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.
- Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
- Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
- Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
- Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
- 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).
| Assessment Objective | Section A | Section B |
|---|---|---|
| AO1 | ✓ | |
| AO2 | ✓ | |
| AO3 | N/A | |
| AO4 | ✓ | |
| AO5 | ✓ | |
| AO6 | ✓ |
Answers
Question 1 - Mark Scheme
Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]
Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).
- 1.1 What did Gordon turn back to?: the book-shelves – 1 mark
- 1.2 Where were the new and nearly-new books kept?: in the shelves to your left – 1 mark
- 1.3 What was meant to catch the eye of anyone glancing through the glass door?: a patch of bright colour – 1 mark
- 1.4 What did the sleek unspotted backs seem to do?: yearn at you from the shelves – 1 mark
Question 2 - Mark Scheme
Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:
1 Gordon turned away from the door and back to the book-shelves. In the shelves to your left as you came out of the library the new and nearly-new books were kept--a patch of bright colour that was meant to catch the eye of anyone glancing through the glass door. Their sleek unspotted backs seemed to yearn at you from the shelves. 'Buy me, buy me!' they seemed to be saying. Novels
6 fresh from the press--still unravished brides, pining for the paperknife to deflower them--and review copies, like youthful widows, blooming still though virgin no longer, and here and there, in sets of half a dozen, those pathetic spinster-things, 'remainders', still guarding hopefully their long preserv'd virginity. Gordon turned his eyes away from the 'remainders'. They called up
11 evil memories. The single wretched little book that he himself had published, two years ago, had sold exactly a hundred and fifty-three copies and then been 'remaindered'; and even as a 'remainder' it hadn't sold. He passed the new books by and paused in front of the shelves which ran at right angles to them and which contained more second-hand books.
How does the writer use language here to present the new books and Gordon’s feelings about them? You could include the writer’s choice of:
- words and phrases
- language features and techniques
- sentence forms.
[8 marks]
Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)
Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Through personification and an extended, sexualised metaphor, the new books are made seductively desirable—a "patch of bright colour" with "sleek unspotted backs" that "yearn" and the imperative "Buy me, buy me!", likened to "unravished brides" awaiting the "paperknife to deflower them" and "youthful widows"—exposing the commodified allure of print. In sharp contrast, Gordon’s shame is conveyed through distancing action and bleak, evaluative lexis as he "turned his eyes away" from the "remainders" that "called up evil memories", recalling his "wretched little book" being "remaindered", so the tonal shift from lush figurative seduction to harsh negativity dramatizes his disillusionment.
The writer constructs the new books as seductively alive through an extended sexualised conceit. Described as 'unravished brides... pining for the paperknife to deflower them', the metaphor fuses bibliographic detail with erotic lexis, giving their pristine 'backs' connotations of purity and invitation. Likewise, 'review copies, like youthful widows, blooming still though virgin no longer' balances freshness with fallen status, while 'those pathetic spinster-things, "remainders", still guarding hopefully their long preserv’d virginity' layers pejorative epithet and archaic contraction to make them seem outdated and pitiable. This marital semantic field commodifies newness and tinges it with melancholy.
Furthermore, personification animates the display as insistent: their 'sleek unspotted backs seemed to yearn at you'. The direct speech 'Buy me, buy me!' is an exclamative in the imperative mood, and the second-person deictic ('to your left... as you came out') positions the reader inside the tempting corridor of colour. Sibilance in 'sleek unspotted' supplies a smooth, whispering texture, reinforcing the advertisement-like 'patch of bright colour... meant to catch the eye.'
However, Gordon’s feelings are resistant and bruised. He 'turned his eyes away', a gesture of aversion, as 'remainders' 'called up evil memories'. The diminutive tricolon 'the single wretched little book' magnifies self-disgust, while the forensic precision of 'exactly a hundred and fifty-three' quantifies failure. The bald negation 'it hadn’t sold' and repetition of 'remaindered' hammer home futility. Additionally, dash-inserted asides mirror intrusive thoughts, yet he 'passed the new books by' to 'pause' at second-hand shelves, aligning himself with the used, not the glossy.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses personification and exclamatory repetition to make the books seem enticing—“sleek unspotted backs” that “yearn” and cry “Buy me, buy me!”—and an extended metaphor of “unravished brides” and “youthful widows” to show desirability, while “pathetic spinster-things” and Gordon’s “evil memories” of being “'remaindered'” reveal his shame and avoidance.
The writer uses personification to present the new books as seductive. The ‘patch of bright colour’ is ‘meant to catch the eye’, and their ‘sleek unspotted backs’ ‘yearn at you’, as if they have desire. The direct speech, ‘Buy me, buy me!’, is an exclamative and imperative that makes the books seem clamorous and persuasive, creating pressure on the reader and showing why Gordon is uneasy and ‘passed the new books by’.
Moreover, an extended sexual metaphor portrays different kinds of books. New novels are ‘unravished brides… pining for the paperknife to deflower them’, while review copies are ‘like youthful widows’, and unsold titles are ‘pathetic spinster-things’, the ‘remainders’. The simile ‘like youthful widows’ and adjectives such as ‘pathetic’ invite both allure and pity. This humanising language makes the display feel vivid but also cruel, linking to Gordon’s shame when ‘evil memories’ of his own ‘wretched little book’ being ‘remaindered’ surface.
Additionally, the writer’s sentence structure, with dashes, piles up images in a long list, mimicking the crowded shelves. The sibilance in ‘sleek… shelves’ reinforces smoothness and perfection. In contrast, verbs like ‘turned his eyes away’ and ‘passed’ convey Gordon’s avoidance, highlighting his conflicted feelings about the new books.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses personification and imagery to make the new books seem tempting, with ‘sleek unspotted backs’ that ‘yearn at you’ and the exclamation ‘Buy me, buy me!’, plus metaphors/similes like ‘unravished brides’ and ‘like youthful widows’ to show freshness. In contrast, negative words like ‘pathetic’ ‘remainders’ and ‘evil memories’ create a sad, failed mood that explains Gordon’s dislike, and the long listing sentence builds this contrast.
The writer uses personification to present the new books as tempting. Their “sleek unspotted backs” “yearn,” and the phrase “Buy me, buy me!” uses repetition and an exclamation to make them seem alive and persuasive. The “patch of bright colour” also shows they are meant to catch the eye.
Furthermore, an extended metaphor compares books to women: “unravished brides” and “youthful widows.” The verb “pining” and the phrase “to deflower” are examples of sexual imagery that suggest freshness and desire. Calling remainders “pathetic spinster-things” makes the unwanted books seem lonely.
Additionally, Gordon’s feelings are negative. Emotive language like “evil memories” and his “wretched little book” shows shame. The repeated word “remaindered” reminds us of his failure. He “turned his eyes away” and “passed the new books by,” which suggests he avoids them because they hurt his pride.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer personifies the books with 'Buy me, buy me!' and uses a simile 'like youthful widows' to make them seem lively and tempting. Negative words like 'evil memories' and 'wretched little book' show Gordon feels upset and wants to avoid them.
The writer uses personification to present the new books. “Sleek unspotted backs seemed to yearn” and “Buy me, buy me!” makes them sound alive and tempting. Moreover, the simile “like youthful widows” and the metaphor “unravished brides” compare books to people, helping the reader picture them as fresh and desirable. Furthermore, the phrase “pathetic spinster-things” for the “remainders” sounds negative, so Gordon turns his eyes away. Additionally, emotive words like “wretched” and “evil memories” and the exclamation show Gordon’s unhappy feelings about his own book.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:
- Personification and imperative: The books speak to the reader like salespeople, creating a coercive, tempting voice (Buy me, buy me!).
- Visual advertising imagery: The display is designed to attract quick attention, presenting newness as eye-catching allure (catch the eye).
- Sexualised extended metaphor: Comparing books to desirable or rejected women satirises market values and heightens the glamour of novelty (unravished brides).
- Ironic jargon in quotes: The trade term is distanced and belittled, exposing a pitiless system for unsold books ('remainders').
- Alliteration and surface sheen: The smooth, repeated sounds make the volumes seem seductively perfect yet superficial (sleek unspotted backs).
- Structural pivot via short sentence: A terse interruption signals a shift from display to hurt, foregrounding Gordon’s negative response (evil memories).
- Precision and diminutives: Exact figures and belittling diction convey humiliation and obsessive recall of failure (exactly a hundred and fifty-three).
- Verbs of avoidance: Repeated turning and refusing underline his discomfort and desire to distance himself from that display (turned his eyes away).
- Spatial contrast and movement: Layout and direction emphasise his rejection of the glossy section in favour of another area (right angles).
Question 3 - Mark Scheme
You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the start of a story.
How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of despair?
You could write about:
- how despair 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 spatial and tonal descent from the seductive display of new titles (Buy me, buy me!) and shelves graded, from clean and expensive at eye-level to cheap and dingy down to the classics quietly rotting, showing how the physical progression and cumulative catalogues mirror Gordon’s worsening self-perception. It would also analyse the structural shift from detached description to interior despair, culminating in the insistent anaphora (Money writes books, money sells them... Money, money, all is money!) to show how despair intensifies by the end.
One way in which the writer structures the opening to seed despair is through spatial organisation and an early shift in focus. The scene begins with Gordon “turn[ing] away from the door,” a symbolic closing-off of escape, and the narrative guides our gaze across shelves from “new and nearly-new” temptations to the stinging sight of “remainders.” This visual juxtaposition triggers an immediate analepsis—his own book “remaindered” after “exactly a hundred and fifty-three copies”—so that external display swiftly pivots into internal failure. The sustained internal focalisation ensures that every shelf becomes a mirror of Gordon’s inadequacy.
In addition, the mid-section adopts a graded hierarchy—“upwards and downwards they were graded”—to dramatise social and literary stratification. The extended metaphor of a “savage Darwinian struggle,” combined with cataloguing across left/right and top/bottom, slows the narrative pace and traps the reader in a static, oppressive taxonomy. Details like “rotting” classics below and “pudgy biographies of dukes” above encode exclusion, while the eye-level “contemporary stuff” crowds in. This accretive listing, punctuated by sardonic asides (“Religion always sells...”), accumulates cynicism and deepens the mood from mere irritation to corrosive disenchantment.
A further structural feature is the decisive pivot from external survey to interiority via free indirect discourse. “Dull-eyed” becomes “He hated,” then intensifies into anaphoric refrain—“Money writes books... Give me... money,” and finally “Money, money, all is money!” Exclamatives and a rhetorical question accelerate the crescendo, while temporal markers (“nearly thirty,” “ever since,” “two whole years”) compress diegetic time to emphasise stagnation. The closing cumulative list (“Invention, energy, wit...”) ending in “hard cash” functions as a bleak clincher. Thus, the structural trajectory—outward abundance to inward bankruptcy—ensures despair not only persists but intensifies by the end.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain how the writer structures a journey from the enticing "new and nearly-new" shelves and "Buy me, buy me!" through a "graded" hierarchy where books "gravitate to eye-level" while others sink to "Gehenna" and are "quietly rotting", using spatial ordering and catalogues to mirror Gordon’s growing hopelessness. It would also note the shift from external description to inward focus, signalled by "Dull-eyed", "his own sterility", culminating in the emphatic repetition "Money, money, all is money!" to show despair intensifies by the end.
One way the writer structures the opening to create despair is through a clear shift of focus from glossy surfaces to private failure. We follow Gordon’s gaze past the “patch of bright colour” and books that “yearn”, then the narrative pivots to “evil memories” and “his own book... remaindered”. This contrast and change in viewpoint turn the setting into a reflection of inadequacy, establishing a bleak mood.
In addition, spatial ordering and accumulation build hopelessness. The shelves are “graded” from eye-level to “cheap and dingy” bottoms and “almost out of sight” tops, while long catalogues of titles slow the pace. Phrases like “savage Darwinian struggle” and “rotting” extend the metaphor of decline. Even the second-person aside, “you could hardly read”, widens the decay, making despair feel systemic rather than personal.
A further structural feature is the shift from external description into interior monologue that culminates in a climax. After the concrete beat, “He jingled the coins”, temporal references—“two years ago”, “for two whole years”, “nearly thirty”—compress a wasted span. Anaphora and exclamatives—“Money writes books... give me money”, “Money, money, all is money!”—quickens the pace towards a final assertion, intensifying despair by the end.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Typically identifies that the writer begins with appealing new books ('bright colour', 'Buy me, buy me!') then moves through the shelves towards decay ('rotting'), mirroring a downward mood. Finally, the focus shifts into Gordon’s feelings ('Dull-eyed') and ends with the repetition 'Money, money, all is money!', so the structural shift and repetition make the despair stronger by the end.
One way in which the writer has structured the text to create despair is the beginning contrast between the bright 'new and nearly-new' books and the 'remainders'. This shift in focus quickly links to Gordon's failure: his book was 'remaindered', so the tone turns negative straight away.
In addition, in the middle the viewpoint sweeps across the shop, graded from eye-level to top and bottom. Words like 'quietly rotting' and 'almost out of sight' suggest decline. The long lists of titles slow the pace and feel overwhelming, before the focus returns to 'Dull-eyed, he gazed', showing his mood sinking.
A further structural feature at the end is the move from description to inner thoughts. After touching 'Some Aspects...', Gordon's inner voice repeats 'money'. The final short line, 'Money, money, all is money!', plus the coins that 'jingled', gives a blunt, final ending where despair is at its worst.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the tempting shelves say 'Buy me, buy me!', but it shifts into Gordon’s thoughts and ends with the repeated 'Money, money, all is money!', so the despair builds by the end. The list also goes 'Down in the bottom shelves' where books are 'quietly rotting', giving a downward feel that adds to the bleak mood.
One way the writer structures despair is by starting with bright new books, then moving to old 'remainders' and 'rotting' classics. This change in focus and contrast makes things feel worse.
In addition, the focus shifts from describing shelves to Gordon’s feelings. After lists, we zoom into 'Dull-eyed' and 'he couldn't even write'. This simple shift of perspective builds his despair. It makes the reader see his failure.
A further structural feature is the ending. The repetition of 'money, money' and final facts about age and failure create a climax, so the despair is strongest at the end.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:
- Opening focus on glossy “new and nearly-new” shelves sets up seductive surface allure that immediately contrasts with Gordon’s emptiness, seeding early frustration (Buy me, buy me!)
- Swift pivot from the display to the “remainders” links the setting to his past failure, turning description into self-wounding recollection (evil memories)
- Spatial grading across and up/down the shelves constructs a hierarchy that mirrors status and exclusion, making him feel minor and unseen (cheap and dingy)
- The book-shop cast as a ruthless system intensifies fatalism, suggesting success is predetermined and merciless (savage Darwinian struggle)
- Downward gaze to decaying “classics” injects rot and futility, projecting his fear of irrelevance onto the shelves (quietly rotting)
- Juxtaposing near-invisible top-shelf lives with mid-shelf piety exposes tawdry market priorities, souring any faith in merit (Religion always sells)
- Accumulative listing of contemporary names builds clutter and pressure, then collapses into numb detachment, marking a tonal drop (Dull-eyed, he gazed)
- Perspective shifts from generalised “you” to personal self-attack, tightening focus and deepening the emotional trough (supposedly a 'writer')
- Compulsive gesture and envy at a “snooty-looking” book spike the despair before the final fixation, showing self-torment escalating (mingled loathing and envy)
- Closing anaphora on a single cause traps the narrative in an obsessive loop, finishing on inescapable hopelessness (Money, money, all is money!)
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, Gordon's focus on money makes him sound very bitter. The writer suggests this is just an excuse for his own failure to write successfully.
To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?
In your response, you could:
- consider your impressions of how the hyena behaves
- comment on the methods the writer uses to present the hyena
- 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 that Gordon’s obsessive fixation on money, heard in the anaphoric refrains “Money writes books, money sells them” and “Money, money, all is money!”, alongside emotions of “mingled loathing and envy,” constructs a bitter, envious persona. It would then evaluate the writer’s viewpoint as ironizing this into self-excuse, highlighting the parodic prayer “Give me not righteousness, O Lord, give me money, only money.”, the faith metaphor “clung to that as to an article of faith”, and the candid admission “he had accomplished nothing.”
I largely agree that Gordon’s fixation on money makes him sound bitter, and the writer carefully suggests that this obsession becomes a convenient alibi for his own failure. From the outset, the bookshop is framed through an extended metaphor of market forces: a “savage Darwinian struggle” and a descent “down to Gehenna or up to the throne” structure the shelves by price and profitability, from “clean and expensive at eye-level” to “cheap and dingy” at the margins. This evaluative framing, with its biblical allusion and ironic hyperbole, satirises a culture where “religion always sells provided it is soppy enough,” implying that commerce distorts taste. The effect is twofold: the system seems corrupt, which nourishes Gordon’s resentment, yet the tone is wry rather than indignant, hinting that his rage will overshoot its mark.
The narration then narrows into Gordon’s consciousness. “Dull-eyed,” he regards the “wall of books” and “hated the whole lot of them,” a sweeping, indiscriminate judgment whose antithetical list—“old and new, highbrow and lowbrow, snooty and chirpy”—signals corrosive bitterness. Crucially, the pejorative lexis is undercut by the admission of “his own sterility”: in the free indirect discourse of “supposedly a ‘writer’” who “couldn’t even ‘write’,” the scare quotes convey self-mockery and self-doubt. Even the “tripe” on the shelves “at any rate… existed,” while he has “produced nothing.” This structural pivot—from attacking the marketplace to confronting personal lack—casts his grievance in a harsher light.
When he targets the “snooty ‘cultured’” set—“those moneyed young beasts”—the animalising epithet and class antagonism intensify his rancour. Yet phrases like “which Gordon himself might have written if he had had a little more money” expose a self-exculpatory conditional. The simile of waggling a “loose tooth” captures his compulsive return to envy—“mingled loathing and envy”—suggesting he nurses the pain. Anaphora (“money for the right kind of education, money for… money for…”) and the parody of prayer—“Give me not righteousness, O Lord, give me money”—create a mantra that sounds both bitter and hollow. The tactile motif—“He jingled the coins in his pocket”—verges on fetish, while the exclamative “Money, money, all is money!” crystallises his fixation. Most tellingly, the writer punctures his creed with quiet irony: “as he knew in his moments of clarity” the “dreadful book… never would get any further,” and he “clung” to the money thesis “as to an article of faith.” That religious metaphor reveals dogma, not diagnosis.
Overall, the writer acknowledges a marketplace that privileges the saleable, partly legitimising Gordon’s complaint, but the cumulative methods—irony, free indirect discourse, and loaded lexis—present his focus on money as a bitter, self-protective excuse for creative failure.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that Gordon’s bitterness is shown by the obsessive repetition and exclamatives in “Money, money, all is money!” and the sweeping claim “Money writes books, money sells them,” while also recognising the writer undercuts this as an excuse through “He clung to that as to an article of faith” and the admission he had “accomplished nothing.”
I largely agree that Gordon’s fixation on money makes him sound bitter, and the writer strongly hints that this becomes an excuse for his own lack of success. The opening description of the shelves uses an extended metaphor of a “savage Darwinian struggle” and religious imagery (“down to Gehenna or up to the throne”) to frame the literary world as a brutal hierarchy. Faced with this, Gordon’s response is indiscriminately resentful: he “hated the whole lot of them, old and new, highbrow and lowbrow, snooty and chirpy.” The balanced pairs and list create a sweeping, embittered dismissal. Pejorative images like “extinct monsters” and “pudgy biographies of dukes” mock both past and present, while “dull-eyed” suggests a weary, jaundiced gaze. Crucially, the admission that the sight “brought home to him his own sterility” hints that the root problem lies within.
As Gordon turns to money, the language grows more bitter and reductive. He labels rivals “moneyed young beasts,” an animal metaphor that dehumanises them and betrays envy. Exclamatives and repetition (“Money and culture!”; “money for… money for…”) form an anaphoric list that hammers his obsession. The rhetorical question “what is there behind it, except money?” oversimplifies success as pure cash. When he snatches up “Some Aspects of the Italian Baroque,” he shoves it back with “mingled loathing and envy,” and his parodic prayer—“Give me not righteousness… give me money”—turns cynicism into creed. Hyperbolic aphorisms like “Money writes books, money sells them” reinforce the bitterness.
However, the writer undercuts Gordon’s claim through free indirect discourse and irony. Scare quotes in “supposedly a ‘writer’” and “he couldn’t even ‘write’!” undermine his self-image. He knows his “dreadful book… never would get any further,” yet “clung to that as to an article of faith,” suggesting a convenient dogma. Even the rhetorical “Could you write even a penny novelette…?” sounds like self-justification.
Overall, I agree to a great extent: Gordon’s money-talk reads as embittered, and the writer’s methods imply it is a defensive excuse for his creative failure.
Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, saying Gordon sounds bitter, shown by hated the whole lot of them and mingled loathing and envy. It would also say he uses money as an excuse for his failure, citing Money, money, all is money! and that he clung to that as to an article of faith.
I mostly agree with the statement. Gordon’s talk about money makes him sound resentful, and the writer hints he uses it to excuse not writing.
First the description of the shop is hostile. The metaphor “savage Darwinian struggle” makes the book world seem brutal, and he “hated the whole lot,” which shows a bitter, sweeping judgment. The adjectives “snooty” and “moneyed young beasts” target successful writers, so his anger feels personal rather than fair.
As the passage moves on, his focus narrows to money. The listing of “money for the right kind of education… for influential friends… for trips to Italy” builds his case, but the repetition “Money writes books… Money, money, all is money!” creates a ranting tone. The writer shows him “jingl[ing] the coins in his pocket,” a small action showing anxiety and envy. “He clung to that as to an article of faith” implies money is a belief he hides behind.
Other details undermine him. The simile “like a child waggling a loose tooth” makes his behaviour seem childish. He admits his “sterility” and a “dreadful book that never… would get any further,” which points to his own lack of progress, not just poverty. Although these barriers show money matters, the sneering phrase “noxious, horn-spectacled refinement” makes him sound bitter more than honest.
Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents Gordon’s obsession with money as embittered, and mostly as an excuse for his failure to write.
Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Simply agrees that Gordon sounds bitter and blames money, picking out phrases like 'Money, money, all is money!'. It notes he says 'it was the lack of money' that 'robbed him of the power to 'write'', so he uses money as an excuse for his failure.
I mostly agree with the statement. Gordon sounds very bitter about other writers and the book world, and he blames money for his lack of success.
At the start of the section he looks at the shelves and “hated the whole lot of them.” The adjectives like “snooty,” “noxious” and the phrase “moneyed young beasts” show an angry tone. The metaphor of a “savage Darwinian struggle” in the bookshop also makes him sound harsh and resentful about who gets noticed.
Later the writer suggests this bitterness is an excuse. Gordon says “Money writes books, money sells them,” and the repetition of “money, money, all is money!” makes him sound obsessed. The religious language “Give me not righteousness, O Lord, give me money” is exaggerated and suggests he is trying to justify himself. He even “jingled the coins in his pocket,” showing his focus on cash rather than writing. The simile “he clung to that as to an article of faith” shows he holds onto this idea to explain why his “miserable book of poems” failed.
Overall, I agree that his focus on money sounds bitter and feels like an excuse for not writing successfully.
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:
- Sweeping, pejorative lexis conveys indiscriminate contempt for the entire literary world, signalling deep bitterness (He hated the whole lot).
- Hyperbolic caricature of the cultured elite amplifies sneering envy as much as critique, intensifying the bitter tone (noxious, horn-spectacled refinement!).
- Anaphora and exclamation reduce causes to a single mantra, turning money into a scapegoat and sounding self-justifying (Money, money, all is money!).
- Religious diction frames his belief as dogma; clinging suggests irrational excuse-making rather than reasoned analysis (an article of faith).
- Candid admission foregrounds personal failure, undercutting the money-blame and supporting the idea of an excuse (accomplished nothing).
- Brief self-awareness shows he knows the work is doomed, pointing to craft/discipline issues beyond finance (moments of clarity).
- Compulsive simile of self-torment shows he seeks out material to inflame resentment, reinforcing a self-sabotaging mindset (waggle a loose tooth).
- Concrete gesture fixates on small change; the tactile image symbolises a narrow preoccupation that feeds bitterness (He jingled the coins).
- Social pipeline detail hints privilege helps, lending limited credibility to his grievance while still sounding resentful (from Eton to Cambridge).
- Aphoristic reductionism flattens creativity into cash, suggesting a convenient alibi more than a nuanced truth (Money writes books).
Question 5 - Mark Scheme
At next week’s careers fair, your college careers office will display short creative pieces about working life.
Choose one of the options below for your entry.
- Option A: Describe a cobbler's shop from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:
- Option B: Write the opening of a story about returning to a former workplace after many years.
(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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.
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Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.
Model Answers
The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.
- Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)
Option A:
The shop holds its breath. Even the bell above the door, a fretful thing, has fallen silent; only the patient tick of a clock beats time into the warm, wax-scented air. Light slants through a high, begrimed window, laying ladders across motes that drift, drift, drift. On the scarred bench, a scatter of leather offcuts curls like autumn leaves; the grain—russet, umber, night-black—gleams where oil has soothed it smooth. The floor is powdered with fine dust, soft as flour underfoot.
Hung from wooden pegs, the tools form the quiet geometry of devotion: awls with slender steel noses; rasps bred for bite; bone burnishers polished by years of thumbs. Small glass jars glint, brimful with brass tacks and orphaned eyelets. Spools of waxed linen thread—amber, tar, the pale of old paper—stand like obedient soldiers beside a cobbler’s hammer and a pair of lasts that resemble twins asleep. Meanwhile, the lamp above the bench draws a patient circle of light, as if consecrating the work.
Along the shelves, pairs wait with the stillness of animals at dusk. Boots that have chewed through rain-dark miles lean inward, conspiratorial; glossy office shoes show timid blushes where pavement has kissed them; a child’s red sandal, one buckle missing, sulks in its own small shadow. The mouths of split soles gape; tongues of leather loll; laces coil like drowsy snakes. Each scuff is a story, each heel a confession, each welt a border where journeys have stopped and started again.
He sits in the pool of light with his back slightly bent, as if listening to the leather breathe. His hands—square, scarred, decisively gentle—draw the waxed thread through the bristle, warm it against his palm, then send the awl cleanly in. Tap, pull; tap, pull; the rhythm steadies like a heartbeat, and the shop keeps time with him. Adhesive sharpens the air—turpentine and a whisper of vinegar—yet beeswax softens it, smoothing the roughness of scent. The welt closes under his attention; the split remembers how to be whole. He smiles, almost, when the seam lies down and behaves.
Concurrently, beyond the glass, traffic frets, umbrellas tilt, the city hurries itself thin; here, time thickens and slows. Who knew a life could be read from a heel, a street from a scratch, a season from the grain that has darkened and brightened? He buffs until the polish blooms; a quiet crescent of light travels the toe. Still, the bench remains pitted; dust settles back; another pair waits with their patient, parted mouths. When they leave, someone will forget the labour stitched into their step, but the shop will remember; it holds the day in its hush and keeps it, carefully, like a secret.
Option B:
Monday. The revolving door moved more slowly than I remembered; a tired carousel missing its brightest horse. I pressed my palm to its cool arc and the glass gave a reluctant shiver, as if the building had recognised me and was considering whether to let me in. My old ID badge, long exiled to a drawer, sat heavy and incredulous in my pocket; it had yellowed at the edges, become brittle at the hole where the lanyard once tugged. So had I.
Inside, the air was curated: lemon polish, stale coffee, the faint bite of toner—the old trinity. The reception desk had stopped being a desk; a white slab with a tablet perched like an obedient bird. Where Mrs Kavanagh once stamped visitor passes, a young man with a gravity-defying fringe smiled. ‘Welcome to Helix,’ he said. We were Hendon Systems once; progress loves a rebrand.
I hovered (ridiculous, really) and slid the badge across the scanner. It beeped its small benediction. Fourth floor, still. The lift swallowed me—polite, chrome—and coughed me out. It smelled of photocopier ozone.
Up here, the hallway had been domesticated into a brochure: exposed brick that had never been exposed, framed aphorisms, a moss wall requiring a rota to look wild. Yet under the gloss, old bones asserted themselves. The new carpet could not quite swallow my steps.
Memory arrived in eddies: Harriet’s laugh, sharp as a wineglass; a smear where a chair used to catch; blu-tack constellations mapping outlived meetings. Updated—hot desks, benches, succulents—yet the past kept surfacing, palimpsest-thin.
I paused outside our old Aquarium. Now a decal announced The Grove in soothing green, though the only trees were printed. Through the pane, strangers peered at screens with my old, intent frown. One occupied the space my chair had grooved smooth; a fern leaned conspiratorially against the anglepoise.
I had left on a Wednesday: a box, an email, the choreography of avoiding eyes; a winter coat that felt too big. Years should have sanded it; time lacquered it instead—glossier, slicker, brighter. Underneath, sediment I recognised and could not name.
At the end of the row, a faint rectangle showed where my nameplate had been peeled away; adhesive bruised the surface. I touched it; the plastic was warm, as if waiting. For a second my reflection—older, paler, more deliberate—superimposed itself, and I was two people at once: the one who stayed and the one who left.
‘Can I help you?’ A voice behind me, careful, considerate. I turned. The past stood there with a different haircut and a new lanyard, but the same eyes. Somewhere, deep in the building’s air, the photocopier exhaled, and the day began again.
- Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)
Option A:
Light falls into the cobbler's shop in slanting sheets, catching the slow choreography of dust. The air is redolent of tannin and glue; beeswax blooms sweetly under a sharper, rubbery tang. On the counter, invoices lie obedient, edges curled; a brass bell, thumb-dulled, waits. Everything seems patient here, as if the room has learned to breathe in time with stitches.
The bench is a geography of work: scored oak, burnished by restless hands, crowded with small kingdoms of tools. Awls with bone handles stand like herons; bradawls, knives and pliers are arranged with care, their steel mouths catching light. Spools of waxed thread—umber, soot, cinnabar—perch in neat rows; when the needle draws them through leather they whisper. Under the bench, curls of chocolate-brown shavings have gathered; even the sweepings look deliberate.
Waiting on the shelves are the stories. A pair of city brogues, toe-caps graffitied by rain, lean towards a farmer’s boot with clay in its treads. A white satin heel, scuffed as if by an impatient floor, hides in a paper bag; a child’s red shoe sits solitary, its strap buckled on the last hole. Their tongues gape, their seams sigh. Nails glint like constellations on a foreman’s sole, promising a firmer sky.
In the midst of this order, rhythm: tap—tap—pause—tap. The mallet meets the last with a tempered certainty; glue spreads in a thin, gleaming skin; a needle bites, then slides, over and under, over and under. The radio murmurs an old song you nearly know; the clock adds its conservative tick. Outside, traffic hurries and rain insists; inside, time elongates, stretched on thread like a bead.
His hands are the colour of walnut oil, scarred and exacting. A thumb smooths an edge; the edge complies. Under the magnifying lamp, stitches gather into a quiet seam, regular as a heartbeat. He turns the shoe and considers, head tilted, measuring not just the leather but the life that will walk it. Who notices the labour of such neatness until it fails? Perhaps that is the point—repair should be invisible, like kindness.
On a hook by the door hangs an umbrella with a split spoke; beside it, a tin of polish winks its black eye. The place is small, almost cramped, but capacious with intention. Work begins, pauses, resumes; days layer like soles. And when the bell finally rings—brisk, polite—the shop rouses, releasing one more pair to the weather, the pavements, the unglamorous glory of going on.
Option B:
Monday. The building hunched into the rain like an animal that had learned patience; glass dulled by traffic film, a revolving door turning at its same polite speed. Once, this was my centre—the hum of printers, the blue buzz of strip lights, the lemon-sweet conference room. Time, I thought, settles on places like dust: wipe the surface and the grain holds what it has absorbed.
I pressed my old pass against the reader and nothing happened. Of course. A new system, a new font on the sign-in sheet, a security guard with that professional calm I used to copy. ‘Visitor?’ he said. The word lodged—visitor in a place where I had once known every corridor by feel. I wrote my name as if I were trying to persuade the building to recognise it.
The lobby smelled exactly as it had: coffee made too early and rain on coats. Not fear, exactly—more the weight of the years I had put between then and now—pressed against my ribs. I had told myself this would be simple—go in, sign the papers, leave—but the elevator sighed open with the same tired breath and I was nineteen and thirty and everything between, stacked like files in a cabinet that jammed.
On the fourth floor, the carpet still bubbled near the copy room. The corridor light no longer flickered; the scuff marks by Finance had been painted over, unsuccessfully, the stains seeping through like old stories—a palimpsest of scuffs. The wall that once held our timetable now showed charity runs and bake-offs, a dog in a Santa hat. New faces. A few familiar shapes—Dan, greyer; Mira, mid-laugh. Edited, not erased.
I walked past my old desk without stopping. It belonged to someone younger now, all pastel pens and a labelled succulent explaining how much light it required. The chair no longer creaked. My mug (the one with the chipped rim and a fading mountain) was gone; the Post-it jokes were gone; even the dent in the carpet had softened into forgetfulness. What did I expect—that time would have kept a chair for me? I felt... what? Not jealousy. Not exactly regret. A quiet recognition that places move on even when you haven’t been watching.
Outside the meeting room—the stubborn door that only closed if you lifted and pushed—I paused. My reflection in the glass surprised me: a weathered face and a tie I had put on twice. Beyond, the city fretted. I lifted, pushed. The hinge complained. ‘Come in,’ someone called, and my name rose.
- Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)
Option A:
Amber light pools on the cobbler’s bench, sliding across dull brass tins and sleepy jars of polish. The air is busy with smells: warm leather, sharp glue, the sweet sting of beeswax, all braided together. Dust tumbles in slow columns where the sun finds a gap; it turns like snow in an old globe. Underfoot the boards mutter. Somewhere a tiny bell, hung on a frayed string, gives a soft warning and then forgets itself. And from the bench comes the heartbeat of the place—tap, tap, tap—steady, not hurried.
Spread before the stool, the tools wait like a small orchestra: awls, bone-handled knives; a hammer with a peened head; spools of thick, waxed thread that shine as if they were wet. Wooden lasts crowd the shelves in quiet families, each with a number burned into its ankle. On the back rail, shoes doze, their tongues lolling, laces slack, scuffed noses pushed out like children at a window. Some carry chalk marks as neat as stitches; others hold stories in their creases—wet Mondays, long shifts, weddings.
The cobbler’s hands are the busiest thing, even when they pause. They are nicked and freckled, the nails scrubbed pale, the palms stained a mild, permanent brown. Thread bites through leather with a dry whisper—through and back, through and back—a motion that calms the room. He works with borrowed patience; the shoe becomes, almost imperceptibly, more itself. Every strike of the hammer flattens a nail, tucks a protest back into the sole. By the wall a small wheel hums and fades, hums and fades.
Outside, the street flows past; notices peel in the window. A calendar hangs crooked. The counter is ringed by coins of polish and crescents of leather scraps, patient confetti that never leaves. When the bell finally speaks a customer steps in, carrying the weather and a pair of shoes that have been talking at the heel. They stand and look, surprised by the smallness and the memory in the air. The cobbler nods, takes the shoes and weighs them in his hands. The bench receives them without fuss; the heartbeat returns: tap, tap, tap.
Option B:
The revolving doors breathed me in and, for a moment, the building seemed to recognise me; a faint shiver from the vents, the sheen of the floor, the ghost of burnt coffee—almost the same. Years iron edges away. The logo above reception was new, all chrome geometry. The old pot plant had become something spiky. I steadied my squeaking suitcase and crossed the lobby, pretending my palms weren’t damp.
Back then I was always racing—late for meetings, late for deadlines, late for the last train. My desk was a small country: paper dunes, a printer, a chipped mug. I remember the chair that complained and a post-it that said Make it count. When I left I didn’t so much leave as evaporate; a box, a handshake, a door closing with officious ease. Returning felt impossible for years, then suddenly necessary.
Name? the receptionist asked, eyes on a glowing screen. I gave it; she mispronounced it with polite confidence. A temporary pass slid from the machine (Guest, Visitor), warm and thin. The turnstile flashed green and beeped; relief rose in me. Was I a ghost returning to an old life, or just trying the lock on an old thought?
In the lift, my reflection floated between floors. The mirrors made me plural; three versions of me in the borrowed light. I looked fine—tidy, older around the eyes, the kind of older you only recognise in daylight. The doors opened on Level 5; my floor, once. The corridor was shorter than I remembered, it used to stretch like a runway, full of footsteps and the late-night hum that meant we were still trying.
Now the offices were open-plan, carefully neutral. Hot-desks replaced territories. My old corner had become a collaboration pod with soft grey fabric and a whiteboard blinking with new acronyms. Yet there, absurdly, sat a cactus on the windowsill, tall and obstinate. It might, or might not, be the descendant of mine; it had kept on living. I reached out, stopped, and let my hand fall. The place had moved on: maybe I could, too.
- Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)
Option A:
The shop is narrow; the window filmed with old polish and rain. Dust turns in a shaft of afternoon light as if thinking. The smell is familiar: warm leather, sharp glue, a whisper of oil. On the nearest shelf, tin boxes shine; tiny nails nest like dark fish.
His bench runs along the back wall, scarred and glossy with years. Burn marks spot the wood, and waxed threads cling like cobwebs. Shoes wait in a neat queue, pairs tied with string—patients with tags. Some are soft; others split at the heel. He lifts one in both hands; the leather seems to listen.
The cobbler works without rushing. The awl bites, the needle slides, and the waxed thread tightens like a violin string. Tap-tap, tap—tap. When the hammer lands, dust lifts and settles, a small heartbeat. His fingers are stained brown, knuckles mapped with scars; beeswax rises as he rubs an edge to a quiet shine.
Along the walls, wooden lasts hang by size, blunt toes pointing down. Last year’s calendars curl at the corners beside a faded photo. Jars keep order: tacks, buckles, screws, and cloudy solutions. The floor is sown with pale shavings and black dust; it crunches under a careful step.
A sign at the counter says, 'We mend while you wait'. Outside traffic hisses, but the thick door makes it faint; inside, time folds. He measures, trims, polishes. Back and forth, the brush breathes a dark shine. When he ties the last knot, he pats the shoe as if it were shy. It leaves taller than it came.
Option B:
Morning. The hour of coffee and cold air; pavements crowded with briefcases and the low hum of buses shaking the street awake. As the city flowed around me, I stood outside the glass face of Carrington House, watching my reflection hover in the doors like a ghost that wasn’t sure it belonged.
In my pocket, my fingers found my old lanyard—a cracked card that no longer opened anything; ten years is a long time here: carpets get replaced, names change, but the echoes stay.
I stepped through the revolving door. Air-conditioning brushed my cheeks like winter. The smell was the same: coffee, toner, lemon polish. The security desk had a new guard; the plant in the corner had the same dusty leaves. I gave my name. He printed a visitor sticker that clung to my coat like a label on fruit. The lift sighed me upward; numbers blinked a polite countdown. In my chest, a small hammer banged; I felt like an intern again—eager, unsure. Would anyone remember me? Or would I only remember meeting rooms with odd names?
On the sixth floor the doors opened with a careful chime. Light spread across rows of hot desks; monitors muttered; a printer coughed. Two new sofas sat where filing cabinets used to wheeze. By the kitchen, the team photo still hung, sun-faded; my younger face, stiff with pride, looked back. Someone had written 2015 in neat blue.
I walked the aisle—desk after desk, chair after chair—collecting details: a Boss mug, a plant leaning toward strip lights, a cardigan flopped like a tame animal. At my old spot the view hadn’t moved: grey roofs, a slice of river, clouds drifting like paperwork. I reached out, not sure for what.
A laugh lifted from the far pod—bright, immediate. I knew that laugh. Or I wanted to. My name crossed the room, hesitant, almost a question.
- Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)
Option A:
The cobbler's shop crouches like a narrow cave on the corner. The door sticks and sighs; a small bell trills, then settles. Light falls in dusty stripes across the counter, and powdery specks hang, turning and turning, like slow snow. The air smells of polish, warm glue, dry leather. Along the walls, shelves lean under pairs of shoes: boots, brogues, tiny patent flats. They wait like sleepy animals, their open mouths yawning where soles have peeled.
At the bench, the world is neat: jars of nails, spools of coarse thread, a scarred hammer. The wooden surface is tattooed with cuts and dark circles of dye. An awl rests like a silver thorn. Tap, tap, tap; the rhythm goes steady, patient, stubborn. A strip of leather is dragged backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, until the edge warms and shines. The smell rises sharper when the cloth rubs a toe-cap.
Outside, feet hurry by, but in here time slows like dust. A cracked clock ticks too loud. A yellow lamp pours over a tower of cardboard boxes; each box heavy with somebody's story: a wedding heel, a football boot, a workman’s shoe with leather like bark. Posters fade to the colour of old tea, promising repairs while you wait. The cobbler hums under his breath. He lifts a shoe to the light and turns it; the stitch line shines, neat enough. He presses the sole to the last and it fits. Not perfect, perhaps, but strong. The bell rings, the tapping starts again, again.
Option B:
The glass doors breathed my reflection back at me. Years had passed since I last clocked in here; a decade maybe, though the calendar in my head refused to do the maths. Rain stitched silver lines across the pavement. I wiped my palms on my coat, as if nervousness was dust I could brush away.
Inside, the lobby was smaller than I remembered; or maybe I had grown. Lemon polish mixed with the sour tang of coffee and photocopier heat. The security guard wore the same uniform, the same careful smile. “Visitor?” he asked, and I nodded. My old pass slept in a drawer at home, cracked and useless. The sticker they gave me curled at the edges, like paper trying to escape.
The lift took its time—always did. Numbers pinged up: 1, 2, 3. When the doors opened, the corridor breathed out colder air, thin and metallic. Old posters drooped; a Safety First sign hung crooked. There was old coffee stains trapped between the tiles, a map of mornings and mistakes. I walked past the canteen and the glass meeting room.
My desk had a new chair, a new name on the strip, but the dent where my elbow lived was still there. Beyond the window, the city had grown shinier, louder; inside, the same hum threaded the air. I used to tap there. I used to watch the window. Now I counted my breaths, not sure if I was a guest or a ghost.
- Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)
Option A:
The door sticks when I push it, and the bell gives a tired ring; inside the air is warm and thick with polish, glue and dust. A narrow window sends a line of light that turns the dust to tiny stars. Shelves on the left are crowded with tins: black, brown, oxblood. Brushes with bristles worn to stubs sleep in a jar.
The bench is the heart of the shop, and it shows it's age. Needles sit in a cloth roll; a hammer waits with a nicked head. An awl and wax line up like soldiers. Threads, waxed and stubborn, loop across the table like small roads. Shoes are everywhere: polished pairs, muddy boots, little school shoes with scuffed toes. Each one looks tired but hopeful.
At the back, a lamp hums and the cobbler bends over a sole. Tap, tap, tap, the sound is patient and careful, it goes on and on. His hands are brown with polish and work, the nails short. He doesn’t rush; he listens to the leather. Outside is fast, but in here time moves slower. As I leave the bell rings again and the smell follows me out, still warm; like I am carrying a pocket of the shop.
Option B:
After ten years, I stopped outside the glass doors and saw my face looking back, older and thinner. The sign above the entrance was faded, the silver letters a bit dull. Its like stepping into a photograph that someone has scratched. The revolving door pushed back against me, stubborn, like it remembered me but wasn’t sure.
Inside, the air smelled of coffee and printer ink. The desk used to be wood; now it was smooth plastic. The security guard who knew all our names was gone. “Visitor pass?” the receptionist asked, bright and new. I nodded. My old lanyard was still in my pocket, cracked blue, I tried it anyway, it bleeped red. Of course it didn’t work. She printed a sticker with my name—I pressed it onto my coat.
Same stairs, same lift, same flicker of the fluorescent lights. My heartbeat kept time with the hum. The lift doors sighed; the same tired sound. On the third floor the corridor smelled of dust and lemon cleaner, posters about safety had new dates, the carpet was thin.
At my old corner, the desk wasn’t mine anymore. I touched the edge, like it might remember me. What did I think would happen. It’s familiar and strange at the same time.
- Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)
Option A:
The cobbler shop is small and dark. The window is dusty and the glass has a crack. Light sneaks in like a thin knife. Dust floating, slow. Shoes are stacked in a wobbling pile. They look tired, like they walked for miles.
Tap tap tap goes the hammer, soft then hard, soft then hard.
It smells like this: polish, glue, warm leather. The laces hang like black snakes and the nails in a jar shine like little teeth. A brush sleeps in a tin. The floor is gritty and it crunches under my shoe. There is many boots and heels, old names wrote inside them. The cobbler wipes his hands on his brown apron and he waits for the glue to set, he looks at the shoes and kind of talks. On the wall there is a faded calendar. The bell on the door squeeks when someone comes in
Option B:
The building looked smaller than I remember. My old work place. The glass doors were smudged and the sign was faded, bits of letters missing, but I could still see the old logo, it was like a shadow. There was posters peeling and the air smelt like coffee. Door after door, window after window, the same but not the same.
Years had past.
I push the door and it sticks, like it didn’t want me there. My hands shake like a leaf. Inside the lights hum and my footsteps sound too loud. I think about my desk, the chair that squeeked, the plant I forgot to water. We used to laugh here, we used to rush to meetings, we used to forget our pass.
The recepionist looks up. Name she says. I say, I used to work here, Im back. The clock ticks, tick, tick, and I take a breath.
- Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)
Option A:
Small shop, dark and dusty. The air smell of leather and glue, thick and sweet. Shoes sit in a line on a bench, some open mouths, some tied up tight. A hammer taps, tap tap, it never stops. Threads hang like thin ropes. Nails in a jar shake when he moves. The window is cloudy and the sun makes a stripe on the floor. A bell on the door rings but it sticks anyway. The cobbler has rough hands. He rubs a shoe and sighs. I think of my own trainers, they are muddy, I should clean them, the cat sleeps. I am hungry.
Option B:
I came back to the old place after many years. The sign is faded, the bell still rings. I stand at the glass door, it looks smaller. The air smells of coffee and dust, like old paper. My hands shake, I am not cold but I shake. I used to sit at that desk, the chair is different, the window is the same. I were here once, every day. People walk past and do not see me, I feel like a ghost. I think of the bus, it was late. I dont know why I come back, but I do.