soundless noise,” “like a madness.” This simile makes it feel weird and scary. The repeated question “What was it?” shows her rising fear.

When she switches on the light, Paul is “madly surging on the rocking-horse.” The adverb “madly” and verbs like “surging” and “plunging” make him seem out of control. He “screamed… It’s Malabar!” and his “eyes blazed,” which suggests a strong obsession. The repetition of “Malabar!” again and again makes him sound fixated.

After he falls, the consequences feel dangerous. The words “brain-fever” and “tossing” show illness, and “eyes… like blue stones” is a simile that makes him seem lifeless. The mother is “heart-frozen,” “a stone,” so the writer shows how serious it is. Even in bed he talks about “over eighty thousand pounds” and being “lucky.” Finally he “died in the night.” Overall, I agree the quest for luck has become a dangerous obsession.

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:

• Paradoxical sound imagery builds uncanny dread before the reveal, making his hidden action feel unnatural and frightening (soundless noise)
• Repetition and questioning amplify panic and hint that his motion has slipped into irrational compulsion (like a madness)
• The sudden illumination stages a shocking reveal that frames his intensity as alarming and out of control (madly surging)
• Obsessive fixation is foregrounded through urgent repetition that eclipses his mother and any wider awareness (It's Malabar!)
• Immediate, violent collapse after the frenzy makes the danger tangible and physically catastrophic (fell with a crash)
• Clinical and stony imagery dehumanises him and petrifies the household, emphasising how corrosive the quest has become (blue stones)
• Jarring juxtaposition of betting success with suffering heightens moral horror at what the pursuit of ‘luck’ has cost (tossing, dying child)
• His articulated ritual shows a compulsive method that he believes guarantees success, even as it imperils him (absolutely sure)
• Tragic irony as he seeks validation of his ‘luck’ while failing, exposing a deluded conviction driving the obsession (I am lucky)
• The blunt, final judgement confirms the writer’s stance: the obsession is not just frightening but fatal (died in the night)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A transport magazine is asking travellers to send short creative pieces for its next issue.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a night coach journey from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a trip that goes off course.

(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:

Night presses its velvet palms to the windows, and the coach exhales, long and patient, a metal lung moving through the dark. Headlights bowl ahead in twin cones, combing the road for clues; the cat’s eyes wink back, rhythmical, obedient. The tarmac unspools like dark ribbon, taut, endless, and the whole bus thrums—steady, steady—until the beat tucks itself under your ribs and borrows your pulse.

Inside, people fold themselves into temporary versions: a student cocooned in a hoodie; a child, open-mouthed, clutching a limp, earless rabbit; an elderly woman in a wool coat, her hands laced like old ivy. The air is warm-breathed and faintly sweet with the ghost of coffee; it smells of damp wool, diesel, orange peel and anticipation. Condensation veils the glass, and on it a teenager has idly drawn a galaxy of fingerprints that glimmer whenever we pass a sodium lamp.

Meanwhile, the driver sits upright, a silhouette contained by his rectangle of stars. He does not turn, does not fidget; he orchestrates our small moving world with the measured flex of his hands. Beyond the windscreen, the night is not empty but stitched: warehouses hulking like sleeping beasts, small towns slung glitteringly low, and in the distance a floodlit spire that seems to hover. Trucks thunder by, their sides blinking a Morse of red; they drift past like mild, enormous whales.

The coach rocks—gentle, relentless—through the hours where even time feels drowsy. Someone’s earphones leak a tinny anthem; someone else snores, stops, sighs. A can rolls and settles. The radiator breathes cold, then colder. My seat itches at the back of my knees, the fabric both scratchy and clinical; the seatbelt’s tongue taps gently at plastic as the coach changes lane. In the aisle, a bag slumps, the label shivering with every imperceptible shudder.

At intervals, the world intrudes with deliberate brightness: SERVICE AREA blares up in theatrical capitals; we pull in. Fluorescent light is poured over us, unforgiving, making tacky pastries gleam like lacquered shells. People unfurl, blinking, adopting ground legs, and we form a sleepy parade past vending machines that hum to themselves as if remembering songs. Paper cups, brittle, hot; the metallic tang of coin and coffee; a cleaner swabbing an invisible stain. It is ugly and necessary and somehow tender—strangers queuing in a corridor of nowhere for a lukewarm midnight.

Then away again, slotted back into motion. Road signs flicker their place names— Gloucester, Swindon, Somewhere—and the mind, vulnerable to suggestion, invents lives for each sleeping face. Where are you going? Why tonight? The glass offers back a version of my own face, overlaid with hedges and hedge-dark, so that for a moment I am stitched to fields I will never touch.

Beyond the coach’s glow, the landscape loosens: hedgerows; water glinting like dropped foil; a lay-by where a fox moves, rust-quiet. The sky is a bruise that will heal, not yet, but soon. And the engine hums, patient, persuasive, carrying us onwards and onwards and onwards, until the first clause of dawn arranges itself on the horizon and the night, at last, loosens its grip.

Option B:

Dawn did not so much arrive as unspool; the station’s iron ribs drank the first thin light, and the departure board woke with a cascade of amber numerals. Trains exhaled in long, patient sighs. A gull — impossibly inland — carved a loop of white noise above the glass canopy. Everything suggested order: chalked lines on platforms, clocks with stern hands, a tannoy voice that pronounced each syllable as if it mattered. A journey, Nadia thought, is a promise to a line on a map; you follow, and the world obeys.

She had rehearsed this trip with the zeal of a cartographer: alarms stacked in a neat hierarchy; tickets in a transparent wallet; a paper map folded to the exact quadrant; a schedule annotated with contingencies. The interview at the art school gleamed at the centre of all those arrows and underlines — noon, second floor, bring portfolio. Her suitcase was a sensible grey; inside, charcoal pencils nested beside a sketchbook that smelled faintly of graphite and rain. She stood on Platform 12, scarf tucked tight, heart practising a steady metronome. Concurrently, the tannoy crackled, and strangers jostled, and a soft wind lifted crisp packets into little, brittle dancers.

The platform changed. The amber letters blinked as if embarrassed, and a river of commuters reversed direction, carrying Nadia with them. She was careful, but the crowd made being careful feel like a quaint hobby (easily ignored by bodies with nowhere else to go). A guard’s cap bobbed like a buoy in the tide. Doors hissed open. Nadia glanced once at her plan — still as symmetrical as a snowflake — and stepped aboard.

Inside: warmth, a low orchestra of murmurs, the deep, contented purr of engines. Smells of coffee and newspapers, the faint ozone of rain on wool. She slid into a window seat. The city peeled away in a flicker-book of brick and graffiti; then warehouses, then allotments with rickety sheds and improbable lemon trees in plastic tubs. She texted Mum a neat line — On my way x — then rested her forehead against the cool pane, watching her reflection superimpose itself onto fields like a translucent decal.

The announcement was perfunctory, almost apologetic. This service will run non-stop to the coast due to a signalling issue. Coast. The word jolted her more than the sudden acceleration. Nadia’s plan did not have coast in it; it had junctions and interchanges and a neat, inland geometry. Beyond the glass, the land flattened into silvered marsh, gulls arriving like commas, and somewhere far ahead a strip of water flashed under a sky that had the audacity to brighten.

She fumbled for the onboard map; an elegant, glowing line traced a path she had not intended. Her phone — searching, thinking, failing. No signal. No stop until a harbour whose name was not in her annotations. For a heartbeat, she held two contradictory truths: she was on the wrong train, and she was moving very fast. Then she laughed — a short, incredulous sound — because the world, it seemed, had decided to edit her sketchbook without asking.

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

Option A:

The motorway unwinds like a ribbon of coal beneath the coach; the headlights comb the dark, pulling a narrow corridor of certainty out of the fields. On the window, two worlds overlay: the streaking countryside—hedges melting into long shadows—and our own pale faces, floating like planets on black glass. Each streetlamp smears into a saffron dash; each bridge rears up then slides away. The glass is cold against my temple, clouding with my breath, then clearing. Somewhere behind us the city has folded itself shut; ahead, miles of anonymous tarmac wait, blank and obedient.

Inside, the air is warm and faintly stale: coffee granules, diesel, fabric softener, the ghost of raincoats. The engine hum is constant, a dull purr that smooths the edges of thought. Passengers have drifted into their small shelters; a woman cradles her handbag like a sleeping cat; a man’s mouth opens into a soft snore; a child, cocooned in a hoodie, dreams with his thumb still hooked under the seatbelt. A phone stutters blue on someone’s chin; across the aisle a girl uses a scarf as a pillow. The aisle-lights glow a kind, forgiving blue; the emergency hammer sits like a bright red punctuation mark above us.

Up front, the driver is a steady silhouette, shoulders squared and patient. Indicator ticks measure our progress; cats’ eyes pop under the tyres; a radio murmurs, more breath than voice. Outside, the world becomes a rhythm: service station signs flare and vanish; a convoy of lorries slides past like slow whales. We are a temporary community—strangers stitched together by tickets and timetables—travelling alone, together. Even in sleep we keep time; heads nod in imperfect unison, then jolt as the coach hits a corrugation. I count the seconds between lay-bys and feel time lengthen, elastic and pliant.

Rain arrives without ceremony; it beads and races on the pane, silver trails intersecting. The wipers sweep; the coach sighs; somewhere, someone coughs, the sound damped by the night. For a moment the fog thickens and the world outside is only our reflection—tired, private—until the beam cuts it again, and the road opens like a throat. The signage begins to change: town names we half-know appear, then feel suddenly intimate. Dawn is not here yet, but a thin seam of pewter shows where the sky will break. We move on, obedient as breath, carrying our cargo of dreams towards a place that will look new because we came through darkness.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour that promises precision; alarms obedient, zips closing, timetables clicking into place like teeth. Our coach idled by the kerb, warm-breathed and patient, while Miss Patel ticked down her list with a bright highlighter (lemon, naturally) and the confidence of someone who has laminated the future. Risk assessments fanned in her hand; tide tables clipped to a clipboard; a plan as straight as a ruler. Nothing, in theory, could go wrong.

Inside, the air smelled of coffee, crisps and that rubbery tang of new trainers. Someone at the back drummed a hopeful rhythm on the seats; someone else whispered about rock pools and ice cream; Caitlin pressed her forehead to the window, drawing hearts in the mist. I sat with the map open across my knees, the paper thin as onion skin, our route sketched in blue—City to cliffs; cliffs to café; café to coach; home. Lines, neat and inevitable. Lines that I wanted, honestly, because lately everything at home felt like a spilt box of cutlery—metal clatter, no order.

We rolled out onto the ring road, the sat-nav speaking in that calm, persuasive insistence: turn right, keep left, at the roundabout take the second exit. The sky drooped low and colourless, a lid pressed onto the day. We would measure longshore drift. We would calculate gradients. We would record, analyse, conclude—scientifically, objectively, as if the sea could be persuaded into data.

Then the orange arrows arrived: a conga line of “DIVERSION” signs flashing with officious cheer, pointing us off the main road and onto a slip road I didn’t recognise. The sat-nav faltered—recalculating—then stuttered into silence, as if embarrassed. The driver sighed, checked his mirrors, and committed. Hedgerows tightened, green and bristling; bramble canes gripped the coach’s flanks. Fields unfurled where there should have been a by-pass; a scarecrow saluted us, lopsided and somehow official-looking; a doe sprung, a blur of tawny quiver, across a lane where the white lines had dissolved into gravel.

“Still fine,” Miss Patel said, slicing reassurance into the aisle. “A parallel route; keep your partners; we’ll be there soon.” Her voice was steady but her eyes flicked to the clock, to the tide table, back to the clock.

Fog gathered—first a smear on the horizon, then a curtain. It thickened with an almost edible weight, leaving the windows beaded and opaque. When the road kinked over a narrow bridge, the river beneath looked like dull pewter, scabbed with silt. The coach wheezed to a halt. Beyond the glass, shapes loomed: skeletal cranes, a scaffolded jetty, gulls orbiting like paper scraps in a wind.

“This isn’t the bay,” Caitlin said, her breath making a pale flower.

No, it wasn’t. The map on my knees was suddenly a palimpsest of wrong guesses; our inked line had been smudged by someone else’s thumb. Outside, the world had tilted just enough to notice—not dramatic, not doom, but off. Off course.

We stepped down anyway. Wet air tasted metallic. Mud sucked at our boots with an impolite kiss. Miss Patel marshalled tape measures like bright snakes. “We’ll adapt,” she said, and I wanted to believe her. Perhaps data lives in detours; perhaps there is something to find in the silt, even if what you wanted was a view. I tightened my hood, lifted the clipboard, and listened to the gulls’ cracked laughter, unhelpful and honest.

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

Option A:

The coach hums through the midnight hollow of the motorway. Tyres hiss at the rain-sheened tarmac; a low drone settles into the bones, a tame engine-lullaby. Condensation freckles the window beside me, tiny moons that gather and slip; each smear of light from passing lamps draws into a thin ribbon. The aisle glows blue. It smells faintly of sleep and crisps and old coffee. Everything is hushed, yet nothing is quite quiet.

Row by row, the coach arranges its small dramas. A boy in a hoodie hugs his rucksack as if it will float him to morning; opposite, an elderly man’s newspaper sags on his lap, spectacles still clinging to his nose. A mother steadies a heavy-headed child; their shadows stitch together on the glass. Further back, a woman murmurs into her phone—half apology, half secret. In the mirror, the driver’s eyes stay forward, patient, while mile counters tick and tick.

Beyond our bubble, the night is a wide, dark field, only the motorway’s sodium beads threading it. Lorries trundle past like dim whales; caravans drift, their curtains ghosted. A fox slinks at the verge—there, then gone. The road unspools, mile after mile after mile. Low clouds press on the coach; it seems to burrow under, carrying us like parcels with labels we can’t read yet.

We pull into services, and the doors breathe—open, then close. Cold air rushes in, mineral and damp. The foyer is too bright: fluorescent lights buzz, vending spirals glitter, the coffee machine whirrs. “Ten minutes,” calls the driver, stretching his back. People unfold themselves; yawns travel like a wave. A man buys tea; two teenagers take selfies, their laughter thin at this hour. The world feels paused, but the clock insists.

Back in our seats, we are quieter. The heater ticks; the engine settles; the dark returns. I count the cat’s-eyes blinking under us, neat and regular, as if the road has its own heartbeat. Who else is awake? My face floats on the glass, over hedges, signs, sleeping towns. Ahead, a dilute grey threads the horizon—only a hint, but real. The coach keeps its promise; in the soft, persistent thrum, night loosens its grip.

Option B:

Summer. The time of departures; roads loosening like ribbons towards the coast; maps folded in glove compartments, waiting to be woken. I had rehearsed the journey in my head, step by step, as if a dance could stop anything unexpected from intruding. Ticket. Platform. Window seat. Sea.

As the station coughed to life, the tannoy's voice scrolled through destinations in a flat, unamused tone. Pigeons hustled crumbs; a gust moved coffee across the platform. My backpack leaned against my calves; the suitcase rattled. I checked the board—Platform 4 to Westbay—then my watch. It flickered. For a second the numbers changed, then settled; I went with the crowd anyway.

Inside, the carriage smelt faintly of raincoats and metal. I watched the station recoil as we slid out, the tracks knitting and unknitting beneath us. I waited for the glimmer of blue between hedges, for gulls to thread the sky. Instead, fields broadened. The river, which should have followed on my left, sulked right, then slipped away. It poked me: a wrongness.

An announcement cracked like ice. Due to engineering works on the coastal line, this service will be diverted via Northham; we will not be calling at Westbay. I stared at my reflection in the window—superimposed on a field of barley—and felt the neat plan I had folded in my pocket loosen. My phone buzzed once (low battery) and died, as if it had given up sooner than me.

We stopped at a place I had never heard of: a single platform, a brick shelter with peeling posters. I could stay on, be dragged inland, let the day take me where it wanted. What was a detour, after all, but a different beginning? Or I could get off here, in the middle of the map’s blank stretch, and make a different route—awkward, maybe, but mine. The doors hissed. On the step, the air felt cooler, more alert, as if it knew I had changed my mind.

Trips go wrong; they also go elsewhere. I gripped my suitcase handle, took a breath, and stepped onto the platform, off course and unexpectedly ready.

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

Option A:

The coach breathes, a low, steady hum pressing under my seat. Outside, night hangs like a thick cloth over fields and towns. The window is cool against my forehead; my breath makes a cloud that fades and returns. Streetlights slide past in slow, yellow stripes, then vanish. Overhead, a thin light glows, pale and patient. The smell of old crisps and faint coffee drifts along the aisle. The seat fabric scratches my wrist; the engine keeps its careful rhythm.

People sink into the dark like stones into a pond. A child sleeps under a puffy coat, one socked foot escaping, twitching now and then. An old man, his cap tilted, snores with his mouth half open; it is not loud, just a small, regular sound. A woman turns pages, the paper whispering, her silver ring catching the light. Somewhere a pair of earphones leaks a tinny beat. Bags keep rattling above us—sometimes a strap taps the metal rail and then is still.

Outside, the motorway is a ribbon, a long grey band that goes on and on. Signs rush up, bright and bossy, then fall back into blackness. A service station glows like a miniature town: fluorescent booths, a circle of light, doors that sigh. We do not stop. Rain freckles the glass; the wipers sweep and pause, sweep and pause. In the driver’s mirror, I see the silhouette of his shoulders. The green clock on the dashboard blinks its digits: 01:37, 01:38, 01:39, slow as syrup.

Time does strange things at night. Thoughts shuffle and stretch; memories drift in and out like fog. I think about where I am going, and where I have been, and then nothing at all. My eyes close, open, close again. The road feels like it will never finish, mile after mile, mile after mile. Somewhere ahead, the sky will pale at the edges. For now, the coach sighs, and we keep going.

Option B:

The morning was supposed to be simple: catch the 8:15 to Westport, shoes on the sand by eleven. I laid my kit out like a promise—ticket, sandwich, earphones, charger—and zipped my bag shut. Outside, the street drank the last of the night rain; buses hissed; the sky was pale and undecided.

By the time I reached the stop, the city had woken and started complaining. The 42 rolled up late and full; it sighed us inside, breathing warm diesel. I stood and watched my blue dot creep across the map. Westport was a green word waiting on the edge. What could go wrong? The windows were pearled with rain, the street a blur of umbrellas.

The driver announced a diversion, everyone groaned. Roadworks, he said. The bus should go right; it blinked left instead, nosing down a side street where terraced houses leaned like curious neighbours. My phone flickered. Battery: 12%. Signal: almost there, then gone. I tried to keep calm, like Mum says—breathe in for four, out for six.

We were tipped out two stops early beside a canal that smelled of metal and weeds. Rook Gate Station stood across the water, its letters shimmering with drizzle. Close enough, I thought. Trains are trains. Inside, the clock glared red numbers at me. Somewhere behind me, the canal clinked against the stones. The board clicked: 9:03 to Northwick, platform 2. Not my line—probably a short detour.

I followed the arrows anyway. A whistle squealed. The platform was wind and wet benches. When the doors opened, warm air and the leather smell of seats leaked out. I stepped in, careful, hopeful. The doors slid together like a mouth. Off course didn’t feel dramatic; it felt ordinary, like a mistake that had already started to grow.

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

Option A:

The coach slides through the dark with a stubborn hum. Streetlights drip along the window like pale beads, smearing into gold threads whenever we hit a bump. The glass is cool; a small fan of condensation fogs the view, and I draw a thin line with my finger. Outside, towns are whispers: a shuttered petrol station, a blinking red sign, a fox crossing the verge.

Inside, the aisle is a narrow river of shadows. Heads tilt and loll on travel pillows; a woman hugs a shopping bag like a warm animal. Someone snores, stops, then starts again, saw-like. A baby fusses, then settles to a low song. The overhead lights are off, but the emergency bulbs glow tired and low; they turn the plastic seats a greasy blue. The air smells of crisps, cheap coffee and the dry, sweet scent of cleaner.

At the front, the driver sits still, a cut-out figure under the dashboard’s little galaxies. His fingers tap sometimes, on the wheel. The road pulls us on and on, arrow-straight, then curving under bridges where the sound deepens. Rumble strips whisper; the heater breathes. Back and forth, back and forth, the wipers cross once, clearing a smear of mist. A service station appears—fluorescent and empty—and vanishes. I think of the place at the end: a door, a small kitchen light, the smell of toast.

Dawn is not here yet, but the black sky thins. Others stir, rubbing eyes, checking phones. The engine hum lowers and rises; almost a lullaby, almost a warning. We keep going.

Option B:

Morning wore a bright skin; I zipped my backpack and swallowed nerves. The street smelt of bakery and bus fumes. Mum waved, small as a comma. I promised to text from the sea. Easy: straight road, sunny sky.

The coach muttered; we climbed in, chatter like birds. Miss Kaye ticked names, brisk. Scratchy seats, smeared windows—still, I didn’t care; waves were waiting. Colin, the driver, tapped the satnav. “Two hours,” he said. What could go wrong?

At first, nothing. Houses thinned; fields unrolled like ribbon. Then we met orange boards: DIVERSION. An arrow ordered left. “No problem,” Colin said, turning. The satnav chirped, calm, like it trusted everything.

However, the lane narrowed; hedges scratched the paint. Signal vanished. The map froze, our blue triangle stuck nowhere. Rain toughened, a drum on the roof. “Stay calm,” Miss Kaye murmured. We crept past a tractor, past a sign that said End.

Before we knew it, the tarmac sank into water. The road had become a brown mirror, ripples over SLOW. Colin braked; we tilted—silence. A duck glided across, cool as a guard. So much for sea air. Our trip was off course, and my heart tried to redraw the way.

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

Option A:

The coach moves like a slow ship through the dark. The engine hums and hums, a steady note under the whisper of tyres. Streetlights slide over the windows and sleepy faces, painting pale strips across cheeks. Condensation blooms on the glass; I draw a finger through it and watch the line fade. A boy’s head knocks the seat, back and forth, back and forth. Someone snores softly, like a small motor.

Inside it is warm, a stale mix of coffee, crisps and cold air. The overhead light flickers once—then settles. The driver is a dark silhouette in his square of glass. Outside, the road is a black ribbon, the wipers whispering time. Phones glow like tiny moons; headphones hiss. I feel the coach shiver over a bridge. Rails answer with a thin clang.

Meanwhile we stop at a service station, briefly. The flourescent sign buzzes. People uncoil, stretching, rubbing eyes. Plastic cups, tickets, lost gloves: small things that make quiet sounds. When we roll away again the seats sigh. The night presses close to the windows. Not much to see, only my reflection and the long row of sleeping mouths. The engine keeps its tune, and the dark keeps going.

Option B:

Saturday was supposed to be simple: a bus to the coast, meet Mia by the pier, chips with too much vinegar. I packed quickly, but carefully: a map, water, a half-squashed sandwich. The morning air nipped my cheeks; the station smelt like coffee and diesel. I checked the screen—Number 47 to Seagate. It matched my plan. The bus hissed, I climbed on. My heart knocked like a small engine.

At first, everything rolled the way it should. Houses thinned and the road opened; hedges ran beside us. I pictured blue water—cold, bright—and my phone showed a dot crawling toward it. Then the route board flickered: DIVERSION. The driver muttered about roadworks and turned left when my map said right. We swung into narrow lanes. Fields, patchy and grey like crumpled blankets, swallowed the bus. Rain began, pin sharp on the glass. I looked again: 5% battery. I should of charged it. Not the pier. Not the shops. Not the shining water. Just hedges, puddles, and a name I didn’t know. Is this still Seagate?

But then we stopped at MILL END. My stomach dipped. The driver glanced back—impatient—and my ticket felt flimsy. I swallowed; step down into a puddle. Cold water soaked my trainers. The bus coughed away. Off course.

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

Option A:

The coach rolls through the dark night. The window is like a black mirror. I press my head on it and it shudders. Street lights slide past, yellow, then gone, then back again. The engine is a heavy hum and the floor buzz under my shoes. It smells of crisps and old coffee.

People sleep with coats over there faces. A man snores and then stops and I wait, and then he starts again. A baby makes a soft cry, someone shusss it. The driver is a shape at the front, a radio whispers. We go on and on and on.

Outside are fields, then lights, then black again, and the glass shows my face like a ghost. Me and my bag dont fit right in the seat. Its late but it dont feel like sleep.

Option B:

Summer.

The street was hot. My red backpack felt heavy like a brick. Chips smell came from the shop and I thought about waves and ice cream.

My cousin said hurry. We ran for the bus and we got on it, breath loud in my chest. The sign on the front said DIVERTED but I didn't read it proper, I just smiled.

Then the bus turned left when it should of gone right. Houses got smaller, the road got thinner. The seats were sticky and the windows rattled and I could taste diesel in the air it made my mouth dry.

We past the park and some grey sheds I didnt know. Last stop, the driver said. We was not at the beach. We was by a fence and a barking dog and a big warehouse. I looked at my cousin. He looked at me. Our trip was off the track, like a bent wheel.

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

Option A:

The coach is dark and the windows shake. Street lights go past like stars. People are sleeping with there mouths open, someone snores loud and then stops. The engine hums low it is like a bee that wont quit. I lean on the glass and it is cold. My bag on my knee slips and I grab it but the strap is broke. The driver dont talk; he drives and drives. I remember my dog. I smell diesel and crisps, the seat is rough. Outside is black fields and a far light, the coach keeps going, going.

Option B:

Morning. The day is bright and I am going to the beach with my bag, it is red and heavy like a brick. The coach starts slow and I hold the ticket tight. We was ment to go straight but the driver turns left then left again, the roads are bumpy. I look out the window and the fields look wrong and there is a factory and smoke and we are not near water at all. Where are we going now? My stomach is like a washing mashine. My phone dont have map. I think about lunch, and my dog, anyway the rain starts and the trip goes off course.