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 After crossing which imaginary line do the ships lose the strong breezes of the ocean?: The imaginary line drawn from Punta Mala to Azuera – 1 mark
• 1.2 Where are the ships from?: Europe – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the narrator, what effect does crossing the notional boundary near the gulf have on the vessels coming from Europe?: The vessels lose steady ocean winds and are left to the whims of light, shifting breezes for many hours – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator, what usually occupies the head of the calm gulf in front of the ships from Europe bound to Sulaco?: A large bank of motionless, opaque cloud – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:

1 On crossing the imaginary line drawn from Punta Mala to Azuera the ships from Europe bound to Sulaco lose at once the strong breezes of the ocean. They become the prey of capricious airs that play with them for thirty hours at a stretch sometimes. Before them the head of the calm gulf is filled on most days of the year by a great body of motionless and opaque clouds. On the rare

6 clear mornings another shadow is cast upon the sweep of the gulf. The dawn breaks high behind the towering and serrated wall of the Cordillera, a clear- cut vision of dark peaks rearing their steep slopes on a lofty pedestal of forest rising from the very edge of the shore. Amongst them the white head of Higuerota rises majestically upon the blue. Bare clusters of enormous rocks

11 sprinkle with tiny black dots the smooth dome of snow. Then, as the midday sun withdraws from the gulf the shadow of the mountains, the clouds begin to roll out of the lower valleys. They swathe in sombre tatters the naked crags of precipices above the wooded slopes, hide the peaks,

How does the writer use language here to describe the mountains and the early light over the gulf? 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 typical Level 4 response would analyse how the writer personifies and monumentalises the landscape through metaphor and dynamic verbs—mountains as a "towering and serrated wall" and a "smooth dome of snow", with "rearing" slopes that "rises majestically"—to render them sublime yet forbidding, while tracing shifting light via personification and contrast: "capricious airs" that "play", the "midday sun withdraws", clouds that "swathe in sombre tatters", and colour/scale juxtapositions in "white head... upon the blue" and "tiny black dots"; it may also note how long, cumulative sentences mirror the "sweep of the gulf" and the gradual veiling of the peaks.

The writer employs personification and dynamic verbs to animate the early light over the gulf. On “rare clear mornings” a “shadow is cast upon the sweep of the gulf”: the passive “is cast” foregrounds the spreading effect, while the light works like a painter laying tone across a vast canvas. “The dawn breaks high” behind the Cordillera; “breaks” suggests an incision of light. The sibilance around “shadow… sweep” and the precision of “clear-cut vision” evoke crisp clarity, sharpening the reader’s view.

Moreover, the mountains are monumentalised through an extended architectural metaphor. They are a “towering and serrated wall” on a “lofty pedestal of forest”, while the summit forms a “smooth dome of snow”—a cathedral-like curvature. This diction dignifies the range. Personification and zoomorphism deepen the grandeur: “dark peaks rearing” implies power, and the “white head of Higuerota rises majestically upon the blue”, a crowned presence. The detail that rocks “sprinkle… tiny black dots” across the whiteness magnifies scale, making vision seem minuscule against immensity.

Additionally, shifting light and cloud are rendered through textile imagery. As “the midday sun withdraws”, a purposeful retreat, “the clouds begin to roll” and “swathe in sombre tatters the naked crags”: cloth verbs create a funereal veiling that “hide the peaks”. The long syntax and temporal adverbials—“On the rare clear mornings”, “Then, as…”—mirror the diurnal progression, the flowing clauses echoing the “roll” of vapour across the “sweep” of the gulf. Collectively, these choices monumentalise the range while choreographing dawn’s reveal and concealment.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify personification in "prey of capricious airs" and "play with them" to show the ships’ vulnerability, and explain how adjectives and imagery like "motionless and opaque clouds," "towering and serrated wall," "lofty pedestal" (and the peak that "rises majestically") present the mountains as imposing and awe-inspiring. It would also comment on dynamic verbs and sentence form—e.g., "dawn breaks," "roll out," "swathe in sombre tatters," "hide the peaks"—to show the shift from clear light to encroaching gloom, noting that the long, complex sentence beginning "Then, as the midday sun withdraws..." slows the pace to mirror the spreading clouds.

The writer uses personification and metaphor to make the dawn and mountains vivid. The phrase “another shadow is cast upon the sweep of the gulf” suggests the early light actively shapes the scene, casting long silhouettes. Likewise, “the dawn breaks high behind the towering and serrated wall of the Cordillera” personifies the light and compares the range to a “wall,” while “serrated” implies knife-like edges, conveying the mountains’ harsh grandeur.

Moreover, colour and elevation imagery create majesty. The “white head of Higuerota rises majestically upon the blue” personifies the peak and uses contrasting colours to suggest purity against the sky. The “lofty pedestal of forest” is a metaphor that presents the mountains like a statue on display, emphasising height and importance.

Furthermore, precise visual detail sharpens the early light. “Bare clusters of enormous rocks sprinkle with tiny black dots the smooth dome of snow” contrasts “enormous” with “tiny,” while the noun phrase “smooth dome of snow” and sibilance in “smooth… snow” evoke clarity and stillness at dawn.

Additionally, the writer contrasts this with later obscurity. As the sun “withdraws,” clouds “roll… swathe in sombre tatters the naked crags… hide the peaks.” The clothing metaphor (“swathe,” “naked”) and the complex sentence beginning with “Then, as…” show how the light’s retreat gradually veils the mountains.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses personification and descriptive words to show calm but power: capricious airs that play with them, motionless and opaque clouds, a towering and serrated wall, and Higuerota rises majestically, making the mountains seem big and impressive. Action verbs show movement and concealment as clouds swathe in sombre tatters to hide the peaks, and the long, flowing sentences add detailed description like a slow, wide view of the gulf.

The writer uses metaphor to show the mountains as strong, calling them a "towering and serrated wall of the Cordillera". This makes them seem like a barrier and helps the reader picture their sharp edges. The peaks are active too: "dark peaks rearing" suggests height and power. Furthermore, personification is used for the early light over the gulf: "The dawn breaks high" and "another shadow is cast". This makes the light feel active and shows shadow.

Moreover, adjectives present beauty in the mountains as "the white head of Higuerota rises majestically upon the blue", giving a clear scene. Additionally, imagery such as the "smooth dome of snow" and clouds that "swathe in sombre tatters" the crags helps us imagine how the rocks and clouds look. The long, flowing sentence helps show the wide view of the gulf and mountains. Overall, these choices describe the mountains and the early light clearly.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple descriptive words like "towering", "serrated" and "majestically" to make the mountains seem big and impressive, and phrases such as "motionless and opaque clouds" and "dawn breaks high" show the still gulf and early light behind the peaks. There is basic personification in "airs that play" and action verbs like "roll" and "swathe" to show the clouds moving in and hiding the mountains.

The writer uses metaphor to describe the mountains, calling them a "towering and serrated wall of the Cordillera"; this makes them seem tall and strong, like a barrier. Furthermore, the early light is shown when "the dawn breaks high" and "another shadow is cast upon the sweep of the gulf," which gives a clear picture of morning light over the water. Moreover, personification such as "Higuerota rises majestically" and clouds that "swathe" the crags makes the scene feel alive. Additionally, adjectives like "opaque," "smooth," and "naked" create simple visual images.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Heavy adjectives create an oppressive stillness over the gulf before dawn: motionless and opaque
• Passive construction suggests the mountains’ power to dominate the gulf’s sweep: another shadow is cast
• Dynamic verb energises the sunrise, implying sudden, elevated illumination behind the range: dawn breaks high
• Metaphor of a defensive barrier makes the Cordillera feel formidable and knife-edged: serrated wall
• High-contrast phrasing crisply silhouettes the peaks in early light: clear- cut vision
• Personification gives the mountains animal force and upward surge against the sky: rearing their steep slopes
• Architectural metaphor layers the landscape, elevating the peaks on a natural base: lofty pedestal of forest
• Regal personification and colour contrast aggrandise the summit against the blue: white head of Higuerota
• Shape and scale imagery make purity vast so even enormous rocks seem mere specks: smooth dome of snow
• Temporal shift and dynamic weather imagery show light retreat as clouds shroud the crags: sombre tatters

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 eeriness?

You could write about:

• how eeriness intensifies throughout 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: At Level 4, candidates trace the whole-text structural arc, showing how temporal shifts and perspective narrowing intensify eeriness: from ships losing “the strong breezes” beneath “motionless and opaque clouds,” through the pivot “Unless perchance” to a roaming “pirate-ship of the air,” and into “impenetrable darkness” where “The eye of God Himself... could not find out.” They also analyse the macro-to-micro zoom and delayed revelation (the islets with “a very witch amongst palm trees” and Sulaco kept “out of the direct line of sight”), explaining how personification, delay and enclosure make the landscape feel purposefully hostile.

One way the writer structures the opening to create eeriness is through a liminal threshold and a slow temporal arc that darkens. Crossing the “imaginary line” immediately unsettles the ships, which become prey to “capricious airs”, and the panorama is veiled by “motionless and opaque clouds.” The chronology then sequences from “clear mornings” to “the midday sun” and into “At night,” so that visibility is progressively withdrawn: the mountains “hide,” the Cordillera “is gone from you,” and finally the gulf is “smother[ed]” in “impenetrable darkness.” This controlled pacing—signposted by connective adverbials like “Then” and “At night”—intensifies the eeriness by moving from uncertainty to total occlusion. A structural pivot, “Unless perchance,” injects an anomalous intrusion—the cloud as a “sinister pirate-ship”—which momentarily breaks the pattern and heightens menace.

In addition, shifts in focalisation and voice unsettle the reader’s footing. The omniscient survey yields to sailors’ proverbial chorus, “as the sailors say… they add,” layering hearsay over description so the scene acquires folklore. Crucially, the perspective slips into second person: “your ship floats unseen,” and even the “Eye of God… could not find out” your work. This direct address collapses distance, immersing the reader inside a blindness where authority and oversight are suspended—an intrinsically eerie structural effect.

A further structural device is the macro-to-micro zoom and delayed revelation. After the black gulf, the narrative enumerates “The Isabels”—a catalogue that narrows to Hermosa, “a foot high… seven paces,” and fixes on the palm, “a very witch,” an uncanny arrest in the descriptive flow. From the “low end” the “eye plunges… as if chopped with an axe” into Sulaco’s harbour, yet the town remains “out of the direct line of sight.” This keyhole framing and withholding keep the place half-seen, sustaining the text’s eerie, half-hidden atmosphere.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that eeriness intensifies as the writer moves from a broad, unsettled scene (capricious airs, motionless and opaque clouds) through time shifts (Then, … At night) into impenetrable darkness where your ship floats unseen, using second-person address to involve the reader. It would also note a structural zoom from the gulf to the islets (The Isabels, with a very witch amongst palm trees) and finally the harbour (the eye plunges into the harbour of Sulaco), showing how tightening focus and contrast heighten the eerie mood.

One way the writer structures the text to create eeriness is through a temporal progression that darkens the scene. The opening focuses on emptiness beyond an “imaginary line” and “motionless and opaque clouds”, then shifts at “midday” as clouds “swathe” and “hide” the peaks, before “At night” plunges us into “impenetrable darkness”. This sequencing suggests encroachment, as the landscape steadily smothers sight and certainty.

In addition, a change in perspective and voice intensifies the mood. After panoramic description, the narrative switches to second-person—“your ship floats unseen”—and inserts seamen’s sayings—“the sun... is eating it up”, the “eye of God”—framed by parenthetical asides. These structural intrusions of folklore draw the reader into the blindness, making the gulf feel unknowable and cursed.

A further feature is the shift in focus and scale, from the vast gulf to a zoom on the islets and, finally, a withheld glimpse of Sulaco. The listing of “The Isabels” and vivid details—Hermosa “smokes like a hot cinder”, a palm “a very witch”—contrast with “sunshine”, making even daylight uncanny. Ending with the town “out of the direct line of sight” and the “opal mystery” sustains concealment.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: It starts calm and gets darker, moving from 'motionless and opaque clouds' to 'The Cordillera is gone' and then, 'At night', to 'impenetrable darkness' with showers 'now here, now there'. Then the focus goes from the big gulf to the islets (a palm like 'a very witch') and talks to the reader ('your ship floats unseen'), which makes the place feel hidden and unsafe.

One way the writer structures the opening to create eeriness is by starting with a wide focus on the gulf. Long, flowing sentences and repeated mention of “motionless” clouds and “capricious airs” slow the pace. This calm beginning feels like a trap for the ships, which is unsettling.

In addition, there is a clear temporal shift from day to night, and a change in perspective to second person: “your ship floats unseen”. This change in focus makes the reader imagine the “impenetrable darkness”. The contrast from bright day to blind night intensifies the eerie mood.

A further structural feature is the later zoom in on the Isabels and the harbour at the end. Listing and naming places guide the reader’s eye, and the palm called “a very witch” sounds creepy. Finally, Sulaco is “out of the direct line of sight”, so details are withheld.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer shows uneasy calm with “motionless and opaque clouds” and “capricious airs,” then shifts to night and “impenetrable darkness” under a “black poncho,” so it goes from uncertain daylight to total blackness to make it eerie. Later the focus on the islets and the “witch amongst palm trees” keeps the mood creepy.

One way the writer creates eeriness is by starting with a slow description of the setting. The opening focus on the calm gulf and heavy clouds makes everything feel still and strange.

In addition, there is a temporal shift to night: “At night”. This change brings “impenetrable darkness” and a “black cavern”, so the mood turns spookier.

A further structural feature is a shift in focus to the isolated islands and then the harbour. The writer zooms in on the “witch” palm, and ends with Sulaco partly hidden to keep the mystery.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate threshold crossing frames entry into an uncanny zone, as conditions alter the moment the gulf is entered (On crossing the imaginary line).
• An opening tableau of unnatural stasis establishes unease, the gulf sealed beneath motionless and opaque clouds.
• A reveal–conceal sequence moves from rare clarity to encroaching obscurity, as clouds smoke in stormy trails across the heights.
• The ongoing contest between gloom and light sustains tension, with the sun that is eating it up while the cloud-bank “always strives.”
• A disruptive exception punctuates the pattern—the rogue thunder-head that bursts like a pirate-ship of the air, injecting sudden threat.
• Chronological progression darkens into night, culminating in sensory deprivation and impenetrable darkness.
• Inserted sailor lore shifts perspective to superstition, intensifying the uncanny as The eye of God Himself cannot see within.
• A brief switch to second-person immersion disorients the reader, making the unseen palpable as your ship floats unseen.
• Focus narrows to named islets, grounding the scene before unsettling details skew it toward the uncanny, like the palm called a very witch.
• The viewpoint funnels through a sudden opening and withholds full sight of the town, sustaining mystery as it lies out of the direct line.

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 26 to the end.

In this part of the source, the darkness is described as so total that it hides everything from sight. The writer suggests this makes the gulf a place where people are free to act secretly and without consequence.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of how the hyena behaves
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the hyena
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue the writer largely endorses the claim, showing the gulf as a zone of unaccountable secrecy through hyperbolic, sacrilegious and visual-erasure imagery—The eye of God Himself could not find out, impenetrable darkness, floats unseen, sails flutter invisible, the personifying black poncho—to imply actors are free to call the devil to your aid with impunity. It would also complicate this by noting that if even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness suggests the same darkness can nullify agency, not merely conceal it.

I largely agree that the darkness is presented as absolute and obliterating, and that this makes the gulf a space where men might act “with impunity”; however, Conrad also complicates this by suggesting that such “blind darkness” can inhibit action and by setting up daylight vantage points that can puncture secrecy.

From the outset, the darkness is given agency: the “body of clouds… smothers the whole quiet gulf” in “impenetrable darkness”. The violent personification of “smothers” and the absolute adjective “impenetrable” create a semantic field of suffocation and erasure, reinforced by the proverbially known “black poncho” under which the Placido “goes to sleep”. The simile of the stars shining “as into the mouth of a black cavern” reduces light to a feeble glimmer swallowed by void, while spatial imagery strips away orientation: the ship “floats unseen under your feet” and sails “flutter invisible above your head”. This sensory deprivation is intensified by dislocated sound—showers “beginning and ceasing abruptly—now here, now there”—which disorients the listener and implies that surveillance is impossible. Most decisively, the reported seamen’s voice offers blasphemous hyperbole—“The eye of God Himself… could not find out what work a man’s hand is doing in there”—before spelling out the moral consequence: one could “call the devil to your aid with impunity.” The religious allusion and the legalistic “impunity” crystallise the idea that darkness licenses secret action without retribution.

Yet the sentence immediately undercuts unqualified freedom: “if even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness.” The paradox here is telling—darkness makes you unseeable, but its very “blind[ness]” can “defeat” agency; the personified gloom becomes an active force that frustrates intent. Thus, while the writer constructs a myth of consequence-free secrecy, he also intimates that the same conditions may stifle efficacy.

Structurally, the passage then pivots to daylight topography “just outside the cloud veil.” That metaphor of a “veil” suggests both concealment and a liminal threshold. The islets’ sinister personifications—a palm “a very witch,” the rock that “smokes like a hot cinder”—sustain an atmosphere in which clandestine deeds feel imaginable. However, the Great Isabel provides a surveillance vector: from its “low end… the eye plunges… right into the harbour of Sulaco,” an opening “as abrupt as if chopped with an axe.” The repeated focus on vision—“eye,” “line of sight,” “opal mystery,” “dry haze”—creates a motif of seeing and being seen. Even in brightness, the town lies “out of the direct line of sight,” suggesting that the geography itself colludes in concealment.

Overall, then, the writer powerfully evokes a night so total it erases witnesses and promises “impunity,” while also suggesting that darkness can paralyse action and that the landscape’s angles can alternately shield and expose. I agree to a great extent, with the caveat that this secrecy is conditional and precarious.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, noting how the writer uses hyperbole and metaphor to present total concealment: "impenetrable darkness" that "smothers the whole quiet gulf below" like a "black poncho", where a ship "floats unseen" and even "The eye of God Himself" "could not find out" what a man does, implying freedom to act "with impunity". It would also acknowledge nuance by pointing out "even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness", suggesting the same darkness can hinder wrongdoing, so secrecy is powerful but not absolute.

I largely agree that the writer presents the darkness as so complete that it conceals all action and seems to allow secrecy without consequence. From the outset, night ‘smothers the whole quiet gulf… with an impenetrable darkness’: the violent verb ‘smothers’ and the adjective ‘impenetrable’ create a mood of absolute concealment. The auditory detail of showers ‘beginning and ceasing abruptly—now here, now there’ adds disorientation, suggesting movements could happen unobserved. Personification and metaphor intensify this effect: the gulf ‘goes to sleep under its black poncho’, so ‘sky, land, and sea disappear… out of the world’. The simile of the stars shining ‘as into the mouth of a black cavern’ evokes a cave-like secrecy. Most explicitly, the religious allusion and hyperbole that ‘the eye of God Himself… could not find out what work a man’s hand is doing’ and that one might act ‘with impunity’ make the idea of consequence-free deeds clear. The second-person address—‘your ship floats unseen… her sails… invisible’—immerses the reader in this blindness.

However, the writer also complicates this. The phrase ‘if even his malice were not defeated by such a blind darkness’ implies the night is so ‘blind’ it can paralyse action as well as hide it. Structurally, the focus then shifts beyond the ‘cloud veil’ to the islets ‘basking in the sunshine’, a clear contrast that limits the darkness’s power to the covered gulf. Even in daylight, though, the diction sustains hints of concealment: the Little Isabel’s palm is ‘a very witch’, and the Great Isabel contains a ‘deep tangled cleft’ and broad ‘shade’, suggesting pockets where things could be hidden. The view towards Sulaco passes into the ‘opal mystery’ of distance, and the town lies ‘out of the direct line of sight from the sea’, preserving an undertone of secrecy.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: at night the writer’s imagery and hyperbole present a space where acts are hidden ‘with impunity’, though the darkness can also hinder agency and daylight reveals much that the night obscures.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would partly agree, picking out clear details like the impenetrable darkness and the metaphor of the black poncho to show nothing can be seen, and simple exaggerations such as The eye of God Himself... could not find out and free to call the devil... with impunity to suggest secret actions without consequence.

I mostly agree that the darkness is so complete it hides everything and makes the gulf a place for secret acts. At the start, the writer uses extreme imagery like “impenetrable darkness” and says “sky, land, and sea disappear.” This hyperbole makes it feel like nothing exists to watch you. The metaphor “black poncho” suggests the gulf is covered up, and the simile of stars shining “into the mouth of a black cavern” makes the space feel enclosed and hidden. The seamen’s saying that “The eye of God Himself… could not find out what work a man’s hand is doing” clearly implies no one can see, so people could act “with impunity.” The religious reference and the phrase “call the devil to your aid” also suggest moral rules are suspended in this night.

However, I do not think the writer shows only freedom. He also says the darkness is “blind,” which might defeat “even” the devil’s malice. That hints that you cannot do much because you cannot see. After this, the description shifts to careful details of the islands: the named “Isabels,” a spring, and a “ravine.” This precise setting, and personification like the palm “a very witch,” show danger and that the place is known, not just lawless.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer’s imagery and hyperbole make the night feel like a cover for secret acts, but the danger and exact geography suggest limits to that freedom.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, pointing out that the gulf is in “impenetrable darkness”, where “your ship floats unseen” and even “The eye of God Himself... could not find out”, so people could act “with impunity.”

I mostly agree that the darkness is so total it hides everything and lets people act secretly in the gulf. The writer makes the night feel blinding and covering.

The writer uses strong words and images to show this. He says there is “impenetrable darkness” and that “sky, land, and sea disappear together,” which shows nothing can be seen. The Placido “goes to sleep under its black poncho” is a metaphor that covers everything up. The few stars “shine feebly as into the mouth of a black cavern” is a simile, making it like a cave where light cannot reach. Even “your ship floats unseen” and the sails are “invisible,” which adds to the sense that actions could be hidden.

The sailors’ saying makes the secret part clear. They claim “The eye of God Himself could not find out what work a man’s hand is doing,” so people would not be noticed. It also says you are “free to call the devil… with impunity,” which suggests no consequences for what you do in the dark.

Overall, I agree with the statement because the writer’s language makes the gulf seem fully hidden, so people could act in secret without being caught.

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:

• Personification of the clouds as a suffocating force presents them as actively concealing the gulf, strongly supporting the claim of total hiding (impenetrable darkness).
• Profane hyperbole that even divine sight cannot penetrate pushes us to agree human deeds would be undetectable (The eye of God Himself).
• The explicit promise of freedom from retribution makes clandestine action seem possible and tempting (with impunity).
• However, the paradox that even malign intent is neutralised shows darkness can stifle agency as well as hide it, challenging the “without consequence” idea (blind darkness).
• Practical details of ordinary seamanship erased from sight imply that work can proceed unseen, bolstering the statement (your ship floats unseen).
• The cavern metaphor frames the gulf as a swallowed void beyond oversight, intensifying the sense of concealment (mouth of a black cavern).
• Residual light is not wholly absent—faint oversight remains—so obliteration is weakened rather than annihilated, slightly qualifying the claim (few stars left).
• Disorienting soundscape suggests activity might still be betrayed by noise, making secrecy insecure rather than guaranteed (now here, now there).
• The setting’s physical isolation near the harbour approaches makes unseen deeds plausible, reinforcing the argument (uninhabited islets).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local theatre is collecting short creative pieces for its new season programme.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a theatrical costume department from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about the moments before a performance.

(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 door yields with a stagehand’s hush, releasing a breath of starch, dye and old dust. Light wedges itself between rails and worktables, a slant of gold stippled by lint; flecks rise and fall. Silence is a costume here—stitched and tailored—yet the room keeps its orchestra: a zip’s serrated sigh; the whisper of silk pleating over a palm; the exhalation of an iron.

Racks shoulder one another like crowded chorus lines, their metal spines bowed by centuries compressed into hangers. Velvet with a nap as deep as dusk; crisp taffeta that snaps; brocade hoarding light—each fabric presses for a cue. Sequins blink; tassels idle; capes drowse. To step between them is to move through time: Tudor ruffs rustle beside neon bomber jackets; a bias-cut gown leans against a suit of armour made from painted foam.

Meanwhile, mannequins stand mid-breath, pale and headless, pocked by the pin-pricks of a hundred decisions. Tape measures slink like tame serpents around their waists; tailor’s chalk dusts their hips with thin moons; a bodice in toile hangs on one, its seams basted for argument. A tomato-shaped pincushion is skewered and scarlet; silver thimbles glint. Fingers—invisible, but evidently tireless—have tamed boning into a sternum; they have persuaded netting to bloom.

At the workbench, ruled with old scorch marks and pencilled fractions, tools keep their etiquette: shears with a wicked, satisfied bite; a tracing wheel with tiny teeth; a drawer labelled in tidy handwriting—Hooks; Eyes; Frogs; Grommets. The grommet press clacks; the steam iron sighs; the foot pedal of a Singer becomes a metronome. The bin is theatrical, its threads a confetti of failures leading to perfection.

Beyond the rails, hats ascend in improbable topographies—plumes, turbans, helmets, crowns—while shoes wait in ranked pairs, their soles scuffed into maps of other people’s distances. Inside collars, names bloom in black marker, a genealogy of roles: Lear; Widow Twankey; A Chorus Member, No. 4. A paper tag declares Macbeth: Banquet Cloak, Act III; another, stitched into lining, whispers simply, Moth, 2011. Who stitched these secret histories? Who will ever know that inside the hem of that wedding dress there is a bright, stubborn thread of green?

Here, smells are stories, too: hot metal and damp cotton; cedar and camphor; the faint talc of makeup smudged across a collar that never quite forgot a cheek. The air tastes of late nights. It is an Aladdin’s cave—an obvious comparison, perhaps, yet apt—because treasure here is measured not in price but in possibility.

Above all, this is a waiting room. Characters sleep on wire shoulders until the call comes; they keep their shapes like secrets. A last thread is bitten, a knot smoothed flat, and a life is ready. Then the curtain lifts, and the room resumes its patient hush, counting beats to the next overture.

Option B:

Backstage, the theatre held its breath; out front, hundreds copied it, as if quiet were contagious. The curtain—red as a throat—swelled and settled, an enormous lung; cue lights winked; the floor’s scuffed tape arrows pointed to destinations that were suddenly significant. Programmes rustled like leaves; a cough was a pebble in a lake; the murmur rose and fell, tidal, obedient to the invisible moon of expectation. A faint cologne of paint, dust and hairspray drifted through the wings, sweet and acrid; in the half-light, dust motes rehearsed.

Amara stood at her spike mark, palms pressed to the ribbed seams of her costume, counting breaths—four in, hold, six out. Her prop letter trembled in her fingers (papier-mâché, but believable), edges softened by rehearsal; her lines, annotated in urgent biro, crowded the margins of her mind. First line: she tried it under her breath, let it settle; the words tasted metallic, like the bitten lip she had sworn she wouldn’t bite tonight. She lifted her chin and felt the powder on her neck crack to confetti. Butterflies? Not butterflies at all—more like a flock of startled starlings under her ribs.

‘Beginners to the stage, please. Beginners.’ The stage manager’s voice—velvet over steel—slid through the headsets and across the black. Rosalind, an older actor, squeezed Amara’s elbow. ‘Listen to the first sound,’ she murmured. ‘Let it pull you in. Don’t push.’ Her breath smelt of mints; her eyes were bright as footlights. Amara nodded. What if the first line abandons me? she thought, and chided herself for the melodrama. She had done this again and again in an empty, patient theatre. Now it was full, bristling; the same space, and not the same at all.

The overture pared back to strings; a note hung, insinuating itself into the bones of the building. Amara flexed her toes inside shoes that pinched, a domestic discomfort suddenly monumental. Her heart was in her mouth—too on the nose, she thought, and smiled at her own private critique. Through the gap in the curtain she saw only a suggestion of faces, an indistinct garden of pale ovals and blue-lit glows. Somewhere, belated laughter; somewhere else, a door sighed shut.

‘Stand by... and—go.’ The green light offered its small permission. Time contracted. She crossed the threshold where duct-taped floor became stage, where dim became brightness, where the world she inhabited—messy, apprehensive, ordinary—thinned to a line. Heat slapped her cheeks; the glare washed colour from everything; applause arrived early, then fizzled to attentive quiet. Amara found her mark as if it had been waiting for her all along. When she opened her mouth, the first syllable felt precarious, a fledgling at the edge; then, somehow, it flew. The audience leaned. The theatre, at last, exhaled.

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

Option A:

Light filters through high windows, thin as muslin, onto a room that hums with secrecy and thread. Steam lifts in soft breaths from a heavy iron; the air smells of camphor, hot cotton, a suggestion of tea leaves left to stew. Mannequins stand in a blunt row like sentries, their plaster shoulders dimpled by pin-pricks, their blank faces tilted as if listening. Between them: corridors of garments on rails, a walled garden of colour.

Here the fabrics speak. Velvet murmurs; tulle fizzles; satin holds the light the way a lake holds the moon. Sequins flare and then quieten, a fugitive glitter that moves when you move. On every hanger a story dangles—DUKE, WITCH, CHORUS 3, written in marker on soft card—and the costumes wait, waiting as patiently as beasts in a stable. Gold braid coils like vines; brocade blooms with stitched peonies; ostrich plumes, light as feathers, nod over a hat box. It is beautiful, in a strange way.

At the centre sits a table scarred by years of work, a palimpsest of chalk and nicked edges. Shears rest there with their confident weight; when they open, they disclose a bright, deliberate smile. Pattern paper crackles under palm and tape measure (the tape hangs like a tame snake), and drawers whisper out: buttons, toggles, frogs, hooks; ribbons coiled in patient spirals; spools of thread in an orchard of colours. There is a thimble with a dent; a seam ripper gleams, sly and precise. The room keeps its own grammar of making.

Hands move—quiet, quick hands that know the stubbornness of wool and the slither of silk. The sewing machine begins, a rapid, persuasive clatter; needles dip in and out, in and out, in and out, biting and releasing, the stitch tightening like a promise. A sleeve is eased; a hem reconsidered; the ghost of a character is adjusted at the waist. Who will they be tonight? A squire, a sailor, a queen with a whisper of dust on her hem. There is discipline here, and patience, and a little glitter that drifts onto cuffs and refuses to leave. Not yet.

Near the sink, dye pots cool; the porcelain is tattooed with violets and greens. A rack of damp garments breathes; the floor shines in places where wax has smoothed it. Beyond the door, the stage beats—distant drums and the hush before a cue—but this room keeps steady time. When the last pin is capped and the last label tied, the mannequins stand a moment longer, immaculate and blank. The audience will never quite know this work. The costumes know. The rails roll forward. The secret heart of the show.

Option B:

The stage holds its breath; I try to do the same. In the half-light of the wings, the floor shines like a black lake, glossy and marked with chalked crosses that promise safe harbours. The curtain shivers—only a tremor—as if it, too, is nervous about what is about to happen.

Someone whispers “Five,” a sliver of sound cutting the murmurous air. Dust drifts in the beam of a single work lamp, dancing like secret confetti. My costume itches despite the careful seams, and the collar sits too high, tightening when I swallow. I flex my fingers—once, twice—until the tendons feel like violin strings tuned to a careful pitch. Beneath the powder and hairspray there is the warm smell of plywood, hot cables, rosin and faint coffee. A watch ticks with metronomic certainty somewhere behind me; it is almost rude in its confidence. Am I ready? I nod to no one, the way I’ve practised in the mirror: steady, almost serene. The stage manager glides past with a clipboard and a pencil sharpened to an impatient point. He mouths my name. I mouth it back, as though I need reminding.

In my pocket there is a ribbon, creased and daffodil-yellow. It used to belong to Gran, who taught me to project my voice across a room without yelling. “Find the last row,” she said, “and talk to them.” When I close my eyes, I see that last row like a starless sky and I imagine my words flying there—sturdy, winged, precise. Last rehearsal, I forgot a line and felt the bottom drop out of the world; the silence was so loud it rang. Afterwards I walked home in the twilight, reciting into my scarf—the sounds spiralling into vapour—until the syllables fitted together again, snug as the cogs of a clock. Since then I have rehearsed everywhere: on buses, in corridors, under the shower where steam made the script curl. Fear is a thin wire; balance on it with breath, I tell myself, and it becomes a bridge.

“Beginners to the stage, please. Beginners.” The call is soft but absolute. A ripple runs through us—the cast, crew, chorus—as if a small wind has found us all at once. My heartbeat steadies into a patient drum. Lights warm up with a gentle hum; the cue light waits, scarlet and still. I step onto my mark, the gaffer tape tiny against the painted floor, and inhale until the air is cold and clean. The auditorium settles. The curtain lifts like a slow eyelid. I step forward into the bright, deliberate now.

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

Option A:

Light pools on the scuffed lino, catching on sequins as if the floor had been salted with stars. Rails crowd the room, tiers of velvet and tulle and tired cotton; sleeves lean into sleeves, whispering. Mannequins stand like pale sentries, faceless but somehow watchful, their muslin skins pricked with pins. The air tastes busy: warm steam from an iron, the sweet-sharp breath of mothballs, a faint gluey tang. Dust rises when a curtain sways, and it looks almost like applause trapped in the sunbeams.

Meanwhile, the sounds stitch the place together. The machine hums—then rattles, then hums again—steady as a small engine. Scissors bite through fabric; chalk taps the table in a dotted line. On a near shelf, there is a regiment of hat boxes and battered crowns; feathers tilt from them with tired pride. A drawer slides to reveal a treasury of buttons: shell, bone, plastic pretending to be gold. Wigs wait on stands, hair frozen in permanent curls, each tagged with a name and a scene. Even the tape measures have a slouch to them, looped like tame snakes across a chair.

Here, stories hang by shoulders. A frayed frock coat smells faintly of smoke; perhaps it remembers a villain. Beside it, a ballgown the colour of rainlight gleams under a strip-lamp, hem pinned with silver claws. There is a handwritten label—Act II: Waltz—and, below it, the designer’s sketch, pencilled and persuasive. Stitch after stitch, the room invents people. It pads out a prince; it tightens a maid; it cheats time with a careful seam. Sometimes the magic is obvious, sequins screaming their shine. Sometimes it is quieter: an invisible dart so a sleeve falls just-so.

Beyond the door, the stage waits impatiently, but in here the pace is patient. Someone clears their throat; someone laughs; someone says almost, nearly, again. Evening leans in. The rails become avenues; shadows grow long and theatrical, as if practising. A half-finished costume rests on a mannequin’s bony shoulder, expectant. Though this is only a room—lino, lamps, and thread—it feels, pertinently, like the theatre’s heart, beating under everything.

Option B:

Backstage smells of old velvet and hot dust, a dry, papery scent that clings to the throat. Beyond the black curtain, the audience murmurs: a low sea shifting, shivering. The curtain holds its breath; so do I. A strip of light leaks under the edge like a secret, narrow and bright.

I rub my shoe soles through the tray of rosin until the faint grit sings—tiny grains, small assurances. I smooth my costume where the seam always puckers, pretending I can iron fear flat. My heart ticks, neat and relentless, like the metronome on the piano in Studio Three. Breathe into the ribs, count four in, four out: Miss Harris’s voice hovers in the wings. Someone to my left adjusts a headpiece, someone coughs; nerves skip around our group like static. I don’t feel ready; however, readiness is irrelevant now.

Tape lines stitch the floor into pale roads I know by memory. I mouth the opening counts—four slow, eight quick—turn, reach, fall (but not really fall), catch. The stage manager appears as a silhouette from a shadow play: “Places in one.” We nod, a quiet flock of bobbing chins. From the pit comes a scatter of notes, the orchestra warming, reeds and strings fussing themselves into tune; then the hush folds back over everything, deliberate and heavy.

In the months before tonight, I thought of this moment while icing my ankles and copying corrections into a dog-eared notebook. What if I forget under the lights? What if the floor slides away? The questions arrive in a rush, but they don’t root; the choreography has threaded itself through muscle and memory, stubborn as a knot. I see our trio in the mirror, the angle of my arm, the flash of a hand at the crescendo. Ordinary practice, arduous and somehow luminous too.

“Stand by,” the stage manager calls, gentle but absolute. The cue light blinks from red to green—once, twice—and the curtain seems to inhale. I exhale, the knot inside me loosens a little. When the first bar spills from the dark, I step forward into it, into the bright, into the moment that has been waiting.

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

Option A:

The costume department is a maze of rails and light, a hush cut by the thin hum of a sewing machine. Dust motes float in the warm bulbs by the mirrors, like tiny actors waiting for their call. The smell is mixed: hot steam, starch, old velvet. Jackets, gowns and capes lean toward one another; their sleeves touch like hands, as if they share secrets about opening night.

Brocade catches the light, its golden threads stubborn and proud. Tulle clouds billow, soft as breath. There is scarlet satin, slick under the fingers; there is faded denim rubbed pale at the seams. Tags hang from collars with spidery writing—Prince, Nurse, Chorus—so everyone knows who they become. Mannequins stand to attention, padded and pin-pricked, their taped waists scored with chalk like pale rings on a tree.

A kettle clicks somewhere and an iron hisses, sending a curl of steam across the table. The machinist’s foot taps a steady beat; the needle dips and rises and dips again. Scissors bite the fabric with a neat, hungry sound. Someone laughs behind a stack of hat boxes, then the quiet returns.

On the long bench, spools of thread sit in a blunt rainbow. A jar holds loose buttons—pearl, wooden, black glass—that wink when they move. Wigs rest on silver stands, hair brushed into careful waves. Shoes line the skirting board: soldier boots, ballroom pumps, shoes that have danced and shoes that will. Feathers and sequins scatter the floor like confetti from last night’s applause.

I run a hand over a coat sleeve and feel the careful stitches, small and patient. This is where a story becomes cloth, where ideas are hemmed and fastened. It is not glamorous all the time; it is practical and messy, but it glows anyway. Every hanger holds a possibility; every drawer a small trick. When the curtain lifts, these quiet things will breathe.

Option B:

Curtains. The fabric that hides and reveals; a soft wall, heavy with dust and dreams. Backstage smells like polish and warm lights: old rope, fresh paint, the sharp fizz of hairspray. Feet shuffle across tape-marked floors; whispers lift, drop, lift again. The air trembles a little, like a held note.

Maya stands in the wing with her hands pressed on her costume to smooth it down. She counts her breaths. One, two, three—hold. The strap on her shoe is stubborn so she twists it, patience fraying with the leather. Her heart is clumsy, bumping like a drum in a parade. She repeats the first line under her breath, the same rhythm she used on the bus, on the stairs, in bed. Again, again, again.

Through the gap in the curtain she sees the audience. Grey heads and bright eyes; small glowing screens like tiny fireflies in a dark field. A cough pops like a bubble. The programme rustles. The clock on the wall drags its hands, then suddenly rushes. It is nearly time.

She thinks of rehearsals: the late evenings, bruised knees, and the teacher tapping a pencil. Do it again; but softer. Do it again; but louder. Lines learned like steps on a path she could walk with her eyes shut. Her friend Jess squeezing her shoulder when she forgot a cue. The director’s voice was strict and kind at once, a mixture she didn’t always like but did respect.

“Places,” whispers someone, and the word runs along the line of actors like electricity. Maya wipes her palms on her skirt—no stains—and tries to smile. What if she forgets, what if her mouth is dry and nothing comes out? But what if it works. What if the line lands and the laugh arrives and she flies?

The curtain shivers; she steps forward.

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

Option A:

The costume department sits behind the stage like a secret attic, long and crowded and almost whispering. Naked bulbs tremble in a row, their light puddling on sequins and satin; the air smells of dust, dye and faint perfume from shows that have already ended. Racks bend under velvet capes and crumpled jackets, a river of colour drifting past: moss-green, bruise-purple, tired gold. A chiffon veil hangs from a hook beside heavy brocade, light beside weight. The floor is dotted with threads and chalk, tiny stars fallen from hems. Sleeves dangle like hands, impatient, while feather boas sigh on their hooks, it is warm in here.

By the window, mannequins stand in a stiff line, headless and polite. One wears a half-made gown pinned at the waist; the pins wink and threaten. A tape measure curls on the table like a shy snake and a pair of scissors sits open, ready, remembering the snip-snip. The sewing machine hums, then stalls, then hums again - like a little engine that has to remember its song. Its as if the room is breathing. Someone has chalked a pattern on brown paper and left notes: lengthen, loosen, fix. Everything waits and waits.

In the corner, a drawer coughs up buttons of every size - mother-of-pearl, wood, black gloss; they rattle if you breathe near them. Hats lean on their stands: proud crowns, silly bonnets, flat caps with stubborn peaks. There are labels tied to hangers with names, dates, careful handwriting that tilts. Outside the door, the stage waits, but here is the beginning. A costume is only cloth until it is worn, until the actor steps in and pulls the thread of a different life. Who will wear this red coat, who will wake it?

Option B:

“Five minutes.” The stage manager’s voice snaps along the narrow corridor.

Backstage smells of dust and hairspray, warm and sour-sweet at the same time. Cables snake under my feet and the lights hum, it sounds like bees trapped in the rafters. The curtain is a heavy red wall; it holds back the sea of faces I can’t see yet. I press my palms together to stop the shaking.

I check everything again: costume, shoes, the small silver bracelet I promised to wear for luck. The sequins are scratchy, it itches against my wrist, but I keep it on. Breathe in. Breathe out. My mouth is dry as chalk so I sip water that tastes of mint and nerves. What if I forget the first line? What if the music starts without me? One thought repeats like a drum: don’t drop the prop.

Around me people move in quick, whispering currents. Liam practises his joke under his breath, it isn’t funny now but maybe it will be. Mia squeezes my hand once, quick and careful. From the pit comes a lonely piano note, then two, then a tiny melody that steadies itself. My phone lights up with a message—Proud of you—before I shove it back in my bag.

“Two minutes.” We drift toward the wings. The floor is cool and the tape lines are straight as roads. I count my steps; I count my breaths.

“One minute.”

The curtain breathes; the theatre hushes. Not yet—almost.

“Places!”

Silence, but not silence: a tide waiting. I step forward into the light.

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

Option A:

The costume room hides behind the stage, crowded and humming. Flourescent lights buzz above the racks; dust floats in the beams like tiny snow. The air smells of fabric glue and old perfume, a sweet-soft stink. Dust catches on my tongue. Coats, capes, dresses—layered and layered—hang in tight rows. When someone pulls a hanger, the metal squeaks and everything shivers, as if the clothes remember applause.

At the entrance, two mannequins stand like quiet guards. One has a velvet coat, heavy, its collar frayed from rehearsal hands. The other glittering in tulle and sequins, like fish scales. I touch the sleeve; it rustles. Row after row: gold brocade, chalk-white shirts, a tired lion suit with matted mane. Labels hang from string, scrawled in hurried writing—Act 2, Scene 3.

In the middle, a worktable waits, scarred with knife marks. Spools tumble, thread snarled around a buzzing machine; pins sparkle in a tomato cushion. A tape measure lies like a soft snake. Somewhere a kettle clicks. Who wore these clothes, and who will wear them next? The doorway glows with stage light, like morning before the show.

Option B:

Breathe.

In the wings, the air tastes of dust and hairspray. The curtain hangs like a heavy blanket, not moving. Beyond it, the audience murmurs, a soft sea I can’t see. My palms are damp, my mouth is dry. "Five minutes!" the stage manager calls, sharp as the lights.

I check my costume. The button I sewed on last night wobbles. It will be fine, I tell myself, it has to be. My heart drums against my ribs. Smells: polish, sweat, old wood. I try to remember the first line, the bit where I cross to the chair and not trip. What if I forget?

Meanwhile, the others whisper and laugh too loud, then hush. Someone sings scales in the corridor, a thin la-la-la that floats like steam. I tie my laces again even though they’re already tight. I think of Mum in row three with that bright scarf, she’ll wave; she always does.

Then quiet falls. I straighten my shoulders - like Mr Reed showed us in rehearsal - and stare at the gap in the curtain. The stage is waiting, it's mouth a dark slice. Finally, I step closer. Light leaks through and warms my face, the noise grows. Breathe, I tell myself. Breathe again.

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

Option A:

The costume room is long and kind of dark. Rows of coats and dresses hang, they sway a little when I walk past. It smells like dust and paint, like glue from school. The floor has bits of glitter stuck to it like tiny stars.

Mannequins stand like quiet people, they don't look at you but they do somehow. Pins stick in their cloth skin. I touch a sleeve, it is soft then scratchy. The hangers knock back and forward, it makes a small click that feels steady.

At the back there is a table: thread, buttons, a box of masks.

A cold mug sits there. Dusty mirrors, warm buzzing bulbs, I see my face. There is costumes for kings and clowns, they wait to go on stage. A sewing machine rattles like a train.

Option B:

I wait and wait. The curtain is big and red, like a wall. It dont move yet. Backstage smells of paint and sweat. My shoes squeak on the floor and the tape makes a line I can't cross. I try to breath slow. My hands are cold but my cheeks are hot. Sir said, remember your first line. Mum said smile. I nod, like it will hold me up.

My heart bangs like a drum.

We line up in the wings. The girl next to me squeezes my fingers and says good luck, her voice shakes. The lights creep under the curtain; it looks like morning and makes the dust shine. I think about the steps to the mark - one two three. What if I forget, what if I fall. The crowd wait on the other side; the dark is full.

The music coughs on and the curtain shivers, or maybe its me.

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

Option A:

The room is full of clothes on long rails and they rub together, rub together. It smell like dust and glue and a bit of perfume. Lights buzz over head and make a dull yellow on the floor, I can see glitter on it and pins. The mannequins stare with blank faces, some with hats, one with a mask that looks sad. Ribbons hang down like strings, they get in your hands and they feel rough and smooth. A coat is too big and it drags. Someone laugh in the back, I dont know. I walk slow because a pin might catch me.

Option B:

The stage is dark and the lights is hot. Curtain big and red. My shoes rub my heels and my hands are wet, I wipe them on the skirt. It smells like dust. Tap tap from behind, someone laughs, I dont. My mouth is dry like toast and I forget the first line then remember it, then forget again. The teacher says breathe but the air feels stuck and I think about the bus this morning and how it was late. Why do I think that now. I peek out and see faces like coins. So many eyes! I'm ready, I think, but my legs are not ready.