AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 What did Laura think this was?: The house – 1 mark
• 1.2 Where did the people stand?: Outside – 1 mark
• 1.3 What were the old, old woman's feet on?: A newspaper – 1 mark
• 1.4 What did the group do as Laura drew near?: Parted – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 Laura was terribly nervous. Tossing the velvet ribbon over her shoulder, she said to a woman standing by, “Is this Mrs. Scott’s house?” and the woman, smiling queerly, said, “It is, my lass.”

11 Oh, to be away from this! She actually said, “Help me, God,” as she walked up the tiny path and knocked. To be away from those staring eyes, or to be covered up in anything, one of those women’s shawls even. I’ll just leave the basket and go, she decided. I shan’t even wait for it to be emptied.

How does the writer use language here to present Laura’s feelings as she approaches the house? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how emotive lexis and interior thought construct escalating anxiety: the intensifier 'terribly nervous', the exclamative and anaphoric shift from 'Oh, to be away from this!' to 'To be away from those staring eyes', and the supplicatory direct speech 'Help me, God' expose desperation, while the diminutive 'tiny path', the move to short, decisive declaratives 'I’ll just leave the basket and go' and 'I shan’t even wait', plus socially awkward cues like 'smiling queerly' (against the class marker 'velvet ribbon'), heighten her urge to escape and sense of alienation.

The writer foregrounds Laura’s anxiety through intensification and gesture. The intensifier "terribly" in "terribly nervous" magnifies her fear, while the dynamic verb "Tossing the velvet ribbon" suggests flustered movement. The "velvet ribbon" connotes luxury; flinging it aside rejects party finery and sharpens her self-consciousness. The woman’s "smiling queerly" and the dialectal vocative "my lass" hint at social difference; the ambiguous smile suggests pity or judgment, deepening her discomfort.

Furthermore, free indirect discourse and exclamatives immerse us in her panic. The exclamative sentence "Oh, to be away from this!" captures an urgent wish; the deictic "this" conveys suffocating immediacy. Her prayer "Help me, God" uses religious lexis to reveal desperation, and the narrator’s "She actually said" signals a breach of decorum.

Moreover, imagery of scrutiny and concealment heightens vulnerability. Synecdoche in "those staring eyes" reduces the onlookers to gaze, making surveillance feel invasive. The diminutive adjective "tiny path" shrinks the space, mirroring her shrinking confidence as she nears the door. Wanting "to be covered up in anything, one of those women’s shawls even" uses the deictic "those" and the concessive "even" to show she would efface herself.

Additionally, sentence form and modality expose a fragile bid for control. The paratactic, clipped plan "I’ll just leave the basket and go" uses the minimiser "just" to downplay the encounter, while modal auxiliaries in "I shan’t even wait" assert avoidance. The reporting clause "she decided" reads like self-soothing. Together, these choices present Laura’s escalating panic and self-consciousness as she walks up to the house.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses intensifiers and exclamations like "terribly nervous" and "Oh, to be away from this!" to show Laura’s rising fear, while verbs and imagery such as "Tossing the velvet ribbon" and "those staring eyes" suggest agitation and social pressure; the stranger’s "smiling queerly" adds unease. Her prayer "Help me, God" and the adjective in "tiny path" present vulnerability, and the short, decisive clauses "I’ll just leave the basket and go" and "I shan’t even wait" show avoidance and urgency to escape.

The writer uses precise word choices to foreground Laura’s anxiety. The adverbial intensifier “terribly” in “terribly nervous” immediately heightens her fear, while the diminutive adjective “tiny” in “tiny path” makes the approach feel intimidating. The participle “Tossing the velvet ribbon” suggests fidgety, self-conscious movement, and the adverb “queerly” in “smiling queerly” makes the encounter feel unsettling, deepening her discomfort.

Moreover, sentence forms amplify her panic. The exclamative “Oh, to be away from this!” with the interjection “Oh” expresses an urgent wish to escape. The anaphora of “To be away…” is repeated to stress her obsessive desire to flee the “staring eyes.” This synecdoche reduces people to “eyes,” implying she feels judged and exposed.

Furthermore, direct speech and internal thought reveal desperation. The religious appeal “Help me, God,” shows she is overwhelmed. Her decisive, clipped thoughts, “I’ll just leave the basket and go” and “I shan’t even wait” use the negative modal “shan’t” to show determination to minimise contact. Additionally, the desire to be “covered up in anything, one of those women’s shawls even” uses imagery of concealment to present her wish to hide. Overall, these choices present Laura as tense, self-conscious and eager to escape as she approaches the house.

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 Laura’s anxiety with adjectives and exclamations like "terribly nervous" and "Oh, to be away from this!", making her sound panicked and desperate to escape. The writer also uses direct speech and questions like "Is this Mrs. Scott’s house?" and "Help me, God", along with short, hesitant thoughts such as "To be away from those staring eyes" and "I’ll just leave the basket and go", to show her uncertainty and fear as she approaches the house.

The writer uses an adverb and a short sentence to present Laura’s fear: “Laura was terribly nervous.” The adverb “terribly” intensifies her anxiety, and “tossing” shows she is fidgety. The direct speech, “Is this Mrs. Scott’s house?”, and the woman “smiling queerly” make the encounter awkward, adding to her unease.

Moreover, exclamatory sentences and a prayer show panic: “Oh, to be away from this!” and “Help me, God.” This makes the reader hear her desperation as she walks up the “tiny path”. The noun phrase “tiny path” and “those staring eyes” suggest she feels small and judged.

Additionally, her thoughts use repetition and a modal negative to show avoidance: “I’ll just leave the basket and go… I shan’t even wait.” The wish to be “covered up… in one of those women’s shawls” shows embarrassment and a desire to hide as she approaches the house.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might spot simple features like the adjective “terribly nervous” and the exclamation “Oh, to be away from this!” to show Laura is scared. It might also mention the direct speech “Help me, God” and short statements like “I’ll just leave the basket and go” and “I shan’t even wait” to suggest she wants to get away quickly.

The writer uses adjectives to show Laura's fear as she approaches. The phrase "terribly nervous" and the adjective "tiny" in "tiny path" make her seem small and scared.

Furthermore, the writer uses exclamations and repetition to present panic. "Oh, to be away from this!" with the repeated "to be away" shows her desperate wish to escape. The direct speech "Help me, God" shows pleading.

Additionally, the writer uses short sentences to show urgency. "I'll just leave the basket and go" and "I shan't even wait" sound definite, showing she wants to leave as she approaches the house.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Short declarative with intensifier foregrounds emotion bluntly, setting an anxious tone: terribly nervous.
• Present participle and physical action reveal fidgety self-consciousness as she manages her appearance: Tossing the velvet ribbon.
• Interrogative direct speech signals uncertainty and dependence on others for direction: Is this Mrs. Scott’s house?.
• Adverbial description makes the interaction feel awkward and uneasy, heightening her discomfort: smiling queerly.
• Exclamative with emotive interjection exposes an urgent desire to flee the situation: Oh, to be away.
• Religious appeal voiced aloud externalises desperation and vulnerability in the moment: Help me, God.
• Diminutive adjective makes the approach feel intimidating, mirroring her smallness and fear: tiny path.
• Anaphoric repetition underscores her obsessive wish to escape the scene: To be away.
• Visual imagery of scrutiny conveys embarrassment and social pressure as she is watched: those staring eyes.
• Modal negative and clipped resolve show haste and avoidance, revealing a plan to minimise contact: I shan’t even wait.

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 revelation?

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would typically identify how the writer orchestrates a progressive narrowing of focus—via thresholds and shifts in setting—from the public unease of "a dark knot of people" and the anticipatory "The group parted", through being "shut in the passage" and the "wretched little low kitchen", to "into the bedroom, where the dead man was lying", so that the withheld encounter resolves as an intimate revelation. It would then analyse the tonal pivot and structural contrast that reframe death through lyrical repetition and ellipsis ("Oh, so remote, so peaceful", "Happy... happy.... All is well", "Isn’t life—") while diminishing earlier trivialities ("garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks"), producing a transformative denouement with Laurie.

One way the writer structures the extract to produce revelation is through a spatial narrowing that withholds information. We move from the threshold—the "dark knot" at the gate and the parted group "as though she was expected"—into ever more confined interiors, each threshold crossed increasing expectancy. The imperative 'Step this way' propels Laura past resistance until the pivotal volta: "she walked straight through into the bedroom, where the dead man was lying." This abrupt disclosure, delayed by the passage and kitchen, turns apprehension into the scene of recognition (anagnorisis).

In addition, the writer engineers a tonal and rhythmic shift at the bedside to crystallise the insight. Short, jerky exchanges yield to elongated, lulling clauses and iterative phrasing—"He was... He was... Oh, so remote"—that slow narrative pace and invite contemplation. The juxtaposition of death and sleep and the analeptic glance to "garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks" reframe prior preoccupations as trivial. Through close focalisation and brief free indirect thought, the hat motif returns—"Forgive my hat"—enacting the moral revelation: vanity is humbled before mortality.

A further structural device is the quiet coda with Laurie, which externalises and completes the epiphany. The dialogue pares back to minimal prompts, and the unfinished utterance—"Isn’t life—"—suspended by a dash, performs the ineffability of what has been learned, while Laurie’s finishing cadence—"Isn’t it, darling?"—offers a tender denouement. This shift in mood from dread, to awe, to consolatory intimacy provides a measured arc, ensuring the revelation emerges at the end and resonates beyond the final line.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 answer would clearly explain how the writer structures a journey from public tension to private revelation: the hush of "The voices stopped" and "The group parted" creates expectation, Laura is "shut in the passage" until the sister "drew down the sheet", and the mood shifts to awe in "He was wonderful, beautiful" and the ellipsis "Happy... happy....". It would also note the final return to her brother and the unfinished "Isn’t life—", showing the impact of the revelation on her perspective.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create revelation is by narrowing the focus from the street to the room of death. The sequence crosses thresholds—the gate, the passage, “a wretched little low kitchen”—before the decisive shift “into the bedroom, where the dead man was lying.” When the sister “drew down the sheet,” the reveal becomes the clear climax, and the linear journey builds anticipation.

In addition, the writer controls pace and tone at the moment of truth. Short declaratives and ellipses—“There lay a young man, fast asleep—”, “Never wake him up again.”, “Happy... happy...” —slow time and create a hush. The voice turns from Laura’s nervousness to calm reverence, and the reflection “What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him?” refocuses meaning, showing her new perspective.

A further structural feature is the return to dialogue for resolution. After the reveal, the focus widens to Laurie, and Laura’s broken line—“Isn’t life—” —is completed by him, “Isn’t it, darling?” This withholding invites the reader into the epiphany. The contrast between “Forgive my hat” and this quiet close signals a shift from surface appearance to inner understanding.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would typically identify that the writer builds the revelation by moving Laura inward from "Beside the gate" to "the bedroom, where the dead man was lying", changing the mood from "terribly nervous" to seeing him as "a young man, fast asleep". It would also note the ending, where her reaction "simply marvellous" and the unfinished "isn’t life—" show the impact of this structure in a final moment of realisation.

One way the writer structures revelation is through an uncertain beginning. “This was the house. It must be.” Short, simple sentences and focus on the crowd and the passage build suspense. The focus moves from outside to inside, towards the reveal.

In addition, there is a clear shift in focus in the bedroom. The tone slows and softens; the man looks “sleeping… so peaceful”. This contrast with the tense beginning creates a climax. Laura’s tears and “Forgive my hat” show the moment of revelation.

A further feature is the ending dialogue. After the scene, the writer moves to the lane and uses talk with Laurie. The perspective stays with Laura, and the unfinished line “Isn’t life—” leaves an open ending, suggesting she understands something new but can’t say it.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might simply say the writer saves the revelation for the end: it moves from outside at the gate and terribly nervous Laura to the bedroom with the dead man. This end placement makes her final Isn’t life— and meeting Laurie feel like a simple realisation.

One way the writer creates a revelation is by moving from outside to inside. At first Laura is at the gate, then in the passage, then “into the bedroom”. This simple order leads to the reveal of the dead man.

In addition, the focus at the end is on short, broken dialogue: “Yes”, “Isn’t life—”. The dash and short sentences show a sudden realisation. This ending shows the revelation.

A further structural feature is a change in mood. Laura moves from “terribly nervous” to calling it “simply marvellous”. This contrast makes her new understanding clear to the reader.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Foreshadowing via communal hush and a parted crowd builds inevitability, priming the reader for a destined encounter (as though she was expected)
• Threshold crossing and prayer mark a rite-of-passage from safety to confrontation, heightening tension before insight (Help me, God)
• Reluctance versus coercion structures momentum, as Laura’s attempts to withdraw are overridden, steering her toward the reveal (Step this way)
• Spatial narrowing from gate to passage to kitchen to bedroom compresses focus, climaxing in an explicit unveiling (drew down the sheet)
• Framing by onlookers at start and exit creates circularity, underscoring her changed inner state against the same setting (dark knot of people)
• Tonal shift from squalor to reverent stillness slows the pace, inviting awe before the body and enabling epiphany (so remote, so peaceful)
• Juxtaposition of trivial social tokens with death reframes values, exposing the smallness of earlier concerns (garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks)
• Affirmative, mantra-like sentences offer consolatory meaning, turning dread into acceptance at the moment of recognition (All is well)
• A symbolic self-abasement bridges inner change to action, signalling rejection of vanity before the dead (Forgive my hat)
• Open-ended ellipsis leaves the insight inarticulate yet shared, making the revelation felt rather than stated (Isn’t life—)

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, Laura’s apology to the dead man for her hat seems a strange thing to do. The writer suggests that seeing him makes her realise her wealthy life and fancy clothes are not important.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Laura's apology for her hat
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Laura's new understanding of life
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, arguing that the pointed rhetorical question 'What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him?' and the symbolic apology 'Forgive my hat' expose Laura’s recognition of the triviality of her privilege before death. It would analyse the writer’s methods—idealised sleep imagery ('Oh, so remote, so peaceful', 'Happy... happy.... All is well') and the fractured, inarticulate epiphany in 'isn’t life—'—to show a genuine, if nascent, understanding rather than a simplistic renunciation of wealth.

I largely agree with the statement. On the surface, apologising to a corpse for a hat seems incongruous; yet the writer renders Laura’s apology both symbolically apt and emotionally necessary, because seeing the dead man precipitates a profound revaluation of her “wealthy life and fancy clothes.”

Before the encounter, the narrative carefully primes Laura’s discomfort and class-consciousness. The setting is “a wretched little low kitchen, lighted by a smoky lamp,” a bleak, compressed space that contrasts sharply with the airy brightness of the garden party. The lexis of “gloom” and “oily” (the sister’s “oily voice,” later her “oily smile”) conveys Laura’s unease and a social slickness she cannot navigate. Mansfield’s focalisation slips into interior questioning—“What did it mean? Why was this stranger… What was it all about?”—to dramatise the bereaved woman’s incomprehension and Laura’s own faltering purpose. Structurally, Laura’s repeated attempts to “only… leave this basket” and to “get out” emphasise that she enters the house still anchored to the trivial errand and its genteel props, not yet transformed.

The tonal pivot occurs in the bedroom. The corpse is reframed through a serene semantic field of sleep: “a young man, fast asleep,” “so soundly, so deeply,” “so remote, so peaceful.” Anaphora (“Happy… happy…”) and gnomic assertions—“All is well… This is just as it should be. I am content”—give the scene a numinous authority, as if death speaks back. Crucially, the rhetorical question “What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him?” and the triadic list of luxuries miniaturise Laura’s world. In this hushed, aestheticised moment (“He was wonderful, beautiful”), the hat becomes metonymic for class display: “Forgive my hat,” uttered with a “loud childish sob,” is a spontaneous act of contrition. The childlike register signals sincerity and vulnerability rather than social performance; far from “strange,” the apology functions as a symbolic laying down of status in the presence of something absolute.

Yet Mansfield complicates the epiphany. Outside, Laura calls the vision “simply marvellous,” recycling the party’s aesthetic language. The broken syntax—“Isn’t life—”—and ellipsis show an awakening she cannot yet articulate. The swift return to Laurie’s protective arm suggests her insight is nascent, not a wholesale renunciation.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: through contrast, focalisation, and resonant imagery, the writer shows that seeing the dead man dislodges Laura’s attachment to “fancy clothes,” with the hat apology crystallising that insight. If the gesture seems odd literally, it is psychologically and symbolically exact; the ending’s hesitancy simply underlines that real understanding begins in inarticulate humility.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree that the writer shows Laura realising her wealthy life and fancy clothes are trivial, highlighting the contrast between the dead man’s wonderful, beautiful calm—far from all those things—and her world of garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks, which prompts her humbled apology Forgive my hat and tentative insight Isn’t life—. However, it would also note the loud childish sob makes the apology feel awkward as well as sincere, suggesting her understanding is new and incomplete.

To a large extent I agree that Laura’s apology for her hat seems strange; it is an odd, childlike gesture in such a solemn room. The writer prepares this by contrasting the “gloom” of the “wretched little low kitchen” and “smoky lamp” with Laura as a “young lady” with a “basket”. The “oily voice” creates discomfort and emphasises her social difference, so politeness feels inadequate. Structurally, being “shut in the passage” then going “straight through into the bedroom” signals a threshold into new understanding.

In the bedroom, the description recasts death as sleep: “fast asleep”, “so remote, so peaceful”, with anaphora “so… so…”. The rhetorical question “What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him?” directly diminishes the importance of wealth and finery. Repetition “Happy… happy…” and the declaratives “All is well… I am content” make the narration echo Laura’s thoughts, giving her an epiphany. The man is “wonderful, beautiful”, a romanticised image that dwarfs trivial social rituals.

Within that context, “Forgive my hat” is both strange and significant. The noun “hat” works as a symbol or synecdoche for her “lace frocks”, the whole privileged world she brings into this space. The verb “forgive” conveys guilt; her “loud childish sob” shows her immaturity even as she recognises her error, and, “this time”, she “didn’t wait for Em’s sister”, suggesting urgency and a personal turning-point. The dash when she tells Laurie “Isn’t life—” shows she cannot articulate the complexity of what she has learned, and calling the scene “simply marvellous” suggests a half-formed, aesthetic response rather than full comprehension.

Overall, I agree that seeing him makes Laura realise her wealthy life and clothes are not important, shown through contrast, sleep imagery and rhetorical questioning; yet the odd apology also exposes how tentative and childlike that realisation remains.

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, noting that Laura’s apology "Forgive my hat" and the line "What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him?" show she realises her fancy things aren’t important, with simple comment that the dead man is described as "so remote, so peaceful... Happy... happy" to show how the writer conveys her new understanding.

In this extract, I mostly agree with the statement. Laura’s “Forgive my hat” does seem a strange thing to say to a dead man, but the writer shows that seeing him makes her realise that party clothes and status are unimportant.

At first, the setting is described in a gloomy, poor way: a “gloomy passage,” a “wretched little low kitchen” and a “smoky lamp.” This contrasts with her garden party, and it makes Laura feel out of place; she “only want[s] to leave” the basket. The people she meets have “swollen eyes and swollen lips,” which emphasises their grief and hardship, while she is a “young lady” bringing things from “Mother.” This contrast helps the reader see the gap between Laura’s world and theirs.

When she sees the dead man, the language turns calm and dreamlike. He is “so remote, so peaceful” and “sleeping so soundly,” which uses repetition to show a quiet, almost beautiful stillness. The rhetorical question, “What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him?” clearly suggests that clothes and wealth are meaningless next to death. After this, Laura gives a “loud childish sob,” showing her shock and honesty, and apologises for her “hat.” The hat works like a symbol of her fancy life, so the apology is really an apology for her privilege.

At the end, she can’t finish “Isn’t life—”, which shows a new, deeper understanding. Overall, I agree to a large extent: through contrast, imagery and structure, the writer shows Laura’s values shifting away from fancy clothes.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response would simply agree that the apology is strange and shows she realises fancy things don’t matter, pointing to "Forgive my hat" and the line "What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him?". It might also briefly mention "Isn’t life—" to show a basic sense of her new understanding.

I mostly agree with the statement. Laura saying “Forgive my hat” does sound strange, but it shows she feels her fancy clothes don’t fit here and don’t matter now. At first the setting is described as a “wretched little low kitchen” with a “smoky lamp.” This contrasts with the smart garden party and makes Laura uncomfortable. When she sees the dead man, the writer uses calm imagery: he looks “fast asleep” and “far, far away,” and there is repetition in “Happy... happy.... All is well.” This makes death seem peaceful. The narrator even asks a rhetorical question: “What did garden-parties and baskets and lace frocks matter to him?” This clearly suggests that the rich life and clothes are unimportant beside death. Laura’s “loud childish sob” shows her sudden new feeling, and that is why she apologises for the hat. At the end, she tells Laurie it was “simply marvellous” and stammers “Isn’t life—”, which shows she has realised something bigger than parties. Overall, I agree that the apology is odd, but it is the writer’s way to show Laura realises her wealth and clothes are not important after seeing the dead 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:

• Symbolic apology: the hat stands for class vanity; the plea feels strange yet humble, showing she now rejects such display (Forgive my hat)
• Rhetorical minimising of trivialities challenges the value of parties and clothes, supporting the view that finery doesn’t matter (lace frocks)
• Direct distancing from worldly things underlines the irrelevance of wealth next to death, prompting her reassessment (far from all those things)
• Peaceful sleep/dream imagery elevates the dead man beyond social concerns, making her fashion feel petty (so remote, so peaceful)
• Childlike emotion makes the apology naïve but sincere, suggesting genuine moral awakening rather than mere embarrassment (loud childish sob)
• Stark class contrast in setting confronts her privilege, intensifying guilt about arriving in finery (wretched little low kitchen)
• Narrative questions chart her confusion turning to insight, explaining why the awkward apology emerges (What did it mean?)
• Repetition and ellipses of happiness present death as serene acceptance, catalysing her shift in values (Happy... happy....)
• Inarticulate epiphany shows she grasps life’s depth beyond status symbols, even if she cannot fully express it (Isn’t life—)
• Awe-struck evaluation reframes the encounter as transformative rather than morbid, reinforcing the devaluing of luxury (simply marvellous)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

During Careers Week at your college, you are asked to submit a short creative piece about working life behind the scenes.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a print shop under deadline from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about starting a first job.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

The print shop breathes in heat and exhales pale, fluttering leaves. Under fluorescents, the air shimmers with paper dust; a constellation glints as the ever-dwindling ribbon of time tightens. The clock’s second hand scythes its circle — urgent. Deadline is not an event here; it is a presence that prowls between racks of toner and spools of gloss, laying a hand on shoulders, speeding fingers, thinning patience.

Machines speak next: whirr, clack, hiss — a syncopated fugue. The big laser hums, its rollers gripping reams with a percussive appetite; the collator tic-tic-tics as if crocheting a shawl from sheets. Warm paper feathers my wrist; the smell is a cocktail — hot plastic, ozonic tang, iron-sweet ink. Again and again, pages slide out, immaculate and slightly damp.

Beneath a flickering monitor, Lena rides colour like a tide. She nudges cyan, reins in magenta, persuades yellow by degrees; the preview toggles from too bruise-dark to too candied to, finally, almost-true. “Bleed to three, crop marks on, profiles loaded,” she murmurs. The proof emerges, reluctant; she catches it by the corners, holds it to the tyrannical light, and her thumbs print crescent moons of ink onto the gloss.

Meanwhile, at the back, the guillotine waits. Tomas feeds a trembling stack beneath the blade; he squares, taps, breathes, drops. The shearing is clean, a bright syllable of metal and air; offcuts cascade, confetti of errors and excess. He smiles — a brief, private flare — and resets; deadline rations even smiles.

At the counter, the manager conducts with staccato questions. Proofed? Bound? A courier shifts on his heels, bag yawning. A stapler punches spines — chnk, chnk, pause, chnk — and a spine is born, industrious. In the corner, a printer coughs; someone soothes it with a power cycle. By now, the room is a weather system: heat corrugates the air; sweat polishes temples; patience condenses into curt words that, pertinently, no one has time to resent.

Beneath the clock, a pyramid of boxes rises, each labeled, each tied, each a little brick against the flood. Time presses its thumb down harder. Thirty minutes. Twenty. Ten. And then — not a miracle, merely method — the final set shimmies out; a last hand straightens it and lets it go. The courier’s bag swallows whole. For a breath, the shop inhales peace.

Silence thins. Machines idle; paper dust floats. Someone laughs too loudly; someone rubs a blue-black thumb. Already, new files queue — tiny flags. Nevertheless, the room, briefly, feels larger, as if the deadline itself had been printed, trimmed, bundled, and sent into the damp evening where a client will peel open a box and find not only colour and clarity, but the faint, industrious heartbeat of this place.

Option B:

Monday. The city peeled itself from sleep; shutters yawned, kettles hissed, buses coughed thin mist into a pale, promising sky. Behind a thousand ajar blinds, lives rewound; names rehearsed; laces retied. While baristas wrote wrong names in hurried loops, Asha practised her own signature, slower, steadier, as though a neat curl of the S might make her more employable.

Her blazer hung obediently on the chair back; it still smelt faintly of shop—synthetic lemon, paper, possibility. She ironed the collar and aligned a notebook, a clicking pen, a lunchbox, a carefully printed contract: evidence she belonged. The shoes—polished, too stiff—made her stand taller; they also pinched, proof that newness rubs a little.

Between mirror and door, she checked and rechecked: card, phone, Oyster, breath. She sent her mother a photo (lanyard looped like a prize ribbon) and received a cascade of hearts and imperatives: Be brave. Ask questions. Eat properly. Simple orders that sounded like promises. A fledgling with a suitcase of expectations, she pictured a tightrope between bus timetables and ambition; she stepped onto it.

On the bus, the city arranged itself into a moving diorama—wet pavements stippled with early rain, cyclists glinting, strangers intent. Asha watched her reflection tremble and rehearsed introductions under her breath. Hello, I'm Asha, the new… what? Analyst? Assistant? The words fogged and vanished, as if rehearsals for speech she would soon have to spend.

When the building rose before her, it had the unnerving confidence of those who have always been tall: glass, immaculate, reflective, an edifice intent on swallowing and sorting. The revolving door took her gently and returned her altered. Inside, air-conditioning hummed its anodyne mantra; the lighting was a kind of daylight that had been tidied. Screens flickered; a printer chattered; somewhere coffee cascaded.

“Welcome,” the receptionist said, enunciating like a bell. “First day?” Asha nodded, and the lanyard—now heavy with a visitor badge—thudded softly against her sternum. A map was drawn; a lift pinged; a floor suggested. She followed arrows and carpet and the careful smile of a woman called Leah who spoke in a dialect of onboarding: induction, buddy, a gently repeated yes to nascent worries.

At a desk prepared for her—monitor angled, keyboard pristine, a pot of paperclips like silver fish—Asha sat and logged in. Passwords were conjured and discarded; capitals, numbers, a symbol; a small gate opened. The screen blinked her name in crisp font, and she felt, absurdly, seen. The job did not begin with trumpets but with tiny, precise acts: signing, clicking, nodding, listening; the patient tessellation of a life being reassembled.

What if she failed? The question flared, then dwindled. She straightened a stack of sticky notes, tasted the metallic air, and made a quiet, private promise—to learn, to ask, to stay, even when the shoes pinched. Outside, the city kept moving; inside, Asha leaned forward and began.

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

Option A:

The lights are the wrong kind of daylight; chalky, humming, unforgiving. They flatten colour and expose dust; they make the ink shine like molasses and the paper glare like frost. A warm, mineral tang clings to the air: solvent, toner, cellulose. Heat leaks from the machines in slow waves; the rollers turn and turn, obedient and relentless, obedient and relentless, obedient and relentless. The noise is layered: a staccato click from the collator, a baritone thrum from the press, the guillotine’s percussive thunk that silences everything for half a second. On the shelves, reams sit like pale, obedient brick; on the floor, offcuts lie as drifts.

Rita, forearms freckled with ink, leans over the feeder; she adjusts the side-guide by a whisper’s width; registration marks (two small crosses) align. Beside her, Arun fans a test sheet; magenta is a fraction heavy; he says nothing; he reaches for the dial. Across the room, the manager, coat still on, smooths a proof with the side of his hand; a ruler clicks; crop marks; bleeds; the vocabulary of urgency. Phones ring; the computer chimes; the courier coughs at the door. The laminator breathes; the binder mutters; the bin swallows confetti.

The deadline is not a time; it is a presence, a weight, leaning on every shoulder. The wall clock nags; its hands scrape over the numerals as if carving them deeper. Outside, a van idles; exhaust threads under the shutter and becomes another smell in the mix. Can we still do it? Should we refuse? The questions are brief and practical; there isn’t room for panic. Someone turns up the fan; someone else adjusts the imposition; someone, quietly, prays.

And then the run begins to behave. Sheets stream through straight as thoughts; the colour settles; the black is satisfied rather than greedy. Whirr, feed, press—whirr, feed, press—whirr, feed, press. The guillotine descends with clinical grace; the stacks become neat bricks; the tape squeals around boxes and bites. We move faster now, not frantic but exact: count, check, band, label. Heat lingers on the paper. Ink lifts its smell like a flag.

When the courier leaves, the door thumps; the van pulls away; the clock releases its grip. We breathe. For a moment the shop is quiet enough to hear the tick of cooling metal. Then the ticket printer chatters out a new job number and, almost amused, the presses clear their throats. Again.

Option B:

Monday. The first breath of a week; bus brakes sighed, shutters rattled up, and the pavement glittered with last night's drizzle—a cheap sequinned dress under reluctant light. I waited outside Bean & Bloom with my breath making brief ghosts on the glass. Between my fingers, the new key card lay slick and disobedient. My name badge flashed—AMIRA—in tidy letters I barely recognised. I straightened the strap of my apron; it felt like a harness and a promise.

Gus, the manager, lifted the shutter and the shop inhaled. Warm air rolled out, dense with coffee and vanilla, undercut by bleach; grinders muttered and the espresso machine blinked awake. 'You're early,' he said, pushing the door wider. (I had been waiting ten minutes.) 'Good—we'll set you up.' He passed me a laminated checklist: calibrate the grinder; wipe the counter; count the float. 'First days are hands and eyes,' he added. 'Your mouth catches up.'

At home I'd practised with water, the milk pitcher cold against my palm. I'd memorised the menu like a poem: macchiato, cortado, flat white. A beginner is a paradox: invisible yet perfect. I wanted competence to fit like a tailored coat; instead it felt incipient, a rumour in my muscles. What if competence is lent only when someone believes? Mum kissed my head before dawn and whispered, 'First rung.' I carried that kindness like a light bag that sometimes cut.

The bell above the door chimed, thin and bright. A man came in trailing rain, his beard freckled with droplets. 'Triple-shot oat flat white—extra hot—with cinnamon?' he said. My mouth repeated it back; it steadied me; my hands began. Grind, tamp, lock; press, watch the tawny ribbon catch the light; count to twenty-five. The milk hissed—steam alive. Heat nipped my wrist; I didn't let go. A lid skittered into the sink; Gus's eyes were steady. I breathed... and found my hands obeyed. The milk turned glossy; a heart, wobbly but recognisable, surfaced.

I set the cup on the counter; cinnamon drifted like a shy fog. 'Thanks,' the man said, ordinary, already checking his phone. Outside, buses still sighed; inside, I felt less of a visitor. I wiped the counter, wrote down the next order, and felt the day assemble around me—button by button, task by task. It was only a job, people would say; it was also a key: a door opening, a room I could step into and claim.

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

Option A:

The clock glares 4:17 in harsh red. Air shivers with heat from the machines; it tastes of metal, sharp ink, old cardboard. Fluorescent tubes fizzle; the floor is dotted with confetti of offcuts, slick where a ribbon of toner has smeared to a bruise. Hands move in purposeful loops, palms stained cyan and magenta.

At the counter, Nina juggles a phone and a stack of proofs: the logo must be larger; the date must be changed; the spelling must be exact. She nods, writes, nods again—her pencil a skinny metronome tapping the margin. “Two hundred by five,” she mouths, not really asking.

By the big press, Malik listens to the rollers, reading the machine like a temperamental horse. The paper feeds in clean; the black unit thuds; the colours align. CMYK: a small alphabet making a parade of posters. At the back the guillotine pauses, then drops—clean, final, a sheet of thunder. Stacks become neat bricks. The laminator exhales a hot, sweet smell; the stapler clicks, stubborn, until a strip finally behaves.

Five o’clock sits like a nail in their minds. The vans will not wait. When a corner creases, the whole order trembles. There is a jam—an orange light fizzes; a thin squeal. Three people reach in with patient fingers while the machine flares its warning. Paper frees; breath releases. The clock blinks 4:42.

They get faster and cleaner because they must. Pallets clatter; tape sings off the roll in one long ribbon. The posters flash by: a face, a date, a promise, again and again. Sweat beads under collars; coffee cools and is gulped anyway. Outside, the sky is the colour of unprinted paper. At 4:58 the last stack stands, square and proud. Labels slap on: Delivered; Urgent; Tonight. Boxes slide into the van with a soft, relieved thud. The press winds down, a purr becoming a sigh. In the sudden quiet they hear the clock and their own breathing, rough but pleased. For a moment they watch offcuts drift like small snow, and they know they made it.

Option B:

Monday. The air had that clean-start smell: damp pavements, coffee drifting from thin-windowed kitchens, buses exhaling as they knelt at the kerb. Today was my first job—the first day my name would be printed on something other than homework. I ironed a shirt I had never worn and pinned on a plastic badge that made it official. Alex. My name in tidy black letters that suddenly felt heavier than the badge itself. Steam feathered from the kettle; so did my breath. Hands steady, I told myself, though they trembled with a pale, ridiculous excitement.

They’d said the early shift was quiet: stack, straighten, smile. Simple enough. On the bus I practised the lines under my breath, a script for ordinary courage. Good morning. Do you need a bag? Have you got a Clubcard? The windows showed a smear of sky and a street unrolling like tape; meanwhile, my thoughts looped, knotting themselves into what-ifs. What if I pressed the wrong button? What if I froze? It is only a supermarket, I reminded myself, not a courtroom.

The automatic doors yawned and let me in; I hesitated. Bright aisles stood to attention, polishing their reflections. Somewhere at the back a forklift beeped in a clumsy rhythm, and the lights hummed—fluorescent bees in a square white hive. Mr Patel appeared with a brisk smile and a clipboard. “You’re early. Good. Locker’s through here.” The staff room was smaller than I expected, and smelled faintly of bleach and bread. There was a noticeboard full of rotas, a chipped kettle, three battered chairs, and a digital clock that blinked 06:42 at me as if it knew. I clocked in (my first official beep) and tightened my lanyard because it made me feel anchored.

At first, Leah showed me the till: the glory and terror of it. “You’ll be fine,” she said, tapping the screen. “Just remember: scan, pack, pay.” She moved with uncomplicated certainty, her fingers fluent across keys I couldn’t yet read. Then it was my turn on Checkout Three. The belt purred. My seat squeaked. A queue formed—two people, then three—as if summoned by my heartbeat.

The first customer was an elderly woman with exact change and oranges that wouldn’t scan. The till flashed an unfriendly red. I pressed the call button; our little beacon blinked. “Happens to everyone,” Leah said, appearing with her supervisor key like a magician.

After that, the beeps began to find a rhythm. Milk, bread, apples; beep, beep, breathe. By the time mid-morning folded in, the fear had thinned, like fog under sun. It wasn’t glamorous, nor heroic, but it was mine—for now, that was enough.

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

Option A:

The print shop pulses under hard white strip lights. The air is thick with warm ink and paper dust; it tastes dry, faintly metallic, and coats the tongue. Presses whirr and click in a steady, urgent rhythm, a metronome that seems to lean forward. A red LED counts pages as if it were counting breaths. Only one thing matters: the job has to leave on time.

Hands move constantly. A young woman, sleeves rolled, feeds a neat fan of sheets into the hungry mouth of the big machine; the rollers take them, bite them, and spit out covers that are still warm. Her fingertips are blue-black, polished with ink, but precise. Across the bench, a man squares stacks against a metal block, thump, thump, thump, edges meeting; he wraps a tape around them and the strapper sings. The supervisor hovers with a clipboard — columns, sums, initials — and nods.

The noise has layers: the low thrum of motors, the sharp staccato of the guillotine, the hiss of air as the compressor breathes. When a warning light blinks, there is a small hitch in the rhythm; the operator reaches in with a hook, eases out a stubborn sheet, exhales. A curl of paper drifts to the floor and joins a pale confetti storm. The fluorescent tubes buzz as if in a hurry.

Smell swells with heat — toner, glue, the chemical tang of the binding pot. Time pushes. Someone checks a phone; someone scribbles the address on a label. Boxes grow into a cardboard skyline; a pallet truck squeals as it turns. By the door a courier waits. Again and again the press mouths take and give. Then the final pile slides out; straps snap tight. For a second, almost silence. The shop breathes, then starts on the next order.

Option B:

Monday was pale; the sky had the washed-out look of a new shirt. Shutters shuddered; buses coughed awake; a thin mist hovered like breath. It felt like a beginning—untidy, faintly exciting. Today was my first job, and everything around me seemed to be practising how to be new, too.

In the hallway, my apron hung like a flag I wasn't sure I could carry. Peppermint and stiff with creases, the fabric crackled when I touched it. My hands found the badge—HANA—in neat black; I pressed it until the corners left soft dents. I packed what I needed: squeaky black shoes, the contract, bus fare counted twice. “You’ll be fine,” Mum said, sliding toast onto a plate. I nodded, though my stomach fluttered like a trapped moth.

The bus sighed at the kerb. I stamped my ticket and breathed in counts of four. Outside, pavements shone; inside, the windows blurred with drizzle. Stop after stop, the town assembled itself: shutters lifting, lights brightening, the supermarket logo sharpening. What if I forgot the codes? What if the till jammed and the queue stretched like a long, impatient snake? I pressed my contract flat in my bag, as if that could help.

Inside, the air smelled of detergent and warm bread. Fluorescent lights buzzed like patient bees. A man in a navy tie appeared with a clipboard. “Hana? I’m Mr Patel. Shadow me,” he said. We paced past pyramids of oranges; the floor shone like a photograph. He showed me the basics: locker code, break times, the stubborn fire door. “You’ll try the self-checkouts later—they beep a lot,” he added, as if a joke could catch my nerves. When he placed me at a till and the screen woke, I set my fingers on the keys; the world narrowed to the small rectangle of light and the rhythm of my breath.

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

Option A:

The strip lights hum above the crowded counter, and the printers keep time like a restless drum. Warm paper slides out in steady stacks, edges sharp enough to nip. The air smells of hot ink—metallic, a little sweet—and the floor is salted with tiny curls of paper. A red clock blinks its warning: 16:57. The machines chatter and cough; one rattles with a stubborn hiccup. Posters bloom across the table in glossy waves, then shudder forward, again and again, relentless as rain.

At the back, Marta flicks through a stack with a quick thumb, counting out hundreds; her hands are stained blue-black. Dan shoulders a ream into the feeder, taps it twice, listening like a mechanic to a patient engine. The boss walks a tight line between aisles, phone clamped to his ear, promising delivery, promising miracles. Five minutes, he says, then louder—Five minutes! The guillotine squeals as it drops, neat and cruel. Will the blades behave today? Nobody answers; everyone glances up at the clock.

Meanwhile the little inkjet by the window coughs out a last proof that smells too fresh, too bright. A corner dog-ears, a staple jams; it is fixed with a quick snap and a sigh. Boxes appear, tape shrieks, labels go on crooked then straight. Outside, a van idles like a patient animal, headlights pale in the late afternoon. 16:59 blinks. The last stack slides home. A cheer starts, then breaks, because the next order is already waiting by the door.

Option B:

Monday. The alarm sliced the quiet and my first thought was my name badge for my first job, still in its plastic wrapper, shining like a tiny medal on my desk. The room felt new; the air smelt like a freshly ironed shirt.

I pulled on the uniform and it pinched a bit at the collar, serious and stiff. In the mirror I tried a professional smile; it looked glued on, so I tried again. I packed my bag: notebook, a pen that actually worked, bus card, sandwiches Mum made. My hands were a little jittery, like the kettle before it boils, and my heart tapped out a tune. You can do this, I told myself, though my voice sounded tinny.

Outside, the street yawned awake. Shutters rattled; a milk van hummed past; drizzle wrote faint silver lines on the pavement. On the bus, the heater hissed and people smelt of coffee and wet coats. I watched my stop slide closer, too fast, and my stomach did a small flip. The city felt enormous, and I felt small—but also a bit taller than before.

The café was brighter than I remembered, all fluorescent lights. The bell over the door clattered like coins in a jar. A sign said: Push. I pushed. Behind the counter someone in the same uniform waved. “You must be new, I’m Lila,” she said. My name came out delayed. “I’m, uh, Jonah.” The clock above us ticked loudly, laughing at me. Then I stepped behind the counter and the day began.

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

Option A:

The print shop is loud today. It hums like a busy hive, silver mouths chewing paper. The deadline glows on the wall clock, red numbers glaring, pressing. Air tastes dry with paper dust and sharp ink, and the lights buzz above our heads. At the front, the manager calls out sizes, her voice quick as scissors. A trainee bites his lip, fingers ink-stained and jittery, because pages keep coming, faster and faster.

Machines thump and click in a strange rhythm; the rollers grip, release, grip. The paper shudders, the stack rises, then leans and we catch it before it falls. Whirr, whirr, click. Meanwhile, toner dust floats like grey mist and sticks to our sleeves. A charger beeps, a screen flashes a warning. We wipe the glass plate—smudge, smear, stain—then finally a clean strip shows. The press breathes out.

At the back, a man checks proofs under a harsh, fluorescent strip. A tiny error hides in the corner: Tuesday spelt wrong. He circles it quickly and we print anew, hearts thudding. The courier knocks on the metal door. Will it make it in time? The last bundle lands warm in my hands. It smells like tin and glue and hope. We stack the boxes, we sign, we grin.

Option B:

The alarm blares like it doesn't care; today is the day. Its my first job. I pull on a new shirt that feels too stiff, my shoes squeak, and my stomach is a washing machine. Mum presses a coffee into my hand and says good luck. On the bus, windows are wet with drizzle. I rehearse my name, my smile, my answers. What if I forget them?

The automatic doors sigh open and the lights are fluorescent-bright. Trolleys rattle, voices echo over the tannoy. Mrs Patel, the manager, meets me at reception. She gives me a lanyard and a badge: my name, my role. I nod; I don't trust my voice. We go down a long corridor to the staffroom. A rota waits on a pin board. My hands shake but I try to look calm.

First, she shows me the till, then stacking cereal boxes. Simple, she says, smile at customers. A customer asks for flour and I lead her the wrong way — my face burns. I drop a tin; it clatters across the floor and people turn. This is only the start, I tell myself, and a friendly colleague whispers, "You'll be fine." I straighten my badge and step forward.

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

Option A:

The printers hum and shake. The shop is small and bright. The air is warm, it smells like ink and hot paper. The deadline is today. The clock is big and mean, it says 4:30 but I think it lies.

Boxes of paper sit open.

My hands are blue and sticky. The machine coughs and spits. It chews the paper like a dog, then throws it out fast. People rush around, they don’t look up. I hear the fan rattle and the phone ring and ring. Will it finish in time? The boss says hurry, hurry! I press the green button again and again, and my thumb hurts.

Outside its dark but inside the lights buzz. The printers sound like a train, they dont stop. My heart runs with them. The last pages slide out, they shine, wet. I smile, tired. The clock ticks louder. We are nearly there, I say.

Option B:

Morning. New shoes. New shirt. First job! The mirror shows my tie a bit crooked I try again and again, it still dont sit right. I take a big breath, it feels heavy in my chest, like a bag of sand.

The bus is late and my watch ticks loud. I read the small card with my role, Customer Assistant. The shop door opens like a mouth and I go in. The lights are bright. It smells of coffee.

My name badge is plastic and shiny.

Liam.

The manager says welcome, he talks fast, words run past me. I dont know where to stand or what to do, but I nod and nod. There is a till, buttons, a bell. Time crawls on the clock.

I drop a spoon and it clangs, my face burns. First day, first step. Smile, I tell myself, just be polite. I am gonna do this.

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

Option A:

The printers are loud and hot. They whirr and shake and make the table buzz. People rush with there hands black with ink. Ink smell is strong, it gets in my nose and on my hands. The boss look at the big red clock. We have a dead line and the room feels tight, the light is white and hard. Paper slides out fast and stacks grow, some fall and I pick them up quick. someone shouts orders, I can’t hear, the radio hisses. My back hurts and sweat stick on my neck. outside its dark now, the sign flickers, we ain’t done, I think about chips.

Option B:

Morning. New day, I think. The sky is pale and the buses hiss. I tie my shoes two times, they keep coming loose. My first job is in a shop. I put my name badge on and it feels big on my chest. I feel shaky like a little lamb. I keep packing my bag, phone, pen, gum, then I forget what I had and I check again. The bus is late and the air smells like toast. Mum texts good luck. Am I ready? I were not, but I go anyway. The doors was loud. I think about my friends new dog. I hope I dont drop the till.