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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 What does the narrator imply about the source of Lawrence Lefferts's expertise in 'form'?: It comes from more than study alone – 1 mark
• 1.2 What was Lawrence Lefferts the foremost authority on?: "form" – 1 mark
• 1.3 How did Lawrence Lefferts turn his opera-glass away from the stage?: Abruptly – 1 mark
• 1.4 Immediately after exclaiming, what action does Lawrence Lefferts take?: Lawrence Lefferts turns the opera-glass away from the stage – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 68 of the source:

1 "Well--upon my soul!" exclaimed Lawrence Lefferts, turning his opera-glass abruptly away from the stage. Lawrence Lefferts was, on the whole, the foremost authority on "form" in New York. He had probably devoted more time than any one else to the study of this intricate and fascinating question; but study alone could not account for his complete and easy competence. One had

6 only to look at him, from the slant of his bald forehead and the curve of his beautiful fair moustache to the long patent-leather feet at the other end of his lean and elegant person, to feel that the knowledge of "form" must be congenital in any one who knew how to wear such good clothes so carelessly and carry such height with so much lounging grace. As a young admirer had once

11 said of him: "If anybody can tell a fellow just when to wear a black tie with evening clothes and when not to, it's Larry Lefferts." And on the question of pumps versus patent-leather "Oxfords" his authority had never been disputed. "My God!" he said; and silently handed his glass to old Sillerton Jackson.

16 Newland Archer, following Lefferts's glance, saw with surprise that his exclamation had been occasioned by the entry of a new figure into old Mrs. Mingott's box. It was that of a slim young woman, a little less tall than May Welland, with brown hair growing in close curls about her temples and held in

21 place by a narrow band of diamonds. The suggestion of this headdress, which gave her what was then called a "Josephine look," was carried out in the cut of the dark blue velvet gown rather theatrically caught up under her bosom by a girdle with a large old-fashioned clasp. The wearer of this unusual dress, who seemed quite unconscious of the attention it was attracting, stood a

26 moment in the centre of the box, discussing with Mrs. Welland the propriety of taking the latter's place in the front right-hand corner; then she yielded with a slight smile, and seated herself in line with Mrs. Welland's sister-in- law, Mrs. Lovell Mingott, who was installed in the opposite corner.

31 Mr. Sillerton Jackson had returned the opera-glass to Lawrence Lefferts. The whole of the club turned instinctively, waiting to hear what the old man had to say; for old Mr. Jackson was as great an authority on "family" as Lawrence Lefferts was on "form." He knew all the ramifications of New York's cousinships; and could not only elucidate such complicated questions as that

36 of the connection between the Mingotts (through the Thorleys) with the Dallases of South Carolina, and that of the relationship of the elder branch of Philadelphia Thorleys to the Albany Chiverses (on no account to be confused with the Manson Chiverses of University Place), but could also enumerate the leading characteristics of each family: as, for instance, the fabulous

41 stinginess of the younger lines of Leffertses (the Long Island ones); or the fatal tendency of the Rushworths to make foolish matches; or the insanity recurring in every second generation of the Albany Chiverses, with whom their New York cousins had always refused to intermarry--with the disastrous exception of poor Medora Manson, who, as everybody knew ... but then her

46 mother was a Rushworth. In addition to this forest of family trees, Mr. Sillerton Jackson carried between his narrow hollow temples, and under his soft thatch of silver hair, a register of most of the scandals and mysteries that had smouldered under the

51 unruffled surface of New York society within the last fifty years. So far indeed did his information extend, and so acutely retentive was his memory, that he was supposed to be the only man who could have told you who Julius Beaufort, the banker, really was, and what had become of handsome Bob Spicer, old Mrs. Manson Mingott's father, who had disappeared so mysteriously (with a

56 large sum of trust money) less than a year after his marriage, on the very day that a beautiful Spanish dancer who had been delighting thronged audiences in the old Opera-house on the Battery had taken ship for Cuba. But these mysteries, and many others, were closely locked in Mr. Jackson's breast; for not only did his keen sense of honour forbid his repeating anything privately

61 imparted, but he was fully aware that his reputation for discretion increased his opportunities of finding out what he wanted to know. The club box, therefore, waited in visible suspense while Mr. Sillerton Jackson handed back Lawrence Lefferts's opera-glass. For a moment he silently

66 scrutinised the attentive group out of his filmy blue eyes overhung by old veined lids; then he gave his moustache a thoughtful twist, and said simply: "I didn't think the Mingotts would have tried it on."

How does the writer use language here to present Lawrence Lefferts as an authority on "form"? 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 typically identify how the writer constructs Lefferts’s authority through hyperbole, modality, and cumulative syntax: he is the "foremost authority on 'form'", his "complete and easy competence" framed as "congenital" rather than "study", with the modal "must" naturalising his taste, while the extended listing from the "slant of his bald forehead" to "long patent-leather feet" builds a sartorial lexical field that embodies ‘form’ in his person. It would also analyse how social validation and technical lexis cement his arbitership—reported praise ("If anybody can tell a fellow..."), categorical assertion ("his authority had never been disputed"), the decisive exclamation "My God!", and references to "black tie", "pumps", "Oxfords")—showing how these choices present him as the community’s normative arbiter.

The writer immediately elevates Lefferts through an exclamative and a superlative. The abrupt interjection "Well—upon my soul!" positions him as the first to register and police a breach, while the declaration that he is "the foremost authority on 'form' in New York" crowns him arbiter. Evaluative lexis like "intricate and fascinating" and "complete and easy competence" suggests scholarship and effortlessness. The adverb "abruptly" (he turns his "opera-glass") and the clause "Newland Archer, following Lefferts's glance" underscore his gatekeeping power: others literally re-align their gaze after his.

Furthermore, a cumulative catalogue constructs authority as embodied. The syntactic sweep "from the slant of his bald forehead... to the long patent-leather feet" inventories him in sartorial lexis, presenting the living template of 'form'. The transferred epithet "patent-leather feet" fuses man and shoe, implying he is inseparable from etiquette. The metaphor "knowledge of 'form' must be congenital" and generic pronoun "one" elevate his status to innate law. The paradox of "wear such good clothes so carelessly" and "lounging grace" evokes effortless mastery.

Moreover, testimonial and legal register cement his supremacy. The admirer’s direct speech—"If anybody can tell a fellow..."—is hyperbolic, while specialist sartorial lexis ("black tie," "pumps," "Oxfords") shows domain expertise. Coupling "versus" with "never been disputed" adopts juridical diction, so his pronouncements read as case law. The modal "must" and poised "silently" project inevitability and composed command, confirming him as the codifier of "form."

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses evaluative hyperbole like foremost authority on "form" and "complete and easy competence", plus a long, list-like physical description—"from the slant of his bald forehead" to "long patent-leather feet"—to imply his taste "must be congenital". Direct speech and precise fashion jargon (e.g., "If anybody can tell a fellow", pumps versus patent-leather "Oxfords", and "his authority had never been disputed") show others defer to him, reinforcing his status as an arbiter of etiquette.

The writer establishes Lefferts’s status with an emphatic declarative: “was… the foremost authority on ‘form’ in New York.” The inverted commas make “form” a specialist code, and abstract nouns and adjectives—“intricate”, “fascinating”, “study”—elevate it into a discipline, while the modal and metaphor “must be congenital” suggest innate, effortless mastery.

Furthermore, the vivid list of physical details—“slant of his bald forehead”, “curve of his… moustache”, “long patent-leather feet”—uses visual imagery and adverbs like “carelessly”, and the noun phrase “lounging grace”, to show artful nonchalance, making his appearance itself proof of authority.

Additionally, direct speech from a “young admirer”—“If anybody can tell a fellow… it’s Larry Lefferts”—works as testimonial, while specialist lexis (“pumps”, “patent-leather ‘Oxfords’”) creates a technical register. The hyperbole “his authority had never been disputed” and the exclamative “My God!” at a breach reinforce his rule‑making role. Finally, the comparison “as great an authority on ‘family’ as Lawrence Lefferts was on ‘form’” makes him the benchmark for judgement. Therefore, the language constructs Lefferts as the natural arbiter of “form”.

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 adjectives and some hyperbole to show status, calling him the "foremost authority on 'form'" with "complete and easy competence", and listing stylish details like "beautiful fair moustache" and "patent-leather feet" so he looks like an expert. Direct speech and specific fashion references—"it's Larry Lefferts" and "pumps versus patent-leather 'Oxfords'"—show others seek and accept his judgement, which "had never been disputed."

The writer presents Lefferts as an authority by using declarative description: “the foremost authority on ‘form’ in New York.” The adjectives “complete and easy competence” and the word “congenital,” with “wear such good clothes so carelessly,” suggest his skill is natural, so readers trust him.

Furthermore, there is a semantic field of fashion and rules, like “black tie,” “evening clothes,” and “pumps versus patent-leather ‘Oxfords’.” This precise vocabulary shows he knows the details, which makes him seem expert and in charge of style.

Additionally, the quotation from “a young admirer” — “it’s Larry Lefferts” — and the hyperbole “his authority had never been disputed” emphasise his reputation. The exclamatory sentences “Well—upon my soul!” and “My God!” also show a confident tone, so others react to his judgement. Therefore, the language presents him as the clear expert on “form.”

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses words like "foremost authority on 'form'" and "his authority had never been disputed" to show he is important and respected. The direct speech "If anybody can tell a fellow... it's Larry Lefferts" shows other people rely on his fashion knowledge.

The writer uses adjectives and a statement to show Lefferts is an expert. The phrase "foremost authority on 'form'" and "complete and easy competence" make him seem important and confident.

Furthermore, the writer uses direct speech from an admirer: "If anybody can tell a fellow... it's Larry Lefferts," which shows people look to him for advice and that his "authority" was "never... disputed".

Additionally, detailed description and specialist vocabulary present him as stylish: "beautiful fair moustache" and "pumps versus patent-leather 'Oxfords'." This list of clothing words makes the reader see he knows about dress and "form".

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Superlative noun phrase establishes undisputed status, positioning him as the definitive arbiter of etiquette (foremost authority on 'form')
• Concessive structure with “but” elevates him beyond mere learning, implying deeper, exceptional expertise (study alone could not account)
• Modal certainty and biological metaphor naturalise mastery as innate, making his authority seem unquestionable (must be congenital)
• Long cumulative listing of physical details turns his appearance into proof of expertise, embodying correctness in his very body (lean and elegant person)
• Paradox of effortless elegance suggests instinctive command: he performs propriety without strain (lounging grace)
• Social validation via direct speech shows community endorsement of his practical know‑how (If anybody can tell)
• Technical fashion jargon signals specialist knowledge of minute conventions, reinforcing expert credibility (pumps versus patent-leather 'Oxfords')
• Absolute assertion closes down challenge, presenting communal consensus about his status (never been disputed)
• Subtle dominance in action: others orient themselves by him, suggesting he sets standards and attention (following Lefferts's glance)
• Framing comparison equates him with society’s other acknowledged expert, reinforcing institutional recognition (as great an authority)

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 novel.

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how surprise is engineered structurally: the text opens in medias res with sharp exclamations—"Well--upon my soul!", "My God!"—that snap focus from stage to box, then passes the gaze (and authority) via the opera-glass from Lefferts to Archer to Jackson while delaying the revelation behind the "entry of a new figure" and dwelling on her "unusual dress", so the communal reaction—"the whole of the club turned instinctively", "waited in visible suspense"—intensifies. It would analyse how long digressions about "form" and "family", plus withheld scandal signalled by "as everybody knew ...", slow the pace so the abrupt final judgement—"I didn't think the Mingotts would have tried it on."—lands as a crisp structural payoff that crystallises the shock of social transgression.

One way the writer structures the opening to create a sense of surprise is through an exclamatory, in medias res hook and deliberate delay. The text begins not with scene-setting but with Lefferts’s startled outbursts—“Well—upon my soul!” and “My God!”—short, exclamatory sentences that jar the poise of the opera and prime the reader for a breach of decorum. Instead of revealing the cause, the narrative pauses to profile Lefferts as the “foremost authority on ‘form’,” legitimising his shock. This strategic withholding heightens curiosity: if a paragon of etiquette is astonished, what offence could warrant it?

In addition, shifts in focalisation and pace intensify the surprise. The focus moves from Lefferts to Archer, who “saw with surprise” the “new figure” in Mrs Mingott’s box, before the narration zooms in on the woman’s “Josephine” headdress and “unusual dress.” Crucially, she remains unnamed—delayed identification that keeps the reader off-balance. The lens then widens to a collective viewpoint—“the whole of the club turned”—and to a second arbiter, Jackson, “authority on ‘family’,” whose presence, juxtaposed with Lefferts’s “form,” raises the social stakes. The prose slows into a genealogical catalogue; this narrative digression, studded with parenthetical asides and an ellipsis (“as everybody knew …”), withholds disclosure while implying buried scandal, deepening the sense of impending shock.

A further structural feature is the crescendo towards an understated cliffhanger. The club’s “visible suspense,” Jackson’s silent “scrutiny,” and his “thoughtful” moustache-twist create a dramatic pause. The build-up resolves in a terse, cryptic line—“I didn’t think the Mingotts would have tried it on.”—whose vagueness preserves the surprise and propels the reader forward.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would typically identify that the writer builds surprise by opening with abrupt exclamations "Well--upon my soul!" and "My God!", then delaying the reveal through shifts in focus (from Lefferts’s concern with “form” to Archer’s "saw with surprise") and the club’s wait "in visible suspense", so the understated closing "I didn't think the Mingotts would have tried it on" lands as a surprising social twist.

One way the writer structures the opening to create surprise is by starting in medias res with exclamatory dialogue. The first line—“Well—upon my soul!”—and the abrupt turning of the opera-glass immediately signal shock and make us ask what caused it. This is reinforced by “My God!” and the swift handover of the glass, before the focus shifts to Archer, who “saw with surprise,” aligning us with his reaction.

In addition, the writer manipulates focus and pace to prolong the surprise. We track Lefferts’s glance to “a new figure” in the box, but identity is withheld while the narration zooms in on the “unusual dress,” slowing the moment. The viewpoint then widens to “the whole of the club,” and a digressive list of kinships and scandals delays explanation, intensifying expectation.

A further structural choice is the return from delay to a clipped, understated ending. After “visible suspense” and the repeated passing of the opera-glass (a motif of scrutiny), the long, informative sentences contract into: “I didn’t think the Mingotts would have tried it on.” This contrast delivers a teasing reveal and leaves a cliff-hanger.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer builds surprise by starting with sudden exclamations like "Well--upon my soul!" and "My God!", then shifting focus to a "new figure" in an "unusual dress" and making the club "waiting" while a long bit of background about Mr. Jackson delays the explanation, before the final line "I didn't think the Mingotts would have tried it on." This delay and end reveal make the reader curious and then surprised, like the characters.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create surprise is by using an opening exclamation and a quick shift of focus. The opening line 'Well—upon my soul!' is sudden, then the focus moves from the stage to Mrs. Mingott’s box, where Archer 'saw with surprise' a 'new figure.' This opening creates immediate surprise.

In addition, in the middle the writer delays the reveal to build surprise. We get a zoom on the woman’s 'unusual dress,' then a long section about Sillerton Jackson and family links. This slower pace withholds information, so the reader keeps expecting something shocking.

A further structural feature is the ending, which uses a final short line of dialogue: 'I didn’t think the Mingotts would have tried it on.' After the club box 'waited in visible suspense,' this acts like a cliff-hanger and surprises the reader, making us want to read on.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Begins with shocked exclamations like 'Well--upon my soul!' and 'My God!' to create instant surprise, then moves to the 'entry of a new figure' in an 'unusual dress'. Ends with 'I didn't think the Mingotts would have tried it on' and the box’s 'visible suspense', keeping the surprise going.

One way the writer creates surprise is by starting with exclamations. Lefferts cries "Well--upon my soul!" and "My God!", which suddenly grabs attention and makes us wonder what unexpected thing has happened.

In addition, the focus shifts to the "new figure" in the box. The description comes after the shock, delaying who she is, so the order of details keeps the surprise going.

A further feature is the ending. The club waits and then Mr Jackson says, "I didn't think the Mingotts would have tried it on," a short final line that hooks us with another unexplained surprise.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• In medias res exclamation from an authority on “form” hooks us before context, immediately provoking curiosity and surprise at an unknown cause → Well--upon my soul!
• Perspective shift to Archer frames the reaction before the reason, so readers discover alongside him, reinforcing the surprise → saw with surprise
• Cause is identified vaguely as an anonymous entrant, withholding identity to sustain intrigue and heighten the shock → entry of a new figure
• Prolonged, detailed visual pause on appearance and styling delays naming, intensifying astonishment at the social boldness signalled by attire → unusual dress
• Stage-like movement and etiquette debate foreground a possible breach of custom, making the seating decision feel daring and unexpected → propriety of taking
• Broadening to a collective viewpoint magnifies the moment into a public shock as all wait for confirmation and context → The whole of the club turned
• Extended digression establishing Mr. Jackson’s credentials deliberately slows the narrative, increasing suspense before any authoritative verdict → forest of family trees
• Hints of scandal paired with declared discretion keep key facts withheld, sustaining tension and the sense that a revelation may erupt → closely locked
• The narrator foregrounds anticipation and inserts a silent pause right before speech, structurally priming a climactic surprise → waited in visible suspense
• The payoff is understated and enigmatic, a brief judgment that implies audacity without spelling it out, leaving the shock resonant → tried it on

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, the detailed description of Sillerton Jackson's knowledge could make him seem powerful. The writer suggests that in this society, knowing people's secrets is more important than money or status.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Sillerton Jackson's power
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey the importance of his knowledge
• 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 the writer constructs Jackson’s power through society’s deference to his knowledge—seen in "the whole of the club turned instinctively" and "visible suspense"—and through metaphors that render his mind an archive, a "register of most of the scandals" that have "smouldered under the unruffled surface", making him "as great an authority on 'family'" as Lefferts is on "form." It would evaluate the viewpoint by showing that curated knowledge functions as social currency that can outstrip wealth/status—he is the "only man who could have told you who Julius Beaufort, the banker, really was" and keeps secrets "closely locked"—yet note that his power is legitimated by a "reputation for discretion" and mastery of the "forest of family trees", so knowledge amplifies rather than replaces status.

I largely agree that the writer endows Sillerton Jackson with a quiet, gatekeeping power grounded in knowledge, and that in this milieu the possession of secrets outweighs mere wealth or display. From the moment “the whole of the club turned instinctively” towards him, he is positioned as an arbiter: an “authority on ‘family’” to match Lefferts on “form.” This explicit equivalence suggests that pedigree and private histories, curated by Jackson, are at least as determinative as public manners or money.

The writer intensifies this impression through cumulative, multi‑clausal listing that showcases the breadth and precision of his knowledge. He can “elucidate” the “ramifications” of cousinships and “enumerate” the “leading characteristics” of each lineage. The triadic exemplification—“fabulous stinginess,” “fatal tendency… to make foolish matches,” “insanity recurring”—does more than amuse; it implies that hidden traits police the marriage market. The parenthetical aside “on no account to be confused” is both pedantic and powerful, signalling his role as taxonomist of status. Knowing who may “intermarry” and who must be refused is social leverage; it shapes alliances more decisively than cash.

Metaphor consolidates this authority. Jackson carries, “between his… temples,” a “register”—the diction of archives and ledgers—of scandals that have “smouldered under the unruffled surface.” The antithesis of “smouldered” and “unruffled” exposes a city governed by subterranean knowledge. Hyperbolically, he is “the only man who could have told you who Julius Beaufort, the banker, really was.” Here, the appositive “the banker” is undercut by “who… really was”: identity and origins, guarded by Jackson, trump financial prominence. Likewise, Bob Spicer’s disappearance “with a large sum of trust money” binds wealth to disgrace; what matters is not the money but the story behind it—and Jackson controls that story.

Crucially, the writer frames his power as deriving from discretion. Secrets are “closely locked in Mr. Jackson’s breast,” and his “reputation for discretion increased his opportunities.” This paradox—silence begets knowledge, knowledge begets influence—casts information as a currency he hoards rather than spends. Structurally, suspense builds as the “club box” waits; his “silent” scrutiny and the slight, theatrical “twist” of his moustache delay the verdict. When it comes—“I didn’t think the Mingotts would have tried it on”—its laconic idiom functions as a performative judgement. Minimal words, maximal impact: the group’s response gives his utterance force.

Overall, the passage persuades me that Jackson’s knowledge confers real power, and that, in this satirised society, secrets govern status rather than the other way round. Money may glitter, but it is the keeper of narratives who decides what really counts.

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 that the writer presents Jackson’s knowledge as social power, using listing and metaphor (a forest of family trees and a register of most of the scandals) and the deference of others who turned instinctively and waited in visible suspense. It would also link the idea that secrets outweigh wealth to the detail that he alone could have told you who Julius Beaufort, the banker, really was.

I largely agree that Jackson’s detailed knowledge makes him seem powerful, and that secrets outrank money or simple social “form”. From the moment he appears, the narrative frames him as an arbiter: the club waits for his verdict and the description dwells on the breadth and selectiveness of what he knows. His power is discreet but decisive.

The writer foregrounds his authority through structure and lexis. The focus swings to him—“the whole of the club turned instinctively”—and he is named an “authority on ‘family’,” itself a valued status. The cumulative listing—“he knew… could elucidate… could also enumerate”—builds a sense of exhaustive expertise. Technical terms like “ramifications” and the fussy parenthetical asides about the “Chiverses” create specialist, gatekeeping knowledge that others must consult.

The language also implies secrets outweigh wealth. The metaphor of a “forest of family trees” and the noun “register” of “scandals and mysteries” show he maps both lineage and hidden truth. Crucially, he “could have told you who Julius Beaufort, the banker, really was”: the label “the banker” contrasts public money with private identity, implying information trumps riches. Likewise, Bob Spicer “disappeared… with a large sum of trust money,” yet what counts is the mystery Jackson could unlock. Hyperbole (“the only man”) and the contrast between the “unruffled surface” and what “smouldered” beneath stress that reputations rest on what men like Jackson know.

Finally, the suspense—“the club box… waited in visible suspense”—and the delayed, “said simply” verdict give his words judicial weight. Even his “filmy blue eyes” and “old veined lids” emphasise the irony that frailty houses power. Yet his power depends on restraint: secrets are “closely locked,” and “discretion increased his opportunities.” Overall, I agree to a large extent: in this society, controlled knowledge is the key currency, often outclassing money or formal status.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Mostly agree: Jackson seems powerful because The whole of the club turned and waited in visible suspense, and he is presented as as great an authority on 'family' with a register of most of the scandals, suggesting secret knowledge outweighs money or status. A Level 2 answer would identify these clear details and the simple method of listing his knowledge to support a basic judgement.

I mostly agree that the detailed description makes Sillerton Jackson seem powerful, and that in this world secret knowledge matters more than money or show. Straight away, the writer shows his influence when “the whole of the club turned instinctively, waiting to hear what the old man had to say.” The word “authority” about “family” suggests people rely on his knowledge to judge others. The adverb “instinctively” shows their respect is automatic.

The writer then piles on detail to prove how wide his knowledge is. There is a long list of cousinships he can “elucidate” and traits he can “enumerate,” and the metaphor “forest of family trees” makes his information seem vast and tangled. He also carries a “register of… scandals and mysteries,” which implies that secrets are a kind of power. The mention of “who Julius Beaufort, the banker, really was” suggests that even a rich man’s money is less important than what Jackson knows about his background. The Bob Spicer story, with the “large sum of trust money,” links wealth to hidden shame, again showing how secrets control reputations.

His power also comes from discretion. The mysteries are “locked in Mr. Jackson’s breast,” and his “reputation for discretion” gives him more access. Structurally, the “visible suspense” while he “silently scrutinised” builds tension; then his understated line, “I didn’t think the Mingotts would have tried it on,” lands like a verdict.

However, the description of his “filmy blue eyes” and “old veined lids” makes him seem frail, so his power is social, not official.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents secret knowledge as the real currency, which gives Sillerton Jackson quiet but real power.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response simply agrees that Jackson’s knowledge makes him powerful and matters more than money or status, pointing to "The whole of the club turned", "waited in visible suspense", and his "register of most of the scandals and mysteries."

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, Sillerton Jackson seems powerful because everyone watches him. The writer shows this when “the whole of the club turned” and “waited in visible suspense” for him to speak. This makes him sound in control.

The writer uses listing to show the scale of his knowledge: “Mingotts… Dallases… Albany Chiverses,” and even family traits like “stinginess” and “foolish matches.” This long list suggests he knows everything about them. There is a metaphor in “a forest of family trees” and a “register of… scandals,” which makes his mind seem full of secrets. The detail that the mysteries were “closely locked in Mr. Jackson’s breast” and that his “reputation for discretion increased his opportunities” suggests secrets are almost a kind of currency.

We also see that knowledge is valued over money when he could tell “who Julius Beaufort, the banker, really was.” Though Beaufort has money, Jackson’s knowledge matters more. After all the waiting, one judgement — “I didn’t think the Mingotts would have tried it on” — shows his words carry weight.

Overall, I agree that the description makes him seem powerful, and that secrets are important in this society.

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:

• Contrast of spectacle vs knowledge: despite the wearer drawing notice, attention shifts to Jackson, implying knowing outranks display (attention it was attracting)
• Collective deference creates authority and tension: the club turns as one and waits for his judgment, signalling social power (the whole of the club)
• Framed as a parallel authority, his expertise becomes social currency; comparison with Lefferts implies knowledge can trump etiquette or mere status (as great an authority)
• Hyper-detailed genealogy (listing and elucidation) shows gatekeeping power over inclusion and marriages, a leverage money can’t buy (all the ramifications)
• Reputational labelling through a triad of flaws (stinginess, foolish matches, madness) suggests he can shape or stain standing beyond wealth (insanity recurring)
• The “register” metaphor casts secrets as a durable asset; long memory equals long-term influence in this hierarchy (scandals and mysteries)
• Exclusivity magnifies sway: being the one who could define a banker’s true identity places knowledge above title or profession (the only man)
• Anecdotal intrigue (disappearance, trust money, dancer) hints that what he knows could undo families—immense soft power (disappeared so mysteriously)
• Power-through-restraint: locking secrets and honourably withholding them paradoxically expands access and authority (reputation for discretion)
• Understated final verdict steers opinion; a single calm line frames the family’s move for the whole box (tried it on)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For a time capsule to be opened in fifty years, you are writing a short creative piece.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a village blacksmith's forge in the 1800s from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a night when the town clock stopped.

(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 forge breathes—a deliberate, lunging breath—through its bellows, their leather flanks creaking like an old accordion. Coals hooded in grey abruptly open, lifting a lambent eye; inside, heat flowers from dull cherry to a fierce, near-white. Scale skitters; tiny meteors shear off the bar and stipple the packed earth. Heat. Noise. Breath. The anvil waits, patient as an altar, its horn burnished; the floor is sifted with ash and filings, the scurf of yesterday’s labour. Midges of fire wheel in a shaft of daylight fallen from a soot-lacquered window. The air tastes metallic—ferrous, gritty, faintly sweet with tallow—and the roof beams carry their own remembered weather, a palimpsest of smoke. Outside, a thin light lies along the sill, but inside everything is gathered to the core of the fire. When the hammer falls, the rafters seem to intone.

He stands close to the brightness, sleeves rolled, leather apron dark as river mud; forearms latticed with old burns, he moves with practised economy. He turns the bar—quarter-turn—draws out the toe, eases a curve into compliant metal; back to the fire; checks colour, because colour is law here. The anvil answers in measured call-and-response: three sure blows, a pause; then two, then three again, almost musical. Sparks halo his beard, peppered with ash; sweat slicks his temples and sifts to the earth like little stars. His eyes—pale, unstartled—read heat as a mariner reads weather. Sometimes the hammer kisses his thumb; he does not swear, merely breathes and resumes—work as old as time.

Around him, an inventory of iron: tongs with beaks like creatures (wolf’s mouth, duck’s bill); hammers in ascending persuasions; chisels, drifts, hardy tools; a swage block squats like a tired animal. On a pegboard, horseshoes gleam oil-black; in a corner a ploughshare waits, implacable. The slack tub holds its silence until metal enters—hiss, scream, cloud—then quiet again, smelling suddenly of rain on dust. At the lintelled doorway a bay horse stamps, patient but not patient; its breath writes cursive in the cool. A boy at the bellows leans into the handles, his knuckles chalked with coal; children stare from the threshold; their mothers nod bargains over the din. Even the flies seem slower here, their small orbits smudged by heat. Beyond, the village trundles onward—hens scrabbling, a cart jouncing, the church clock taking its time—yet each strike stitches the afternoon together.

Now he quenches, and the iron shudders into itself; steam climbs, veils, vanishes. He peens and punches; nail-holes open like obedient mouths; the shoe, still dangerous-bright, comes good under his hands. It is a simple thing, almost trivial, except that nothing here is trivial: strength must be bent without breaking; temper coaxed from anger to usefulness, a lesson obvious and ineluctable. What else can a day do but be hammered into shape? There is a kind of holiness—the heat, the hush between blows—the forge as both animal and altar. And when dusk softens the doorway, when the coals hood their eyes and the anvil cools to a mute, the heart of the place keeps one ember. Tomorrow: fire and iron; strike and turn; again and again.

Option B:

Midnight: the seam that binds one day to the next; the hour when shutters are latched and cats knit themselves into shadows; when the sky loosens its colour and lamplight lays a honeyed glaze on cobbles. In our town, the clock in Market Square was not merely a face; it was a spine. Its bell called bakers, scolded stragglers, persuaded windows to darken. It did not so much mark time as make it.

On the night it stopped, the silence began before anyone knew to listen. The minute hand faltered—an almost imperceptible hesitation—then stilled, parted like a held breath. Dust, ancient as the bell itself, stirred in the throat of the tower and fell. The mechanism—gears with a patina of oil and stubbornness—lost their cadence. Above, frost silvered the slates; a moth worried at the lamp and went nowhere.

Theo, elbows powdered with flour, waited for the third chime that told him when to score the loaves. It did not come. His hands, automatic until that instant, hovered above the risen dough—soft, domed, patient—while the bakery hummed with ovens. Light from his doorway made a bright rectangle on the street; within it, flour motes revolved like private snow. He listened and heard only the small symphony of his work: scrape of blade, the stuttered tick of a timer, his breath—unhelpfully loud.

Across the square, a curtain yawned a fraction; Mrs Duval’s terrier froze mid-yelp, as if a finger had found its throat; a boy above the ironmonger’s held his hand into the cool to test whether time itself had thickened. Even the fountain held still, reluctant to spill. Not the end of time—no. Rather, an inconvenient blister: an air-bubble under the skin of midnight.

Theo wiped his palms, left white on his apron, and stepped outside. The clock—its pale face mottled with weather—stared down without expression. He had never noticed how alive it was when it moved; now, arrested, it looked dead, or worse: indifferent. He felt the hum of a town without a heartbeat and, absurdly, an urge to apologise—to the woman who set medicine by those chimes; to routines that trusted the bell’s punctual mercy.

The tower door was iron-banded, paint flaking in elegant curls. He touched it—cold, uncompromising—and drew back. What would he do if it opened? What did one do with a silence this deliberate? He glanced up, sought a second hand that wasn’t there (there never had been one), and saw a fracture in the glass at seven past twelve: a spidering star, fine until you trust it with weight.

A key scraped. Mr Lang, the watchmaker, was a silhouette made of angles—elbows, hat brim, the fine bones of a man who measured seconds. He raised a ring of keys that chimed—bright, insubstantial—in the clock’s muteness. “You heard it too,” he said. Theo nodded.

They stood, stitched small against the patient tower, and the watchmaker chose a key. Time, paused like a nervous swimmer at the edge, waited with them. Theo could smell iron and frost and the consoling warmth of bread; he could taste anticipation’s metallic tang. When the lock turned—reluctant, then capitulating—the door coughed, and the night exhaled. They stepped inside.

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

Option A:

In the stone throat of the hearth, a small sun burns. Light pours over the packed earth floor, painting it orange; sparks leap like seeds thrown into wind. Soot floats, turning the beams into shadowed ribs; the air is heavy and granular, metallic on the tongue, as if one could chew the heat.

At its margin the blacksmith stands: broad-backed, leather apron shiny with ash; his forearms are plaited with sinew and soot. Each swing of his hammer is measured; it lands, and the iron answers, a note that rings the room. Clang—draw—turn; his rhythm is stern yet soothing, as though the village clock has moved indoors and taken a body.

On the anvil lies a shoe the colour of cherries; the tongs bite; the metal yields. When he dampens it, the trough hisses, a breath sucked through teeth; steam breaks in a plume and vanishes at the rafters. The bellows crouch like a sleeping animal (its snout charred), then wake when the boy—awkward—works the handle: lungs swelling, exhaling a measured wind that feeds the coals until they roar again.

The shelves hold a sort of ordered jumble: files like thin fish, curled shavings, a jar of nails. Above them a horseshoe is nailed for luck; below, chips of slag glitter. Smudges of chalk mark the bench with numbers and names; an almanac curls on a peg, last winter’s page still showing. There is a smell here—coal and iron, scorched hide, damp straw from the yard—that clings to skin and coat, and walks out with you whether you wish it or not.

Outside the arched doorway, rain frets the lane; a mare shifts, stamping, steam rising from her flanks. A farmer rubs his chapped hands, hat in fist; two children whisper, eyes wide at the star-shower of every blow. The village goes by in fragments: a bonnet bobbing, a cart creaking past. Inside, the work continues: a ploughshare sharpened; a hinge made straight; a wheel rim shrunk tight by fire. Necessary things, ordinary miracles.

By late afternoon the light leans and thins; the anvil’s ring softens. The last shoe is quenched; the surface blooms with black roses. The blacksmith loosens the strap at his neck and breathes, slow and steady. In the cooling forge the coals still mutter. The day has been hammered into shape; not perfect perhaps, but serviceable—and the village will run on it.

Option B:

Night settled over Millhaven like a velvet shawl; street lamps, shy as fireflies, stitched a pale seam down the river road. Frost filigreed the shopfronts. Above them, the town clock presided — four faces, four pale moons — its hands sweeping with the same patient certainty that had soothed generations. Its bell braided the hours into order: two for milkmen, five for bakers. People slept to its assurance, breathing in time.

On the night it stopped, Nora Pierce was alone in her bakery, elbow-deep in flour, waiting for the one o’clock chime to tell her when to cut the dough. She did not look at the clock above the oven; she trusted the one on the square, the one everybody trusted. One minute past, two minutes past; the bell should have tolled with that solid sonority that shook the panes. It did not.

How do you notice a sound that isn’t there? By the shape of the silence it leaves. The room rearranged itself around that gap — the scrape of her knife, the radiator’s clicks, the street’s nocturnal sigh — all suddenly louder, as if trying to fill an indefinable hollow. Nora stepped into the alley, wiping flour from her wrists. The air was cold enough to lace her breath; it bit, a clean, green sort of cold. Above, the tower stood dark, its minute hand arrested at twelve fifty-nine, obstinate as a mule.

Mr Denby used to climb those stairs with a key and a joke and a bag of oil. ‘Old girls need attention,’ he would say, patting the stone as if it had a pulse. He was buried in January, when the river wore ice like a bruise; since then, the council had promised to sort the mechanism—soon. Soon, like ‘later’ in an official coat. Everyone carried on: why wouldn’t a thing that had always worked go on working? Nora carried on too, not out of laziness, but faith.

She crossed the square. The cobbles glittered with hoar frost; a fox skittered, a russet streak. At the tower door, the padlock looked theatrical — big, black, serious — yet the key from the bakery’s ring slid it open with an unceremonious click. Inside, the stairwell was a coil of cold stone. With each step, Nora listened for that impossible thing: time restarting. A foolish wish, perhaps, but a useful one. Somewhere above, behind gears and a face that blinked at nobody, something waited, or refused, or simply rested.

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

Option A:

The forge crouches by the lane, low and stubborn, its chimney coughing a slow ribbon of smoke into the late afternoon. The doorway gapes like a mouth; warm air spills out, tasting of iron, coal and damp leather. Inside, a bed of coals glows, a small sun sunk into brick, and the bellows breathe with a patient sigh. Tools hang from the rafters—tongs, hammers, pincers—each black with work. Dust turns in the light; the anvil waits, polished bright on its horn.

He arrives already marked by heat: forearms roped and bright with sweat, a leather apron crusted at the edges, hair grained with ash. When his hammer lifts, the building listens. The first blow lands; the sound arcs into the lane, sharp and clean, then another, then another, a measured clanging that seems to order the evening. Sparks dart out like startled bees. He turns the bar with steady tongs, returns it to the fire, watches the metal bloom from sullen red to almost white. The iron resists; he persuades it, he does not plead.

Concurrently, at the threshold, a mare shifts, stamping, her breath sweet and quick. The apprentice murmurs and lifts her hoof; the rasp makes a gritty music. When the hot shoe is pressed to test the fit, smoke snakes up and the smell is harsh, but reassuring somehow. The villagers glance, wince, smile. Cartwheels and ploughshares lean against the wall; a bundle of hoops awaits a barrel. On a peg, chalk marks a schedule: hinges, nails, a gate latch—ordinary words, and yet they hold the village together.

The water trough hisses as a finished piece is plunged; steam veils the blacksmith’s face, then clears. Outside, the inn sign knocks against the post; a child coughs; a cart goes by. Inside there is only the beat and the glow. Who can ignore that beat? Not the boy with blistered hands; not the old dog dozing; not even the sparrows in the rafters, shaking down soot at the strongest strokes. Later, the hammering slows. The coals settle like sleepy eyes, and the door draws in the heat, almost closed, until tomorrow.

Option B:

At two minutes past midnight, the town clock stopped.

Not slowed—stopped. The hands froze at XII and II, a tiny stutter, then a silence that pressed against the windows. The square seemed to lean in to listen. Streetlamps hummed; a bus sighed on the hill; somewhere a fox skittered. One sound was missing: the steady tick that stitched the night together.

Nia lay awake in her attic room, counting like she always did. The tick had been a metronome under her homework, under her breath, under her dreams. She reached two hundred and six and, suddenly, she couldn’t reach anything. She sat up, the duvet sliding to the floor in a soft avalanche. Pipes creaked; the radiator hissed; a dog barked twice and then gave up. The lack of ticking made everything louder, as if the town had taken a breath and didn’t quite know what to do with it.

“Dad?” she whispered, though the house was sleeping and the walls were like paper. There was no reply, only the faint glug of the gutter. She checked her watch—dead—and felt foolish, but also a little thrilled. What happens when time decides to be stubborn?

Meanwhile, Mr Penhaligon, who had oiled the clock every Sunday since the year the bakery changed hands, opened his eyes in the dark. He could feel the stillness through the mattress, through his old bones; his ears knew it before his mind did. He swung his legs to the rug, muttering as if the clock could hear him. “Oh no you don’t.” He pulled on trousers, found his keys, and winced at the cold floor. By the time he crossed his kitchen, the kettle began its low murmur; habit tugged at his hands even now.

Across the square the fountain kept going, scandalously indifferent. Water flashed beneath the lamps; the statue’s stone finger pointed, as always, at nothing. The bakery window was clouded with flour dust and breath from the proving dough. A cat, all ribs and attitude, threaded the benches. Without the clock’s heartbeat, minutes swelled and thinned; they were elastic, unreliable.

Nia opened her window. The air smelled of wet cobbles and yeast. “It’s stopped,” she said, testing the words on the dark.

Somewhere up in the tower, behind the glass and the pale face with its Roman numerals, a single gear had shivered on its pin. And the town, for a moment longer than a moment, hovered between yesterday and whatever would come next.

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

Option A:

At the bend of the lane, the forge squats low beneath thatch smeared with soot. The wide door gapes, and the smell of coal, hot iron and singed hoof drifts into the damp morning. A cart waits with one wheel propped; a mare stamps, breath pluming. A thin thread of smoke curls from the ridge and hangs under the low sky. Children peer through the dirty panes.

Inside, the heat presses close; it makes the air waver and the eyes sting. The fire glows—a bed of coals like crushed rubies—set deep in the hearth. The smell is heavy—sweet with coke, bitter with old ash—and it clings to your tongue. When the bellows groan, the embers flare; flame licks the bar with greedy tongues. Ash drifts onto boots and sleeves.

The blacksmith stands at his anvil, arms roped with work, his leather apron cracked. His face is patient; he holds the iron in the heart of the fire until it blushes. Sweat beads on his temples, shining in the orange light. Then—quick—he brings it to the anvil. The hammer rises and falls, rises and falls, beating a clear note that rings in the rafters. Sparks jump like fireflies.

Tools crowd the walls: tongs, hammers, files; on the bench lie horseshoes and nails. An apprentice pumps the bellows with both hands—cheeks puffed, brow streaked. A bucket waits with black water. When the hot shoe meets it, the hiss is sharp, like a snake, and steam lifts with the smell of iron and wet ash.

The village hums; the church bell tells the hour. A latch to straighten, a hinge to mend, a horse to shoe—the rhythm goes on. Light drifts across soot-dark beams, and by evening the coals still glow: an orange heart that will not sleep.

Option B:

Midnight. The hour when the town loosens its laces: shutters pulled in, streetlamps whispering, cats curling like commas in doorways. In the square, the clock wore its pale face in the dark, calm and dependable as the moon. Its chimes normally rolled through the lanes; a steady heartbeat that everyone counted without thinking. On that night, the sound thinned, stuttered, and then—nothing. The hands trembled at twelve and stayed there, like breath held too long.

Mr Weaver, who kept the clock oiled and steady, woke not to noise but to the lack of it. He lay in his narrow bed behind the workshop, listening for the familiar three-note call. The silence felt bright, almost brittle: he sat up, pulled on his coat, and took his lantern. Outside, the town smelt of flour and frost. A fox crossed the empty road; the square looked larger without sound.

Other people felt it too, in small ways that didn’t make sense. Mrs Cole paused with her hands deep in dough, waiting for one o’clock to turn loaves; the dough sighed under her palms. On the night bus, a boy watched the church spire pass, expecting the bell that didn’t come. A patient on the ward counted seconds in her head, and lost them. Time didn’t vanish, it only slipped sideways, and everyone noticed the gap.

At the base of the tower, Mr Weaver touched the door; the wood was scarred and cold. He knew each step that curled up to the mechanism, the narrow window halfway, the nail that snagged his sleeve every time. He started to climb, lantern swinging, his pocket watch ticking like a tame cricket. The town was hushed below him, roofs resting like folded wings. If the clock had stopped, he thought, what else might wait, perfectly still, in the dark?

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

Option A:

The forge breathes in the corner of the village like a live thing. Coals glow in a low, brick mouth; the air wavers and shudders above them. Only one thing rules here: heat. It presses on faces and backs, it tightens the throat and leaves the tongue tasting of iron. Smoke threads up and out through a crooked vent, slow and stubborn, smudging the rafters with black.

The blacksmith moves in that glow. Leather apron, soot-streaked shirt, arms sinewy. His hammer rises and falls, steady as a clock. Clang, clang, clang. Each strike shakes the anvil; sparks burst and scatter like small stars, a brief constellation—then dark. The bellows creak; in, out, in, out, feeding the fire with breath.

A shivering horse edges in, hooves clattering on the stone. ‘Hold him steady,’ the smith says, voice rough but not unkind. A boy peers from the doorway, eyes wide, cheeks smeared. A woman waits with a bent pan to mend; a farmer holds a broken hinge. The iron comes out yellow-white, the tongs grip it, it hisses as he lays it to the shoe, steam blossoming, the air sharp with that bitter, hot-metal smell.

Outside, the lane is quiet, geese fussing, bare trees tapping the window. Inside, time goes differently; work measures it. He lifts, he shapes, he quenches: sss—ss—ss. Water leaps and the scent changes to wet ash. Evening leans against the door, the light grows mild. The ring of the hammer carries over cottage and field, a small promise that things can be made, and mended.

Option B:

At midnight, the town clock coughed once and stopped. No tick; no tock. The night shuffled closer, listening.

In the square, yellow windows watched each other and the fountain whispered to itself. Without the steady tapping above the roof, the streets felt wrong, like a song missing a drum. The hands were stuck at twelve—thin and silver, they pointed nowhere at all. A soft, strange silence settled; it tasted of iron and old dust.

At first, nobody noticed. Mr Hartley, the baker, shoved another tray into the oven; he wiped flour into his hair and hummed the tune he always hummed at two. He waited for the second chime that told him to pull out the crusts early. It didn’t come. He frowned, checked the tiny clock by the till, tapped it—nothing changed. That was when his stomach did a flip.

Meanwhile, up on Station Hill, Mia stood with her bike, trying to judge how late she was. She had snuck out to ride the quiet lanes, the way she did when she wanted air, and the town usually held her in a slow, safe rhythm. She listened for the quarter chime that stitched the dark together. There was only wind, nosing at the hedges. Because nothing moved.

By the statue, a stray dog paused, head tilted. A curtain twitched; someone murmured, did you hear that? What, exactly? The simplest things grew peculiar.

The clock stared down with a pale, blank face. It knew the town, and now it refused to tell its story.

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

Option A:

Heat breathes from the forge, a deep red glow that stains the low beams. The mouth of the fire opens and closes as the bellows wheeze—old leather lungs. Sparks leap; they scatter like tiny stars and die on the packed earth. Iron sits on the anvil, black, then cherry, then almost white, and when the hammer falls the sound cracks the room again and again.

The blacksmith is broad in the shoulders, his apron shiny with grease. He grips the tongs; his knuckles are pale, his jaw set. Bang, turn, bang, turn, the simple rhythm beats like a heart. A boy pumps the bellows, he wipes soot on his sleeve, he watches the glowing bar bend. Meanwhile a farmer waits in the doorway with a lame horse, the animal snorts at the smoke, its brass bit tapping softly.

There is water in a bucket by the hearth: the quench. He plunges the metal, a fierce hiss jumps up, steam blooms and the smell is sharp like hot rain on dust. Tools hang like teeth along the wall—hammers, files, nails in tins. Outside, the street is pale, but in here time feels heavy. The work goes on, over and over, shaping stubborn iron into useful things.

Option B:

At twelve minutes past midnight the town clock sighed and stopped. The square held its breath. No chime, no slow tick, just a cold hush over the cobbles. Only the hum of electricity under the street lamps. The clock’s face floated pale above the roofs, and its hands hovered like birds frozen in the dark.

I was walking home from the late shift at the bakery—flour still on my sleeves—when I looked up. It should have been moving. Without it, the night felt loose, like a coat unbuttoned in the wind. A cat sprang across the road; my footsteps sounded too loud. Puddles were black mirrors and my breath drifted like smoke.

The clock stopped, nobody noticed at first. Mr Harrow listens for twelve chimes to take his tablets; the driver counts them at the depot too. Then a door clicked open by the alley. 'Did you hear it?' someone whispered. I didn’t know who they meant, the clock or the silence. What happens when the heart of the town forgets to beat?

Behind the face, something tiny must have snapped; some wheel, some stubborn spring giving up. By the time I reached the square, I stood under it and waited—one minute, two—and even the gulls seemed to pause.

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

Option A:

The forge is small and dark. The fire glows red like a small sun. Smoke hangs in the air, it tastes like metal. The floor were dusty with ash. A heavy anvil sits in the middle, it waits.

The blacksmith lifts the hammer. He hits and hits. The ring goes out like a bell. Sparks jump up, they look like angry bees. The bellows breath in and breath out, again and again, the fire grows. My eyes water and my hands feel hot, even when I stand back a bit.

It aint quiet.

Outside, in the village lane, a horse stamps, it dont like the smell. The man talks low to it, he says easy. He pulls a shoe from the coals; it shines orange, it bends soft. The smell is sharp, thick, it makes my tongue dry. Then quiet: then the hammer again. The light creeps in the door and the smoke crawls out, and the work goes on

Option B:

It was a dark night and the town felt held. The clock over the square stopped, it just sat there like a face with its mouth shut. Half past ten froze in the glass and nobody knew. There was no ticks anymore.

I lay in bed and wait for the tick and the tock, I always count them to sleep but they didn't come, it was only quiet. Mum said go to sleep, but I couldn't, my ears were too open. The house clicked and the pipes sighed and the dog thought it was morning already. I kept seeing the hands stuck. No tick, no tock.

Outside people came to look. Mr Khan had a torch and me and Jay went with him we wasn't meant to. The beam climbed the tower like water, and the clock looked back at us, it felt wrong. Somewhere a fox screamed, the road felt empty.

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

Option A:

Heat sits in the small forge the coals are red and it glows. The blacksmith lifts a bar of iron with tongs, he hits it hard, bang bang, the noise jumps. Smoke is thick and Im close so my eyes water and the smell is sharp like eggs. Sparks spit out and fall on the dirt floor. The bellows wheezes, it breathes slow. He wears a torn leather apron and his arms are strong. A horse waits, stamping, shoes are not done yet it seems. Water hisses when the metal goes in, steam. There is a boy, and bread, I don’t know why.

Option B:

It was night and the town clock stoped. The tick tock was gone and the street felt wrong. I stood by the shop and I listen. Dogs did not bark and the wind was cold like ice. I was hungry. We was waiting for the sound but nothing hapened. I looked up and the hands was stuck at twelve. I think the clock was tired, it just give up. Mr Jones came out in his slippers and said is it broke, I said I dont know. The moon looked big and the town felt small. Mum called me home but I didnt move, like a secret.