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 Why did the little priest go back to the sweet-shop?: To ask whether the little priest had left something behind at the shop – 1 mark
• 1.2 Which place did the little priest say he returned to?: The sweet-shop – 1 mark
• 1.3 The little priest was speaking in what kind of tone at this point in the conversation?: in an unchanged, unaffected manner – 1 mark
• 1.4 What change is described in Flambeau's voice, and how does the little priest speak as the explanation begins?: Flambeau's voice reveals more than triumph, and the little priest keeps the same manner. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 parcel, and gave them a particular address if it turned up. Well, I knew I hadn’t; but when I went away again I did. So, instead of running after me with that valuable parcel, they have sent it flying to a friend of mine in Westminster.” Then he added rather sadly: “I learnt that, too, from a poor fellow in Hartlepool. He used to do it with handbags he stole at railway

11 stations, but he’s in a monastery now. Oh, one gets to know, you know,” he added, rubbing his head again with the same sort of desperate apology. “We can’t help being priests. People come and tell us these things.” Flambeau tore a brown-paper parcel out of his inner pocket and rent it in

16 pieces. There was nothing but paper and sticks of lead inside it. He sprang to his feet with a gigantic gesture, and cried: “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe a bumpkin like you could manage all that. I believe you’ve still got the stuff on you, and if you don’t give it up

How does the writer use language here to present Father Brown’s plan and his manner of speaking? 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: Perceptive responses would show how the writer presents Brown’s plan through antithesis and understated misdirection, balancing "Well, I knew I hadn’t; but when I went away again I did" with the colloquial "sent it flying to a friend of mine in Westminster", and clinching it in the blunt reveal "nothing but paper and sticks of lead". They would also analyse his manner of speaking as self-effacing yet authoritative, using the confessional anecdote "I learnt that, too, from a poor fellow in Hartlepool", the phatic tag "one gets to know, you know", the stage-direction "rubbing his head again with the same sort of desperate apology", and clipped assertions "We can’t help being priests. People come and tell us these things".

The writer uses syntactic parallelism and antithesis to outline Father Brown’s plan with deceptive simplicity. In “Well, I knew I hadn’t; but when I went away again I did,” the balanced clauses and elliptical “did” create an offhand tone that masks meticulous forethought. The connective “So” signals consequence: by giving a “particular address” he ensured redirection. The dynamic “sent it flying” adds pace, and “Westminster” lends authority. Precise lexis presents a carefully engineered decoy while sounding casual, making the stratagem seem effortless.

Furthermore, his manner of speaking is self-effacing and pastoral. The aside “he added rather sadly” and the participial clause “rubbing his head… desperate apology” metaphorically cast his gesture as an “apology,” conveying humility. “Oh, one gets to know, you know” blends a colloquial, phatic tag with the impersonal “one,” inviting complicity while deflecting cleverness. The inclusive “we” and modal “can’t” in “We can’t help being priests…” ground his expertise in duty rather than vanity, securing the reader’s trust.

Additionally, the “valuable parcel” proves “nothing but paper and sticks of lead”: the restrictive “nothing but” and banal nouns underline the elegance of the ruse. Set against Flambeau’s “gigantic gesture” and repetition “I don’t believe you,” Father Brown’s mild understatement outmanoeuvres force, presenting a cunning plan voiced with gentle, confessional calm.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Through adverb and physical detail, Father Brown’s speech sounds modest and priestly: “rather sadly,” “rubbing his head” in a “desperate apology,” with colloquial repetition “you know” and the generalisation “We can’t help being priests. People come and tell us these things” to claim quiet authority. His plan is explained logically with connectives “Well... but... So” and the specific noun phrase “brown-paper parcel,” before the concrete reveal “nothing but paper and sticks of lead,” a subtlety contrasted with Flambeau’s “gigantic gesture” and insult “bumpkin.”

The writer uses direct speech and a logical connective to set out Father Brown’s plan. The opening “So, instead of running after me…” signals reasoning, while the parallelism “I knew I hadn’t; but when I went away again I did” creates antithesis that reveals his deliberate switch. The vivid verb phrase “sent it flying to a friend… in Westminster” makes the decoy active, and the reveal of “nothing but paper and sticks of lead” exposes his misdirection. The matter-of-fact tone makes a complex trick sound simple, presenting him as shrewd.

Furthermore, his manner of speaking is modest. The adverbial “he added rather sadly” and the aside “rubbing his head again with the same sort of desperate apology” suggest a self-effacing persona. Colloquial repetition in “Oh, one gets to know, you know” softens his authority, while the first-person plural in “We can’t help being priests. People come and tell us these things” sounds humble yet certain. Additionally, religious lexis and the compassionate “a poor fellow in Hartlepool… in a monastery now” add anecdotal credibility. The contrast with Flambeau’s “gigantic gesture” highlights how Brown’s quiet voice conceals a bold plan.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows Father Brown’s plan with clear, cause-and-effect explanation in direct speech, using So, instead of running after me with that valuable parcel, they have sent it flying to a friend of mine in Westminster and the reveal nothing but paper and sticks of lead to suggest a simple but clever decoy. His manner sounds modest and apologetic through added rather sadly, rubbing his head again with the same sort of desperate apology and the friendly repetition Oh, one gets to know, you know,, so others underestimate him as a bumpkin.

The writer uses dialogue and connectives to show Father Brown’s careful plan. He says, “Well, I knew I hadn’t; but when I went away again I did,” which explains his trick step by step. The verb “sent” with “flying” makes the parcel seem to move quickly, and the place name “Westminster” makes the plan sound official and convincing.

Furthermore, the adverb “sadly” and the action “rubbing his head… with the same sort of desperate apology” present a gentle, apologetic manner. This makes him seem harmless while he outwits the thief.

Additionally, the repetition “you know” creates a friendly, conversational tone, and the short sentences “We can’t help being priests. People come and tell us these things.” give calm authority. This contrasts with Flambeau’s angry reaction, showing Father Brown’s quiet control and calm, clever manner.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses words like rather sadly and the action rubbing his head to show Father Brown speaks gently, and We can’t help being priests shows his calm, modest way of talking. The short sentence There was nothing but paper and sticks of lead inside it and the line they have sent it flying to a friend of mine in Westminster show his simple trick/plan worked.

The writer uses dialogue to show Father Brown’s plan. In “So, instead of running after me... they have sent it ... to a friend of mine in Westminster,” the connective “So” shows his plan and how he tricked them. Furthermore, the adverb “rather sadly” and the action “rubbing his head” present his gentle, apologetic manner. Additionally, the repetition “you know, you know” and the simple sentence “We can’t help being priests” make his speech friendly and modest. This makes the reader trust him and believe he calmly outsmarted them.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Colloquial discourse marker and self-correction create a confiding, believable voice as he outlines his ruse (Well, I knew I hadn’t).
• Causal connective signals methodical planning and misdirection, guiding the listener through his steps (So, instead of).
• Dynamic idiom suggests swift, decisive diversion of the parcel, energising the description of the scheme (sent it flying).
• Adverbial tone marker softens the explanation, presenting him as gentle and empathetic even while revealing trickery (rather sadly).
• Anecdotal reference and moral juxtaposition (crime to redemption) ground his knowledge in pastoral experience and authority (monastery now).
• Repetition of the conversational tag builds intimacy and modest authority, implying knowledge gained through listening (you know).
• Self-effacing body language underscores a humble manner that disarms suspicion while he explains (desperate apology).
• Short declaratives and collective pronoun frame his expertise as duty, lending credibility without boastfulness (We can’t help).
• Violent contrast in action and the reveal heighten the impact of his decoy plan, confirming its success (nothing but paper).
• Repeated disbelief and insult from the challenger highlight how his unassuming persona masks sharp intelligence (bumpkin like you).

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 awe?

You could write about:

• how awe 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 a crescendo of awe engineered by delayed revelation and shifting power: from the early tonal change (“another note in his voice”) to Father Brown’s quiet reversal (“we are not alone”) and the reveal of “two strong policemen and the greatest detective alive”, followed by retrospective re-evaluation through cumulative listing (e.g., “I changed the salt and sugar... I altered your bill”, “a splashed wall, spilt apples, a broken window”). It would analyse pacing and mood—the poised hesitation (“The world seemed waiting”), the arrested antagonism (“held back as by a spell”)—and show how the final ceremonial closure (“came out from under the twilight trees”; “Let us both bow to our master”) canonises Father Brown, intensifying awe at the end.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create awe is through delayed revelation and retrospective exposition that culminate in a climactic reversal. Throughout this end passage, the writer withholds Father Brown’s method until he discloses it in an analeptic monologue: "Well, it was like this..." and later "At every place we went to, I took care..." This incremental, parallel list—"a splashed wall, spilt apples, a broken window"—reconstructs the journey, reframing innocuous incidents as deliberate signals. The anaphora "A man generally..." builds a forensic rhythm that scales up the priest’s intelligence, inviting awe as trivialities become tactics.

In addition, shifts in focus and pace heighten amazement at key turning points. The scene pivots from Flambeau’s threat—"I’ll take it by force!"—to a decelerated, lucid explanation: "No... And, second, because we are not alone." The pause and then the reveal—"Behind that tree... two strong policemen and the greatest detective alive"—operate as a withheld-information release, converting menace into wonder. The sentence "The world seemed waiting... But he was held back as by a spell" crystallises a tonal shift from violence to fascinated stillness, allowing awe to expand.

A further structural feature is the final tableau and modulation in the denouement. Public recognition—"Let us both bow to our master"—reverses hierarchy and externalises the reader’s reverence. Yet this is immediately qualified by a quiet coda—Father Brown "blinked about for his umbrella"—a bathetic contrast that deepens awe: his mastery is housed in ordinariness. Placed at the end, this juxtaposition leaves humbled astonishment.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that awe is built through structural shifts and delayed revelations: moving from Flambeau’s early confidence to rising tension (The world seemed waiting) and the climactic disclosure (Behind that tree... two strong policemen; the three policemen came out), reinforced by Q&A exposition (How did they come here... Why, I brought them). It would also comment on the retrospective sequence of tests (I changed the salt and sugar; I altered your bill; spilt apples, a broken window), showing Father Brown’s control so the respectful finale (bow to our master) and humble image (blinked about for his umbrella) intensify the sense of awe.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create awe is through delayed revelation and retrospective recap. Information is withheld, then Father Brown releases it in ordered stages: 'How did they come here?... I brought them... I’ll tell you.' His step-by-step exposition ('I changed the salt and sugar'; 'I altered your bill') and the patterned 'A man generally...' reframe earlier incidents, making us realise his foresight and producing wonder.

In addition, a decisive shift in focus and power intensifies awe. The scene moves from Flambeau’s threat to the quiet pivot 'we are not alone' and the deictic reveal 'Behind that tree... the greatest detective alive.' Rapid Q&A ('With the what?') quickens pace and builds curiosity, while Father Brown’s measured answers hold suspense.

A further structural feature is the climactic resolution and reverent coda. The entrance of 'the three policemen' confirms his mastery, and 'bow to our master' shifts tone to admiration. The final contrast—this 'little Essex priest' blinking about for his umbrella—juxtaposes the ordinary with the extraordinary, leaving a lasting sense of awe.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: At the end, the writer builds to a twist: Father Brown explains his plan in a sequence ('I changed the salt and sugar... I altered your bill') and then reveals ('we are not alone', 'two strong policemen'), shifting the mood from Flambeau’s 'triumph' to shock. This creates awe because the final recognition ('bow to our master') makes the reader see how cleverly everything was planned.

One way the writer structures the end to create awe is by delaying the reveal and then giving a clear climax. Father Brown explains step by step, “First… And, second…”, before “Behind that tree… are two strong policemen.” Keeping this until the ending surprises us and makes Father Brown seem impressive.

In addition, short dialogue and questions quicken the pace and build awe. “With the what?” and “What on earth…?” show Flambeau’s confusion, while “No,” keeps Brown in control. The pause, “The world seemed waiting…”, is a shift in focus that raises tension before the reveal.

A further feature is the respectful resolution. After “the three policemen came out”, the tone turns to praise: “Let us both bow to our master.” Ending with both men bowing while the priest looks for his umbrella contrasts ordinary and heroic, leaving the reader in awe.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer saves the twist for the end, revealing "two strong policemen and the greatest detective alive" and ending with others "bow to our master", which makes Father Brown seem impressive and creates awe. It builds from the fake parcel being "nothing but paper and sticks of lead" to this final reveal, so the awe gets stronger at the end.

One way the writer structures the text to create awe is by a final reveal. The dialogue leads to "we are not alone", then the policemen appear. This ending is a climax and amazes the reader.

In addition, short sentences and questions in the speech add to awe. Lines like "No" and "What?" speed up the pace and create tension, so the surprise feels stronger.

A further feature is the closing image and mood shift. At the end, both men bow to Father Brown. This change from threat to respect leaves the reader in awe.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening tonal shift signals the climax and undermines Flambeau’s dominance, priming awe at reversal (for the first time)
• Withheld plan revealed through calm, step-by-step exposition, growing admiration as control is unveiled (I brought them)
• The decoy-parcel reveal pivots the scene, transforming threat into respect for cunning (paper and sticks of lead)
• Sudden stage reveal of hidden allies escalates wonder at foresight, flipping power in a single line (Behind that tree)
• Enumerated reasoning structures authority, making his mastery feel inevitable and impressive (First, because I)
• Patterned testing via anaphora builds cumulative proof, each beat deepening awe at method (A man generally)
• Accumulation of small, visible traces ties episodes together, showcasing a grand design emerging from trifles (splashed wall)
• A pregnant pause freezes action, the antagonist held by curiosity, letting awe fill the silence (held back as by a spell)
• Ceremony at the climax reframes conflict as homage, inviting the reader’s reverence too (bow to our master)
• Humble final image deflates theatrics yet heightens esteem, genius tucked behind ordinary habits (blinked about for his umbrella)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 21 to the end.

In this part of the source, the moment Father Brown looks for his umbrella could be seen as funny rather than dramatic. The writer suggests that despite his clever victory, he is still just an ordinary, slightly clumsy man.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Father Brown as a clever but ordinary man
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest Father Brown's ordinary character
• 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 uses irony and structural anticlimax to present Father Brown as clever yet ordinary, juxtaposing his methodical triumph (we have to know twenty such things, I changed the salt and sugar, I altered your bill) and the reverent recognition of others (the greatest detective alive, Let us both bow to our master) with the comic image of him blinked about for his umbrella. It would evaluate the writer’s viewpoint by showing how modest diction like lumbering lucidity, round, simple face, and the little Essex priest sustains humour while preserving a quiet drama of respect, implying that his unassuming manner conceals and even heightens his mastery.

I largely agree that the umbrella moment is comic rather than dramatic, and that Chesterton deliberately punctures tension to present Father Brown as clever yet endearingly ordinary. The passage orchestrates a controlled anticlimax: after an intellectual victory, the final image of the “little Essex priest” who “blinked about for his umbrella” bathes the scene in bathos, replacing heroics with homely clumsiness.

Earlier, the writer briefly primes us for drama: “The world seemed waiting for Flambeau to leap like a tiger.” The simile heightens expectation and danger, and the “twilight trees” lend a suspenseful atmosphere. Yet Father Brown’s voice immediately undercuts this with what the narrator wryly calls “lumbering lucidity.” This oxymoronic epithet encapsulates the comic persona: he is methodical, even plodding, but luminously clear. His colloquial exclamative “Lord bless you” and the calm anaphora of his test—“A man generally makes a small scene… A man generally objects…”—shift the tone from melodrama to practical, almost domestic reasonableness. The very mundanity of his stratagems (salt in coffee, an altered bill) emphasises that his triumph springs from common-sense observation rather than theatrical brilliance, sustaining the impression of a clever but ordinary man.

Chesterton then layers gently humorous details that keep Father Brown grounded. The playful jargon—“Donkey’s Whistle,” “the Spots”—sounds like mock-epic argot, and Father Brown “making a face” as he calls the Whistle “a foul thing” adds comic colour. His self-deprecation—“I’m not strong enough in the legs” and “by being a celibate simpleton”—creates ironic contrast with his formidable knowledge: “Has it never struck you that a man who… hear[s] men’s real sins is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil?” Even his cool theological verdict, “You attacked reason. It’s bad theology,” is delivered with deadpan understatement, deflating the would-be melodrama with dry wit.

Structurally, the climactic recognition scene intensifies the irony. Valentin commands, “Let us both bow to our master,” conferring epic status at the exact moment the narrative cuts to the homely anticlimax: Father Brown “blinked about for his umbrella.” The juxtaposition of ceremonial homage with a mildly fumbling action creates a comic deflation; the umbrella, a quintessentially mundane prop, functions as a motif of ordinariness.

Overall, I strongly agree: Chesterton crafts a humorous anticlimax that affirms Father Brown’s brilliance while insisting on his unassuming, slightly clumsy humanity. The drama is purposefully softened into gentle comedy to celebrate, not diminish, his quiet mastery.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: Typically, a Level 3 response would mostly agree, noting the comic anticlimax when Father Brown 'blinked about for his umbrella' and homely touches like 'lumbering lucidity', 'making a face', and 'celibate simpleton' that make him seem ordinary, while also acknowledging his clear cleverness in summoning 'two strong policemen and the greatest detective alive' and leaving 'spilt apples' and 'a broken window' as deliberate signs.

I agree to a large extent that the umbrella moment is funny rather than dramatic, and that the writer presents Father Brown as clever yet ordinary and slightly clumsy. The build-up initially promises high drama: “The world seemed waiting for Flambeau to leap like a tiger.” This vivid simile and the phrase “held back as by a spell” create tension. However, the tone shifts as Father Brown explains with “lumbering lucidity.” The adjective “lumbering” suggests an ungainly, almost bumbling manner, which humorously undercuts the suspense even as his logic is razor-sharp.

The dialogue also makes him seem homely and unshowy. His chatty “Lord bless you” and the list “a splashed wall, spilt apples, a broken window” use everyday, slightly messy images. Structurally, this list reads like minor accidents, so it’s comic to discover they are deliberate tactics: this juxtaposition keeps him both brilliant and ordinary. Father Brown’s self-description as a “celibate simpleton” (alliteration) is self‑deprecating, and “making a face” gives a small, almost childish physical detail that humanises him. Even in discussing criminals’ tricks, he admits he is “not strong enough in the legs,” a bathetic detail that punctures any heroic aura.

The ending crystallises this effect through anticlimax. After the dramatic reveal—“the three policemen came out” and Valentin calling him “our master”—the image of the “little Essex priest” who “blinked about for his umbrella” is gently comic. The diminutive “little” and the verb “blinked” suggest mild confusion; the mundane “umbrella” symbolises everyday fussiness. This final structural choice leaves the reader smiling rather than on edge.

Overall, I mostly agree: the writer contrasts high-stakes detection with ordinary mannerisms to make the closing moment funny. Yet the deference—“bow to our master”—retains a flicker of drama, affirming that beneath his clumsy surface, Father Brown’s intellect commands genuine respect.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might partly agree, noting contrast: Father Brown is clever in arranging two strong policemen and explaining tricks like I changed the salt and sugar, but the final image where he blinked about for his umbrella makes him seem ordinary and slightly clumsy, so the moment is more funny than dramatic.

I mostly agree that the umbrella moment is comic and makes Father Brown seem ordinary, even after his success. Earlier the writer still builds some drama: the world waits for Flambeau to “leap like a tiger”, a simile that suggests danger. Father Brown’s calm reply in dialogue undercuts this: “No,” said Father Brown simply; he points out “two strong policemen and the greatest detective alive.” The hyperbole adds excitement, but his simple tone keeps him ordinary.

The writer also uses description to make him slightly clumsy. The phrase “lumbering lucidity” suggests he is clear but plodding. His “round, simple face” and “making a face” seem childlike. He even jokes he is a “celibate simpleton.” These words and small actions create an ordinary, human tone rather than the glamorous detective we might expect.

Structurally, the ending is an anticlimax that turns drama into humour. After Valentin says, “Let us both bow to our master,” we expect a grand finish. Instead, Father Brown “blinked about for his umbrella.” The verb “blinked” suggests a small, fussy search, which is funny and slightly awkward. At the same time, his repeated explanations, “I changed the salt and sugar… I altered your bill,” show real cleverness. Overall, I agree the moment is more funny than dramatic, and it finally presents him as clever but ordinary—someone who can outsmart a thief but still fusses about, looking for his umbrella like any slightly clumsy man.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree that the ending is funny rather than dramatic because he 'blinked about for his umbrella', and say he seems ordinary from phrases like 'little Essex priest' and 'said Father Brown simply'.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first this part still feels a bit dramatic, with the writer saying the world waited for Flambeau to “leap like a tiger.” That simile makes tension. But then the tone becomes more light.

Father Brown explains, in dialogue, how he swapped “salt and sugar” and even paid a wrong bill. This list of small things (“spilt apples”, “a broken window”) makes him seem ordinary, making small messes. The phrase “two strong policemen” sounds big and serious, but Father Brown speaks “simply,” which is plain and calm. The adjective “little” in “the little Essex priest” and his “round, simple face” also suggest he is not grand.

Finally, after Valentin and Flambeau bow to him as their “master,” the description that he “blinked about for his umbrella” is almost clumsy and funny. It is not dramatic; it is like a normal person who has misplaced something.

Overall, I agree that the ending is more comic than dramatic, and the writer shows Father Brown is clever but still an ordinary man.

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:

• Anticlimactic ending (bathos) → comic deflation of tension; despite the masterstroke and arrests, he fusses over a mundane object, making him seem ordinary and slightly clumsy (blinked about for his umbrella)
• Juxtaposition of greatness with smallness → being hailed by the “greatest detective alive” yet described as physically modest frames him as clever but unheroic (little Essex priest)
• Understated delivery in narration/dialogue → calm, plodding manner makes events feel less melodramatic and more gently humorous (with lumbering lucidity)
• Self-deprecating characterisation → he downplays himself, inviting affection and laughter rather than awe (celibate simpleton)
• Physical ineptitude aside → a throwaway joke about capability humanises him and hints at clumsiness beneath the intellect (not strong enough in the legs)
• Playful, almost childlike criminal jargon → lightens tone and keeps the focus on his quirky, ordinary persona rather than high drama (Donkey’s Whistle)
• Comic trail of minor mishaps → everyday messiness suggests bumbling ordinariness used tactically, keeping the victory grounded and amusing (spilt apples)
• Contrast with others’ grandeur → Flambeau’s bow and Valentin’s reverence heighten the anticlimax when Brown reverts to everyday fussing, boosting the comic effect (bow to our master)
• Moment of dramatic reveal → the arrival of authority injects tension, so the scene isn’t purely comic; this contrast sharpens the later humour (three policemen came out)
• Philosophical-cerebral triumph → a cool theological verdict secures victory intellectually, which then makes the mundane umbrella business even funnier by contrast (bad theology)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your school is contributing to a community archive about surviving extreme weather.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe the quiet aftermath of a powerful storm from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a surprising discovery made during the clean-up.

(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:

Morning exhales, tentative, over a street rinsed to the colour of skimmed milk. The wind has gone; it leaves behind a hush so complete that it seems placed there, deliberate, like a cloth over a birdcage. Puddles—opaline, tremulous—stitch light into the tarmac; gutters keep time with a patient drip, drip, drip. Somewhere a loosened shutter gives a single, apologetic tap; then even that small confession subsides.

The tree that stood for decades lies prostrate, a giant unbuttoned. Its root ball is a fist of earth, torn free; knotted tendrils glisten like soaked ropes, perfumed with that iron, loamy scent storms draw from the gut of the ground. Leaves, once a canopy, cling in wet clumps to fences and windows; a branch has speared a pane, and the curtain behind it hangs in a rag, a surrender flag. Worms writhe, bewildered, in the open seam of soil; a child's orange football has lodged among the roots as though nested there on purpose.

The house beside it looks stunned. Slate teeth are missing from the roof; the chimney leans, chastened; glass sugars the doorstep. Inside, where the front door gapes, the hallway wears a thin tide-line of silt and grit. Wallpaper blisters into pale bubbles; a clock—stubborn, dignified—ticks on. The air is a compound of odours: damp plaster, creosote, crushed green, a faint tang of the sea carried miles inland. Now and then the window frames creak as they settle back into themselves, like bones after a sprint.

Further along, the street arranges its scattered thoughts: bins righted; a bicycle coaxed upright; a garden gnome discovered face-down, absolved, rinsed. People appear, timid at first—dressing gowns belted, hair unbrushed, slippers darkened by dew—and speak in the kind of voices one uses in churches and sickrooms. “You all right?” is asked and re-asked, not really a question, more an incantation. A cat tests one paw on the cold water, retracts it, shakes disdain from its toes. Somewhere, irrepressibly, a blackbird experiments with a note, then two; the song falters; it resumes, braver.

Sun prises open the clouds: slow, careful, almost contrite. Steam threads from the tarmac; fences exhale; a rainbow, thin and tentative, scribbles itself along the edge of a lingering spray. The silence changes—stillness, yes, but not empty anymore; full of looking, of counting, of the minute arithmetic of repair. Already someone fetches a broom; already someone ties tarpaulin with twine; already, from a garage, the tap of a hammer begins, tentative, then certain. And the storm, relegated to memory, leaves its afterimage: a ringing in the ears, a freshness on the tongue, a sharpened gratitude. The world, bruised but unbowed, breathes in; quietly, insistently, it begins again.

Option B:

Dust. It hung in golden flurries as the afternoon slanted through the crooked blind, turning the sitting room into a slow snow globe of forgotten years; even the air seemed textured, thick with the arithmetic of a life counted in receipts, recipe cards and brittle birthday ribbons.

We had come to clean, not to excavate. Boxes were labelled, cupboards were emptied, drawers released their papery sighs; the charity van outside idled and coughed like a patient horse. The list on the fridge—Kitchen, Lounge, Spare Room, Loft—was speckled with flour and time, and Maya, sleeves rolled and hair pinned any which way, traced each item with a thumb smudged grey. If grief has a soundtrack, it is the crackle of bin bags unfurling and the cautious creak of floorboards that have learned to keep secrets.

She started with the bookcase. Hardbacks sat like a row of stubborn relatives; spines foxed and lordly, titles faded to whispers. She dusted, she paused to read a line, she coughed at a bloom of motes that rose and fell as if rehearsed. Meanwhile, in the kitchen, Aunt Jean called, “Nearly done in there?” and Maya answered—because efficiency is the language of the well-meaning—“Almost.”

It was an accident of angles and light that revealed it. When she slid the lowest shelf forward—elbowing a cluster of travel guides towards the floor—there was, by the skirting board, a tiny dark ellipse that made no sense: an absence where paint should have been. The skirting had a hairline gap, the sort that a casual glance forgives but a fingertip cannot. The gap was cool against her nail; it yielded, almost indignant, as she worried at it with the edge of an old loyalty card.

Wood lifted. A sliver, then a wedge. Behind the board was a pocket of air—small, deliberate, the size of a loaf. Maya’s breath found a new, higher place. She slid a hand into the cavity and closed around something metallic and cold, wrapped in oilcloth that had the slick feel of a raincoat. For a second she thought of all the stories that begin this way and laughed—quietly, an apology to the empty room.

The package came free with a faint, sticky sound. On the oilcloth was a ghost of handwriting, blanched and stubborn. She unwrapped it; inside lay a tin the colour of a tired sky, the sardine logo worn to a suggestion. The lid was tight, then not; it sighed.

There was an envelope within, butter-yellow and tied with cotton. Her name was on it—Maya—in her grandmother’s meticulous, looping hand. The ink had the blue of old sea. For a beat the world shuddered: sunlight brightened, then dulled, like a heartbeat through a windowpane. How could a letter addressed to her be hiding here, as if the house were a conspirator?

She broke the cotton. Inside: a single sheet, and a key taped to the corner with brittle brown tape. The first line read, If you are tidying—and I know you will, my precise girl—then you’ve found what I could not say out loud. The key is to the locker at the station; the rest is not mine alone to tell.

“Everything okay?” Aunt Jean’s voice paused in the doorway.

Maya swallowed dust and amazement together. “Yes,” she said, and it was almost true. “I’ve found something.”

She didn’t add: the room had shifted; the clean-up had become excavation; and in her palm, ordinary metal glinted like a small, disobedient star.

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

Option A:

After the storm, the town exhales. A near-deafening quiet settles—cotton-thick, improbable—as if the air itself is embarrassed by what it has hosted. Puddles hold a dull pewter light and tremble only when a drop falls; the gutters mumble. The sky is pale linen pulled tight across the horizon. Somewhere, a distant siren flutters, then gives up. What remains is simple: water, torn leaves, a sudden barrenness. It has gone; it has left its fingerprints on everything.

Where the old sycamore stood, there is a cavity, raw and sour with the smell of clean earth. The tree lies on its side, spine splintered, roots splayed like a giant’s hand mid-reach. Jawed from the ground, pale filaments—delicate as veins—still clutch stones and a confused spoon. Rain has lacquered the leaves, pressing them to fences in obsessive patterns, each one a small green mirror. Sap threads the air with something medicinal and faintly sweet.

The house behind it seems to lean, as if listening. Tiles have been scalped from the roof, leaving a grin of rafters and a tinny, embarrassed drip. A window is starred; the lawn is salted with shards that glitter like sugar. Inside: a clock ticks; a kettle wears a brown tidemark; a photograph lies face-down. The wallpaper lifts in slow breaths where the wind found mischief. The smell is damp plaster, bruised leaves, a hint of metal. A child’s bicycle (miraculously upright) glints by the porch.

People appear as if conjured from the hush. Neighbours step out, hands on hips, voices softened to courtesy, to caution. A dog noses the heaped branches and sneezes; a gull rides a fresh, careful wind that has forgotten how to shout. The street is a palimpsest of arcs and prints, already blurring. We walk around puddles that hold clouds like crumpled gauze, and we make small promises—to ring, to lend, to mend—under our breath. Even our breath seems louder than it should. Before the vans arrive, this mild interlude holds: strangely restorative, slightly clinical, a pause that redraws the world in finer pencil. We measure what is lost in quiet increments: a snapped latch, a hairline crack, an empty nest revealed in the stripped crown. Who would believe such a hush could grow out of such rage?

Option B:

Sunday. The time of clearing out; bin-bags bloated with confetti and cup-rings, windows flung wide for a kinder breeze. The sticky floor held last night’s revelry like a memory—glitter winking from between scuffs, cola dried to treacle; a paper crown abandoned, crushed and crooked. After the lantern procession, the hall felt larger and lonelier, as if applause had already evaporated.

As balloons gave up their breath with soft squeaks, Lena methodically lifted chair after chair, stacked table after table, and swept again (third time, too thorough, she knew). Her palms smelt of citrus disinfectant; her hair collected dust like static. She liked this: the slow making-right of things, the hush after shouting. Clean-up had its own rhythm—bag, knot, heave; bag, knot, heave—and she moved inside it almost comfortably.

By the stage, the velvet curtain hung heavy as a soaked coat. She tugged a fallen garland from behind the skirting board and felt the tiniest give; a sliver of wood shifted where paint had blistered from years of radiators and damp winters. It would have been easy to ignore. She didn’t. Using the flat end of a ruler, she levered gently; the board complained, then released with a sigh of plaster-dust that tasted chalky and old.

Behind it: darkness, then the pale oval of a tin—small, oval, with a dent like a dimple and a thin sheen of rust. It looked ridiculous, tucked away in the wall’s rib cage, as if the building had been hiding a secret organ. Lena hesitated; she glanced at the door (locked), the clock (eleven-fifteen), the sun-splashed floor. What harm could one small peek do?

The lid was stubborn, but the ruler, again, proved useful. It popped. Inside, wrapped in waxed paper, lay a photograph, a brass key on a red string, and a letter, the edges foxed. The photograph wasn’t ancient. A girl stood beneath this very window—same cracked sill, same noticeboard—holding a paper lantern shaped like a swan. The surprising part wasn’t the lantern or the date on the back (June 1999): it was the girl’s smile—Lena’s own—though the girl wore her mother’s cardigan.

She sat back on her heels, heartbeat loud in the emptied hall. Outside, a gull cried and broke the moment. She told herself: don’t leap to conclusions; perhaps smiles look alike in certain lights. Yet the key swung against her wrist—patient, persuasive. Clean-up could wait, couldn’t it? Or should she put everything back, make things neat, and pretend walls do not keep secrets?

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

Option A:

Silence lay over the street like a heavy quilt, stitched with the last tattered threads of cloud. The sky, blue-grey and bruised at the edges, had fallen open after the rage, and the houses sat damp and blinking. Wind that had shouted itself hoarse only hours ago now sulked in the hedges; it moved nothing. From a cracked gutter, a patient drip kept time—tick, tick, tick—into a bowl of rainwater trembling on the steps. What remained was simple: damp, debris, a thinned-out light that seemed careful not to startle anything.

The old sycamore lay on its side like a toppled crown, roots torn up and splayed, pale and stringy as veins. Clods of earth clung in slabs; the garden, once neat, was a churned stew of mud, leaves and splintered fence posts. A pane was punched from the front window so the curtain clung to the frame, dark with grit. The road wore a coat of leaves—glossy, flattened, confetti and confusion—and broken glass made a dull glitter along the kerb. The air smelled mineral and sour-sweet with sap; it tasted faintly of a coin.

Sound returned the way a shy cat returns, step by step. A siren unspooled, distant, then folded back into the hush. A dog tried two indignant barks and thought better of it. Above, a single robin auditioned a note; silence approved, and it tried another. Water kept its count from every edge and hollow: drip... drip... drip. A shutter creaked, a gate nudged. Somewhere, unseen, a tap continued its thin argument. The storm had gone on, but it had left fingerprints in everything—mud under the nails of morning.

People emerged as if from under water. Mrs Patel in a tartan dressing gown; Mr Lin with a broom; a boy in socks hopping through puddles. They spoke softly, almost ceremoniously, setting bins upright, tugging branches aside, staring at what could and couldn’t be fixed. The felled tree looked like a sleeping giant; we stepped around it, careful, as though not to wake it. Sun began to thread itself through the ragged edges of cloud, cautious but insistent. Shards winked, puddles trembled. The house was battered, not broken. The street exhaled. Slowly, the day remembered itself.

Option B:

Dust is always the last to leave. It clung to the village hall in patient layers, softening the edges of stacked chairs and dulled trophies, glittering where a thin stripe of afternoon sun angled through a cracked pane. The place smelt of damp wood and lemon disinfectant; of yesterday’s rain and today’s resolve. Somewhere a tap dripped—measured, obstinate—like a metronome for our efforts.

We were a small army of volunteers, high-vis vests over hoodies, bin bags ballooning as they gulped confetti and paper plates. Jada wrestled with a stubborn strand of bunting while Mr Patel tutted at the confetti, “It migrates. Honestly.” I took the broom and the quiet side of the stage, where spilled sawdust had silted into the grooves. Clearing up is a kind of archaeology, I thought: peeling back what people leave behind to see the floor again.

It happened when the broom snagged on something that wasn’t confetti, wasn’t even mess. A hollow clack came up from beneath the boards; not the flat thud I expected, but a sound with space inside it. I crouched. One plank along the skirting wobbled, ever so slightly. I wedged my fingers into the thin seam and felt the wood give—reluctant, then yielding. The board lifted, and a cool breath of air, old as moths, brushed my face.

“Guys,” I said, not too loud, because the moment felt fragile. Together, with a screwdriver and care, we coaxed a long, dusty parcel from the cavity. It was a slim case, black once but now rubbed to grey at the corners, the clasps flecked with rust and a patina of fingerprints nobody remembered leaving. A frayed tag dangled from the handle: For when the noise returns.

We didn’t speak for a heartbeat. Then I eased open the clasps—one clicked, one stuck—and lifted the lid. Nestled in velvet the colour of bottled midnight lay a violin, its amber body luminous, its strings taut as if waiting. A faint scent of resin rose up, astonishingly sweet; it felt like finding something alive. There was a folded note tucked beneath the bow.

My hands were not entirely steady. Who hides a violin under a floor, and why? The hall had been silent for months, flood then closure; still, under our debris and ordinary, someone had kept music safe. I plucked one string—just once—and a thin, bright tone rang out, threading through the dust like light.

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

Option A:

The storm has gone, and the town sits in a careful hush. Water slides from gutters in slow beads; each drop is loud in the stillness. The sky is rubbed pale. The air carries a cold, damp smell: soil, torn leaves, wet timber.

By the corner house, an uprooted tree lies on its side, a fallen thing. Its roots clutch at the air like stiff fingers, brown and tangled. The trunk leans against the cracked wall, a bruise spreading through the plaster. The roof is scarred; tiles are missing in a crooked grin. One window is open even though it shouldn’t be; a torn curtain breathes in and out, very slow. Puddles hold broken pieces of the day, little mirrors that tremble when a breeze sneaks through. The front fence has slumped; the gate drags its chin on the path. A blue plastic chair sits on its back, legs up, ridiculous. I notice a single shoe half-sunk in the mud.

No engines, no shouting now—only small sounds. A sparrow shakes itself on the bent gutter and makes a glitter of drops. Down the street, a neighbour coughs and then, quietly, starts sweeping; the broom whispers over grit and leaves. The street looks wider, the trees have been trimmed by force, branches lying like broken ribs along the verge. There is a film of grit on my tongue and teeth, I swallow and it doesn’t go. The wind, which was a bully, is spent. It moves the swing just once and lets it creak. Even the sun seems shy, easing out between grey edges to warm the backs of my hands. It will take time to fix things—of course it will. But the stillness has a kind of mercy: a pause where you hear your own breath, and the land beginning to set itself right.

Option B:

Mud dried in thin, cracked lines across the village hall floor, like a stubborn map that refused to fade. We swept and scraped; black bags yawned while chairs dragged a tired chorus. The air smelled of damp paper and lemon disinfectant. Fluorescent lights flickered; puddles shone a sickly green. I wiped the stage steps, my gloves turning a brown I didn't know existed.

I pulled the curtain back. It was heavy and sleepy, and when it shifted a cloud of gritty dust floated around my face. Behind it, a plank in the skirting sat wrong—warped, not snug. I didn't mean to find it, I was only hunting for lost gloves. The end of my broom nudged the wood; it wobbled, then lifted with a groan.

In the gap lay a tin, long and pale, its paint flaking like frost. A swallow was stamped on the lid, and a date scratched: 1985. My heart did a small skip. I eased it open—careful—because everything we touched lately seemed to crumble. Inside: a folded letter bound with red thread, a small silver key on a faded ribbon, and a photograph. The photo showed this hall, this stage, but brighter. People in wellies grinned with mops like trophies; in the corner, a woman who looked exactly like my gran waved.

I broke the thread and read. The handwriting was neat and steady. ‘To whoever cleans this mess,’ it began: ‘We were here after the flood in eighty-five. We kept the hall alive; if the water comes again, you will need what we could not keep. The key opens the cupboard by the piano. Behind it there is a box. Please use it well.’

I looked at the piano, its legs ringed with dirty tide-marks. Mr Malik stacked chairs, oblivious. The key felt warm in my palm though it had been cold before. Who hides a message for strangers in a tin? And why did the woman in the picture look so much like family? I slid the key into my pocket and stepped down, the hall holding its breath.

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

Option A:

After the storm, the street sits still and surprised. The sky is pale like old milk, and the last drops fall from the telephone wires; drip, drip, until even the sound seems tired. Fences lean at odd angles. A porch sags; the front door is swollen and stubborn. An uprooted tree sprawls across the pavement, its roots like black fingers clutching at thin air. The houses, bruised and quiet, seem to hold their breath.

There is a smell of wet soil and something sharp, almost metallic, sliding from the drains. Windows are cracked into white webs; a curtain flaps slowly like a tired flag. The street is littered: shingles, branches, one red shoe with its laces trailing in a puddle. A newspaper is pasted to a wall, yesterday’s headlines melting into grey. In the hush small noises return — a sign creaks, a bird tries a thin note then stops, somewhere a tap keeps ticking. The garden looks drowned, flowers lie on their sides, soil clings to everything.

People come out carefully, as if the air might break again. A man in a wet coat lifts a branch and another; his breath makes small clouds. A woman sweeps glass into a neat pile; she pauses, picks up a photograph and wipes the face with her sleeve. Above the roofs a faint rainbow hangs, not bright, just there. The wind has moved on but it leaves a hush behind, a kind of echo. The road shines in the thin sun, and the town begins, slowly, to breathe.

Option B:

Saturday. The kind of day for clearing up; for sweeping crumbs into piles and tying off bulging bags. Sunlight wandered through the dusty hall, touching the scuffed floor, making little islands of gold on spilled glitter.

We were cleaning after the fundraiser. At first it felt endless: sticky tables, a tired broom, lost badges and bent paper planes. Dad dragged the stage curtains down with a grunt while I knelt near the back wall, peeling tape that didn't want to leave. The air smelt of bleach and popcorn, old music still hung there, like a faint echo, like it didn’t want to go either.

Then the broom clinked against something under the stack of chairs. Not a bottle cap. Not a coin. A deeper sound, shy but solid. I shuffled the chairs aside—one, two, three—until my fingers found a little gap behind the skirting. A panel had lifted, just a sliver. The wood looked ordinary; the idea did not.

I prised it with a butter knife; it squealed. Dust jumped in a small cloud and drifted like snow. Inside, in a shallow hole, lay a tin box wrapped in frayed ribbon. It was small, the lid was stiff, stranger still, there was a tag with a single word: Keep.

My heart beat quick, silly really, because it was only metal. I lifted the lid and the hall went quiet. Photographs; black-and-white faces, a girl with my mother’s smile, and me—no, not me, but so like me I almost said hello. Beneath them was an envelope addressed in careful curls to: For the one who finds this first.

I looked up. Dad was still wrestling a curtain, oblivious. I slipped the letter into my pocket, feeling the weight of it, like a secret that had been waiting years.

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

Option A:

Afterwards, the world felt washed out and thin. The storm had gone, the street held its breath. Clouds hung like heavy blankets, but they were lighter now, a grey lid slowly lifting. Puddles filled the road, holding small pieces of sky and the silouette of wires.

Across the road, an uprooted tree lay on its side like a giant had tugged it loose; roots spread up, wet and raw, like fingers. The house behind it looked surprised, a window missing, blind curtains flapping. Roof tiles were scattered in the garden like playing cards, and a fence leaned, tired, nearly given up.

The air smelt of damp earth and cut wood; there was salt too, a sharp taste at the back of the throat. No sirens now; only the drip-drip from a broken gutter, and the quiet creak of a sign. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, a swing moved even though no one pushed it.

Then people began to come out. Neighbours whispered, they pointed, someone swept glass although it felt pointless. A dog shook itself and water flew in bright dots. Finally, sunlight pressed through a gap in the clouds – thin but clear. It felt, in a small way, like the first breath after being held under.

Option B:

After the street fair, the village hall looked tired and sticky. Sunlight slid through dusty windows; wrappers skittered across the wooden floor like silver fish. The air smelt of lemonade and damp cardboard. Me and Jay swept with big brooms while Mum folded chairs that squeaked. We lifted, we sorted, we swept. Glitter still clung to the stage steps, stubborn and bright.

At first I just wanted to be finished. Then my broom clicked on something solid under the last row of benches—a thin, metal box, rusted at the edges and tied with a frayed ribbon. I knelt down and tugged. It was cold; it didn’t belong. On the lid there was an engraving: M. F. 1978. It's corners were dented. Jay fetched the tool box and after a bit of wobbling the tiny padlock snapped.

Inside was a smell like old books and rain, and three things: a brittle envelope, a small brass key, and a black-and-white photograph of the same hall, bright and new. At the edge stood a girl with the same wary eyes as my nan. My heart thumped; the broom slipped. Why was this hidden here, during a simple clean-up? And why did it feel like it was waiting for me.

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

Option A:

The storm has gone and the street is very quiet. Puddles shine on the road. The big tree is on its side like a tired dog, roots in mud. The house looks hurt, tiles on the grass like broken plates. The air smells wet, like leaves. There is a drip, drip, drip from the gutter. The sky is pale grey.

No cars. No voices. A bird tries a song then stops. A window is cracked, the curtain sticks to the glass. The fence leans, the gate is open but it dont move now.

I step careful through the yard, my shoes sink in the soft ground. I pick up a branch, it is soggy and dark and it leaves brown marks on my hands. Leaves and little peices of paper are everywhere, back and forth, back and forth. It is over but the quiet is heavy.

Option B:

It was Saturday and the hall was full of bags and bins. We was here to clean up after the flood. The air smelt like wet socks. I picked up cans and paper. My gloves squeeked.

Under the stage I seen something. A wooden box, pushed back in the dark like it was hiding. The lid had a flower and a tiny lock, but the lock was broke. I dragged it out. It left a line in the dust.

I opened it.

Slow. I thought it would be empty.

Inside was a bundle in a old tea towel. It felt heavy and cold. My heart went loud, like drums. I unrolled it and saw a ring and a photo and a letter with my last name. On the envelope it said open when the storm comes. The room felt different.

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

Option A:

After the storm the street is quiet. The big tree is on its side, roots up like hands. The house wall is cracked and the window is gone, glass is in the grass. Water drip drip from the roof. The air smell like wet dirt, like old wood, it is cold and a bit sharp. A bird sits on a wire and it don't sing, it just looks. No cars, only a far siren. I hear my breath and it feels loud. A man come out slow with a broom, he looks small. I think about sleep and dinner, I want to go home now.

Option B:

We was cleaning up after the fair. The hall smelt of squash and old chips and wet mops. I pushed a broom, it scraped the floor. My friend kept saying hurry up, the bus would go soon. Outside the sky was grey and a lonely dog barked somewhere, it sounded sad. I kicked a pile of cups and a small tin rolled out from under the stage, it was dusty and cold. I picked it up and my hand was shaking. It had a rusty lock but it just fell off. Inside there was a photo of me, but I never seen it before. I just stared.