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 was Maggie holding in one hand?: her own fishing-rod – 1 mark
• 1.2 What was Maggie holding in the other hand?: a handle of the basket – 1 mark
• 1.3 Where was Maggie stepping, by a peculiar gift?: in the muddiest places – 1 mark
• 1.4 Why was Maggie looking darkly radiant from under her beaver-bonnet?: because Tom was good to her – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 for her, although she accepted his word when he assured her that worms couldn’t feel (it was Tom’s private opinion that it didn’t much matter if they did). He knew all about worms, and fish, and those things; and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way the handles of the gates were to be lifted. Maggie thought this sort of knowledge was very

11 wonderful,—much more difficult than remembering what was in the books; and she was rather in awe of Tom’s superiority, for he was the only person who called her knowledge “stuff,” and did not feel surprised at her cleverness. Tom, indeed, was of opinion that Maggie was a silly little thing; all girls were silly,—they couldn’t throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldn’t do anything

How does the writer use language here to show Tom’s certainty and Maggie’s response to it? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how authoritative diction and sentence structure construct Tom’s certainty: 'assured her that worms couldn’t feel' and the absolute 'He knew all about' assert expertise; the ironic parenthesis '(it was Tom’s private opinion that it didn’t much matter if they did)' signals complacent indifference; and the semi-colon-linked, polysyndetic catalogue 'worms, and fish, and those things; and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way the handles of the gates were to be lifted' mimics encyclopedic command. It would also analyse Maggie’s deferential response and Tom’s belittling generalisations: she 'accepted his word' and finds his lore 'very wonderful,—much more difficult than remembering what was in the books', being 'in awe of Tom’s superiority', while his dismissals 'stuff', 'silly little thing', the sweeping 'all girls were silly', and the parallel refrain 'couldn’t throw a stone so as to hit anything, couldn’t do anything' intensify his unshakeable certainty and diminish her.

The writer foregrounds Tom’s certainty through declarative modality and cumulative listing. “He knew all about worms, and fish…; and what birds were mischievous, and how padlocks opened, and which way the handles… were to be lifted”: the polysyndetic, semi-colon‑stitched catalogue of concrete nouns and practical know‑how reads like an inventory of mastery. “All” is totalising, and the verb “assured” in “he assured her that worms couldn’t feel” signals unshakeable confidence. The parenthetical aside “(it was Tom’s private opinion…)” exposes a blithe, even callous certainty, ironising how opinion is treated as fact.

By contrast, Maggie’s response is cast in deferential lexis. She “accepted his word”, and uses the evaluative adjective “very wonderful,—much more difficult than remembering what was in the books”: the comparative “much more” revalues her own learning as lesser. The dash creates a reflective pause that swells her admiration. The abstract noun “superiority” fixes a hierarchy, while his dismissive “stuff” trivialises her “knowledge”. The litotic “did not feel surprised at her cleverness” shows he refuses admiration, consolidating his authority and her awe.

Furthermore, Tom’s certainty hardens into sweeping generalisation. The emphatic “indeed” and stative “was of opinion” present his view as incontestable, while the diminutive epithet “silly little thing” belittles Maggie. The generalising plural “all girls were silly” and anaphoric negation—“couldn’t … couldn’t”—create a rhythmic, dogmatic verdict, pushed to hyperbole in “couldn’t do anything”. The dash after “silly,—” propels his rant. Together, these choices render Tom’s absolute self-belief and the awed, acquiescent response it produces in Maggie.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Tom’s certainty is shown through authoritative phrasing and structure: he "assured her" and "knew all about" practical things, a cumulative list suggests breadth of expertise, the parenthesis about his "private opinion" reinforces dismissive confidence, and the sweeping generalisation "all girls were silly" with repeated "couldn't" emphasises his superiority. Maggie’s response is conveyed by evaluative lexis—she finds his knowledge "very wonderful", is in "awe" of his "superiority", and accepts his belittling when he calls her knowledge "stuff", showing admiration and deference.

The writer presents Tom’s certainty through authoritative verb choices. The verbs “assured” and “knew all about” create a confident, declarative tone, as if his views are facts. The list of practical details — “worms, and fish… what birds were mischievous… how padlocks opened” — is extended by the semi-colon, suggesting a broad, expert range. The parenthesis “(it was Tom’s private opinion that it didn’t much matter)” adds a dry, ironic aside that still shows how fixed his attitude is.

Furthermore, Maggie’s response is shown in deferential phrases. She “accepted his word” and thought this knowledge “very wonderful,” which positions Tom as above her. The abstract noun “awe” and the noun “superiority” show admiration and hierarchy. The dismissive label “stuff” for her book-learning belittles Maggie, explaining why he “did not feel surprised at her cleverness.”

Additionally, Tom’s sweeping generalisation “all girls were silly” and the diminutive noun phrase “a silly little thing” reveal his certainty and contempt. The repetition of the negative “couldn’t… couldn’t…” — “couldn’t throw a stone so as to hit anything… couldn’t do anything” — emphasises his absolute, categorical judgement. Overall, these choices highlight Tom’s unwavering confidence and Maggie’s admiring, subordinate response.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: Tom’s certainty is shown by confident words and techniques: he assured her and He knew all about things in a long list, and the sweeping claim all girls were silly with repeated couldn’t makes him sound sure and dismissive, while Maggie accepted his word, finds his knowledge very wonderful, and is in awe of Tom’s superiority.

The writer uses the strong verb “assured” and the phrase “she accepted his word” to show Tom’s certainty and Maggie’s quick agreement. The listing in “He knew all about worms, and fish…” with semicolons piles up facts, making Tom sound expert and definite.

Furthermore, the parenthesis “(it was Tom’s private opinion…)” shows his confident aside, as if his judgement is final. The sweeping generalisation “all girls were silly” and the hyperbole “couldn’t do anything” emphasise how fixed his views are.

Additionally, the adjective phrase “silly little thing” belittles Maggie, while she is “rather in awe of Tom’s superiority” and calls his knowledge “very wonderful”. This shows her admiration as a response to his certainty. Moreover, the dismissive noun “stuff” for her learning suggests why she accepts his authority, showing Tom’s certainty and Maggie’s submissive reaction.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses words like “he assured her” and “He knew all about” to show Tom is sure of himself, while Maggie’s feelings are shown by “very wonderful” and “in awe of Tom’s superiority.” The list of what he knows and the dismissive phrases “called her knowledge ‘stuff’,” “silly little thing,” plus the repeated “couldn’t,” show his confidence and put her down.

The writer uses the verb “assured” and the phrase “He knew all about” to show Tom’s certainty; it makes him sound sure. Moreover, the list of things, “worms, and fish… how padlocks opened,” shows he thinks he knows everything. Furthermore, the repetition of “couldn’t” and the adjective “silly” in “all girls were silly” makes his opinion strong and negative. Additionally, Maggie “accepted his word” and thought his knowledge was “very wonderful,” showing admiration. The phrase “in awe of Tom’s superiority” and the quotation marks around “stuff” show her respect and his put-down.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Assertive reporting verb delivers Tom’s confidence; Maggie takes his statements as fact, showing her deference (assured her)
• Parenthetical aside exposes Tom’s blunt, unfeeling certainty about pain, heightening his self-belief (didn’t much matter if they did)
• Totalising claim projects absolute expertise and certainty in practical matters (He knew all about)
• Polysyndetic list with semicolons accumulates competencies, creating a rolling rhythm of assured mastery (and fish, and those things)
• Reported thought frames Maggie’s admiring response through evaluative diction, endorsing his authority (very wonderful)
• Comparative structure elevates his practical knowledge over book learning, showing her values reshaped by his certainty (much more difficult than)
• Deferential phrasing signals her submission to his hierarchy of knowledge (in awe of Tom’s superiority)
• Dismissive label belittles Maggie’s learning, asserting his evaluative dominance and authority (called her knowledge "stuff")
• Diminutive insult reduces Maggie, revealing his confident judgment of her abilities (silly little thing)
• Sweeping generalisation and parallel negatives create an absolutist tone that brooks no exception, amplifying his certainty about girls (all girls were silly)

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 poignancy?

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would track the structural arc from the opening closure (So ended the sorrows of this day; the next morning) through the childhood idyll of It was one of their happy mornings and the catalogue of constants (the mill with its booming and the great Floss), marked by the naive refrain always, to a retrospective turn where with no thought that life would ever change much for them is starkly overturned by Life did change for Tom and Maggie. This shift from close-scene innocence to universal reflection, capped by cyclical imagery (the same flowers come up again every spring) and the elegiac rhetorical question What novelty is worth that sweet monotony, creates poignancy by contrasting ephemeral childhood certainty with the bittersweet endurance of memory.

One way the writer structures the opening to generate poignancy is through temporal framing and a shift in pace. The extract opens 'So ended the sorrows of this day, and the next morning...', signalling closure then renewal; the linear progression into the children's 'happy mornings' uses brisk action and brief dialogue—'Look, look, Maggie!'—to create immediacy. However, sentences lengthen into 'dreamy silences' and sensory detail, decelerating the narrative. This movement from quick, innocent activity to lingering contemplation foreshadows transience, making the contentment feel fragile, and thus poignant.

In addition, the writer engineers a proleptic turn and a shift in focalisation to deepen pathos. After the children's insistence that life would 'always' be the same, the omniscient narrator intrudes: 'Life did change for Tom and Maggie'. This volte-face undercuts 'always', creating the ache of hindsight. The perspective widens into a universal 'We could never have loved the earth so well...', transforming private memory into shared meditation. The final rhetorical question, 'What novelty is worth that sweet monotony...?', fixes a wistful tone.

A further structural technique is the shift in scale through accumulation and zoom. The text moves from the intimate Round Pool to a catalogue of places—'the mill... the Great Ash'—linked by polysyndeton, mimicking a child's breathless certainty. This catalogue builds a world of sameness—'the same flowers... the same redbreasts'—set against the inevitability of change. The juxtaposition between cyclical nature and human flux makes the ending elegiac, as the reader recognises that the permanence they cherish cannot preserve childhood.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures the extract as a movement from closure and innocence, opening with "So ended the sorrows of this day" and a close-up fishing episode marked as "one of their happy mornings" and "no thought that life would ever change much for them", to a reflective turning point at "Life did change for Tom and Maggie". The subsequent zoom-out into universal narration, "We could never have loved the earth so well", and the final rhetorical question "What novelty is worth that sweet monotony" recast the earlier idyll to create poignancy by suggesting its loss.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create poignancy is through temporal framing and contrast. The opening moves us from “So ended the sorrows of this day” to “the next morning”, and the pace slows into “whispers” and “dreamy silences”. The short, decisive line “It was one of their happy mornings” crowns the idyll. By dwelling on calm routine before any hint of change, the structure makes their contentment feel precious.

In addition, the focus widens from a close-up of the catch to a catalogue of places—“above all, the great Floss”—while the repeated “always” (“always live together...”) suggests permanence. This build-up and childlike certainty attach us to the moment, preparing a more painful contrast.

A further structural feature is the late, authorial flash-forward and shift in perspective. The intrusion “Life did change for Tom and Maggie” breaks the idyll, then the narrative broadens to an inclusive “we” and ends with a rhetorical question. This change in tone slows the pace into reflection. The clash between “always” and “did change” creates poignancy, as the reader recognises the fragility of childhood and cherishes its “sweet monotony”.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might note a clear shift from a happy, childlike present with repeated "always" (e.g., "always be like the holidays") to the blunt end-stop of "Life did change for Tom and Maggie," which makes it feel sad. It might also spot the list of homely places like "the mill" and "the great Floss" before the reflective "we could never have loved the earth so well," creating a nostalgic tone.

One way the writer structures the text to create poignancy is by starting with a gentle opening about a happy morning. The focus is close on Maggie and Tom fishing at the Round Pool, including “Magsie” and Tom helping with the worms. This beginning builds a warm tone so we care about them.

In addition, in the middle the writer widens the focus with a list of familiar places: “the mill… the chestnut-tree… the Ripple… the Floss.” Repetition of “always” and “would” shows the children’s belief that nothing will change, which sets up a contrast.

A further structural feature is the shift in time and perspective at the end. The narrator steps back: “Life did change for Tom and Maggie,” and then uses “We…” and a final reflective question. This ending turns the mood bittersweet, making their earlier happiness feel more precious and sad.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the beginning the writer shows a happy time with "It was one of their happy mornings" and hopes like "they would always live together", but by the end there’s a shift to "Life did change for Tom and Maggie", which makes it feel sad. This move from childhood fun to a reflective voice ("We could never have loved the earth so well") creates poignancy.

One way the writer has structured the text to create poignancy is by starting happy and ending sad. At the beginning, “next morning” and “happy mornings” set a cheerful tone, which makes the ending more touching.

In addition, the focus and time change. The children say it will “always” be the same, but at the end the narrator says, “Life did change for Tom and Maggie,” which makes the reader feel sorry.

A further structural feature is the list of places and memories. This builds their childhood world, so when it changes at the end, the loss feels poignant.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening closure and next-morning transition create a fragile respite, contrasting prior pain with present calm to prime pathos (So ended the sorrows)
• Early shift from action to relationship (Maggie’s reliance vs Tom’s competence) builds tender dependency that later feels vulnerable (Tom was good to her)
• Intrusive parenthesis inserts adult awareness into the child scene, foreshadowing reflective melancholy beyond the moment (Tom’s private opinion)
• Gradual spatial zoom to a hidden, encircled haven makes the idyll feel protected, so later change will wound it (framed in with willows)
• Slow, hushed pacing punctuated by a joyful spike and endearment intensifies the sweetness of the present (called her Magsie)
• Accumulative catalogue of shared landmarks builds a textured permanence the narrative is poised to undercut (just the same)
• Repetition of “always”/modal “would” patterns naïve certainty, setting up an ironic reversal that deepens ache (would always live together)
• Abrupt temporal leap and tonal turn collapse time, confronting the idyll with inevitability to sharpen loss (Life did change)
• Universalizing shift from scene to cyclical images turns private memory into a shared, bittersweet truth (the same flowers come up)
• Rhetorical-question closure seals the reflective mood, leaving a tender valuation of the familiar over change (What novelty is worth)

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, where Tom acts as the expert on fishing, their relationship appears happy. The writer suggests that this happiness depends on Tom being in charge and Maggie wanting his approval.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the relationship between Tom and Maggie
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the basis of their happiness
• 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, to a large extent, the writer frames their happiness as contingent on Tom’s authority and Maggie’s approval-seeking, analysing imperatives and diminutives in dialogue ("Empty the basket", "O Magsie, you little duck!"), caretaking actions ("He threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand", "came running to prevent her from snatching her line away"), and Maggie’s inward dependence ("it was enough that Tom called her Magsie", "never be scolded") to establish this dynamic. It would also qualify the claim by noting the pastoral soundscape ("the whispers and the dreamy silences") which suggests a shared, ambient contentment that tempers the hierarchy.

I largely agree that the writer presents their happiness as flourishing when Tom is in charge and Maggie seeks his approval; however, the final, reflective turn suggests their joy also springs from a shared landscape and the reassuring “sweet monotony” of childhood. Across the passage, Eliot fuses a tender, pastoral mood with a subtly hierarchical dynamic, so that Tom’s expertise and Maggie’s deference feel both limiting and comforting.

From the outset, Tom’s fondness is inflected with control. The narrator’s list—he will “take care of her, make her his housekeeper, and punish her”—juxtaposes protection with discipline, signalling a paternal, proprietorial stance. The modal certainty of “meant always” implies a fixed intention about Maggie’s role, foreshadowing a happiness contingent on his approval.

At the Round Pool, pastoral imagery softens this hierarchy. The “willows and tall reeds,” the “glassy water,” and the “amicable whispers” create a hushed ritual space. Within it, Tom is constructed as the expert through a triad of precise actions: he “opened the precious basket,” “prepared their tackle,” “threw her line,” and “put the rod into her hand.” The oxymoronic “loud whisper” captures his urgency to direct without breaking the idyll. Maggie’s internal focalisation—she is “frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual”—reveals a habitual anxiety to please, so her happiness hinges on not transgressing Tom’s rules.

The fish itself crystallises this dependency. Tom’s excited diminutive—“O Magsie, you little duck!”—is both affectionate and infantilising, and his imperative, “Empty the basket,” reasserts command even in celebration. Crucially, Maggie “was not conscious of unusual merit,” yet “it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her.” The lexis of scolding and approval continues: she imagines a “very nice heaven” where she would “never be scolded,” and she “never knew she had a bite till Tom told her,” confirming his role as tutor and arbiter.

Yet the writer complicates the statement through structure and narrative voice. The perspective widens—“It was one of their happy mornings”—to a generalised idyll: “they would always live together,” the repeated “always” expressing a child’s faith in continuity. Personification suggests the setting itself sustains their joy: the willows and reeds have “happy whisperings,” the Eagre comes “like a hungry monster,” animating a shared imaginative world. Finally, the intrusive narrator’s anaphoric cadence—“the same… the same… the same”—and the rhetorical question, “What novelty is worth that sweet monotony…?” universalise happiness as rooted in place and routine, not solely in hierarchy.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: in the scene, Tom’s authority and Maggie’s hunger for his praise generate harmony. However, Eliot’s reflective close broadens the foundation of their happiness to the constancy of childhood and beloved landscape, rendering the power dynamic tender rather than purely coercive.

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 with the writer’s viewpoint, explaining that the happiness depends on Tom leading—shown by dialogue and action like “He threw her line for her”, “Look, look, Maggie!” and “She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her”—and on Maggie seeking approval in “it was enough that Tom called her Magsie”. It might also note that the gentle atmosphere (“most amicable whispers”, “happy whisperings”) helps create the happiness alongside the power dynamic.

I largely agree that in this section their happiness seems to rest on Tom’s authority and Maggie’s wish to please him, although the writer also roots their contentment in the familiar setting of childhood. From the start, Tom acts as the expert: he “opened the precious basket and prepared their tackle,” then “threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand.” These verbs emphasise his control, while the adverbial “in the most amicable whispers” shows this power is gentle. Maggie’s insecurity is clear: she is “frightened lest she had been doing something wrong, as usual,” implying a habitual fear of disapproval. When Tom lands the fish, the affectionate terms “O Magsie, you little duck!” and the imperative “Empty the basket” capture the blend of tenderness and command. The narrator says “it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her”—explicitly linking Maggie’s delight to Tom’s approval; she imagines “a very nice heaven… and never be scolded,” implying approval underpins her happiness. Her success also relies on his instruction: “She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her,” reinforcing his expert role in her enjoyment.

However, the writer creates harmony through setting and the narrator. The personification that “the willows and the reeds and the water had their happy whisperings” and the sensory imagery of “glassy water” and “dreamy silences” make the scene nurturing. Structurally, the focus widens into a nostalgic catalogue—“the mill… the great chestnut-tree… the Floss”—and the intrusive narrator’s generalisation about “that sweet monotony” suggests their happiness is sustained by familiarity as much as by hierarchy.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: Tom’s being in charge and Maggie’s desire for his praise drive the immediate happiness, but the writer anchors it in the rhythms of their shared childhood world.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would mostly agree, noting their happiness is strongest when Tom leads—he "threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand" and she "never knew she had a bite till Tom told her." It would also say Maggie wants his approval, being "frightened lest she had been doing something wrong" but pleased when he calls her "Magsie," making it "one of their happy mornings."

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section, their happiness does seem strongest when Tom leads the fishing and Maggie looks for his praise.

At the pool, Tom is clearly in charge: he "opened the precious basket and prepared their tackle," and he "threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand." These active verbs show his control, while the "amicable whispers" create a gentle, happy tone. Maggie is anxious about his judgement, being "frightened lest she had been doing something wrong." When the big fish comes, Tom’s exclamation, "O Magsie, you little duck! Empty the basket," and the affectionate nickname show his approval. Crucially, "it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her," suggesting her delight depends on him praising her. The line "She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her" also implies she relies on his expertise.

However, the setting adds to their happiness too. The "wonderful" and "mysterious" pool and the personification that the willows and water had "happy whisperings" create an idyllic mood, supported by "dreamy silences." Maggie’s wish to "never be scolded" links their peace to Tom being kind rather than punishing. Structurally, the ending widens into nostalgia, listing familiar places like "the mill" and "the Great Ash," and a rhetorical question about "that sweet monotony," implying childhood security also sustains their joy.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer shows a happy relationship that works best with Tom in charge and Maggie seeking his approval, though the calm, familiar setting also supports their happiness.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree that the writer shows their happiness in “the most amicable whispers” and “happy mornings.” It would also notice Tom is in charge—“She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her”—and that Maggie wants his approval because “it was enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her.”

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, their relationship seems happiest when Tom knows what to do and Maggie wants him to be pleased with her. The writer creates a happy mood with positive description like “Tom’s good humour” and “amicable whispers.” The setting also feels calm and friendly, with personification: the reeds and water have “happy whisperings.”

He “opened the precious basket and prepared their tackle,” and he “threw her line for her, and put the rod into her hand.” The dialogue and commands show his role, for example “Empty the basket,” and even “Look, look, Maggie!” when he stops her. He also guides her skill: “She never knew she had a bite till Tom told her,” which makes him the expert.

The text also shows Maggie looking for his approval. She is “frightened lest she had been doing something wrong,” and it is “enough that Tom called her Magsie, and was pleased with her.” She even thinks the “large” fish will go to Tom, which shows she sees him as better. It is called “one of their happy mornings,” but it seems linked to Tom leading and Maggie being praised.

Overall, I agree that their happiness here depends a lot on Tom being in charge and Maggie wanting his approval.

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:

• Characterisation of Tom as expert-in-charge: his practical actions manage the whole activity, supporting the view that happiness rests on his leadership (threw her line)
• Tone and dialogue: gentle, collaborative communication creates a harmonious mood, implying their happiness thrives when he guides kindly (most amicable whispers)
• Maggie’s anxiety to please: her fear of fault reinforces dependence on his judgment, so her contentment is conditional (doing something wrong)
• Protective intervention: Tom corrects her actions, a controlling yet caring role that secures success and shared excitement (prevent her from snatching)
• Affectionate praise as approval: his endearments and commands act as rewards, making his approval the trigger for her joy (Empty the basket)
• Explicit approval drives her delight: the narrator states her happiness is satisfied simply by his pleased reaction (was pleased with her)
• Instructional authority: she relies on his expertise to recognise success, showing he defines the experience for her (till Tom told her)
• Internalised hierarchy: Maggie assumes his superiority, a belief that supports a contented, unequal dynamic (large ones to Tom’s)
• Pastoral setting and soundscape: tranquil imagery suggests their happiness also flows from place and peace, not solely his dominance (dreamy silences)
• Nostalgic narration of mutual bond: their childlike certainty about togetherness frames happiness as shared affection beyond power dynamics (be fond of each other)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A national heritage journal invites young writers to submit creative pieces that bring earlier eras to life.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a crumbling hilltop fort from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a message sent across centuries.

(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 fort crouches on the hill like a wounded animal, its broken battlements ribbing the sky, its stone hide scabbed with lichen and time. Wind frets at the gaps and hollows; it drags a chill across the grass and worries the nettles that have quietly annexed the outer yard. Above, the clouds loom in slow herds, their edges lit harshly; below, the hill drops away in green swells to fields stitched with hedgerows and a silver thread of river. It endures.

As the path climbs, it narrows to a pale crease through the tussocks, gritty with crumbs of sandstone that crackle underfoot. Heather snags at ankles; thistles—pert, impertinent—tilt bruised heads while sheep scatter, leaving a peppering of white wool on wire and thorn. The air tastes faintly of iron, like rain rehearsing itself, and of old dust released by the day’s weak warmth. Close to, the wall appears not built but grown: every block is a pocked face; every seam a vein where moss thrives. Crenellations bite at the sky, tooth after broken tooth, and a single, swollen jut of masonry leans out as if listening for orders that will not come.

Beyond the silted ditch, the gate yawns. Its arch is a mouth with its keystone tongue worn smooth by centuries of weather and the brush of vanished hands. Rust stains slick down the cheeks of stone where iron once hung; only the ghost of hinges remains, two iron shadows, two careful scars. Inside, the courtyard is a soft riot of bracken, dock, and daisies; a lintel has collapsed into a small boulder field, and a coping stone sits where it fell, as dignified as a throne in exile. Jackdaws clack and spin like thrown coal, their calls striking the walls and flying back; a single rook lands and eyes me with the cool appraisal of a proprietor.

Within, rooms without roofs sip the sky. Arrow slits—narrow, merciless—frame slivers of light so white it looks liquid. Dust lifts and turns in the beams, slow as planets, and a breeze threads the corridors with the faint aroma of damp lime and crushed fern. Steps chisel down into shadow; in one chamber the ceiling has folded in a cautious slump, and the floor is treacherous with glossed moss. Time has done what sieges could not: unpicked, unseamed, unstitched. The walls remember, obstinately, in a language of scorch and scratch, of soot and tiny, patient fissures.

From the parapet, the world spreads out in a patient map: fields quilted in greens and ochres; roads unspooling to towns; the river glimmering, insistent. A shower smears the distance, then passes, leaving a glinting varnish over everything. The fort absorbs it and does not comment. Here, where a spear might have lifted (once, perhaps), a thistle flowers. Here, where orders rang, a beetle—scarab-dark and businesslike—navigates a mortared ridge. What remains is not merely ruin but resolve; not merely stones, but a memory of command. And the wind, returning, repeats the same quiet verdict, again and again, as if it, too, were sworn to keep watch.

Option B:

Time. The unspooling thread that knots centuries together; a river that carries names like pebbles; a chorus of clocks that never quite agree yet conspire to keep us moving. It powders windowsills and cathedral stones alike, softening edges, sharpening losses. It is a solvent, a seamstress, a thief.

In the Special Collections room—where the air kept its breath and the blinds trimmed light into polite ribbons—Elena eased the lid from a cedar box. Resin sighed up—the scent of timber that remembered ships. Inside lay a folio bound in cracked calf, its vellum petal-soft yet stubborn, a palimpsest whose erased ghosts glimmered when she tilted it. Outside, York’s Minster tolled the hour; inside, the only sound was the patient metronome of the conservation lamp. She had been warned: do not expect legibility; do not force the past.

And yet the past had its own insistence. In the margin bloomed a peculiar cartouche—eight-pointed, meticulous, pricked with pinholes as though it had once been the template for a star. Beneath later pieties, a darker sediment hinted at the ferrous bite of iron gall ink, soaked away then stubbornly lingering in the vellum’s capillaries. Perhaps heat would coax the struck-through phrases; perhaps the reagent would. She set the warm pad against the margin and waited, counting heartbeats because clocks, for all their vanity, can be wrong.

Slowly, like dawn under a stubborn horizon, letters rose—first a faint amber, then a confident brown. Not a prayer. A salutation: “To whoever keeps this page when my breath is ash.” The line snagged in her; she felt foolish, almost, to be moved by it. Another sentence unfurled, crabbed but legible: “We have found a way to speak to you who are unborn; ink is a brittle boat, yet it floats, if guided.” Then a date that should not have known her century: 24 March, 2025.

She glanced at her phone, at the brusque certainty of its numerals. The same day. The present, it seemed, had been called by its name. The thought was melodramatic—she told herself so—yet she could not shake the coincidence, the way it perched, featherlight and insistent, at the back of her throat. Who was he, this hand that had taught ink to trespass across centuries? Or was it a she; a cloistered scholar who had never seen beyond the courtyard and still saw farther than most?

A soft tap on the glass made her flinch. “Closing at six,” the attendant mouthed, apologetic. Elena nodded, though her fingers had already slid to the page’s edge, to the next line that waited with old-world decorum for a reader to arrive: “If you can see this, then the fire did not devour us all; if you can answer, light the eighth star.” The Minster bell rolled again—unhurried, unarguable. Time, as ever, moved on; the message, nevertheless, had elected to stay.

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

Option A:

The fort crouches on the crown of the hill, a battered spine of stone against a restless sky. From a distance it looks almost shipwrecked, stranded among the coarse grasses, its broken turrets like masts that forgot the sea. Wind combs the slope in long, noisy strokes; it finds every seam in the masonry and worries it, patient as weather always is. The track up is little more than a scar: slatey, rutted, etched by hooves and old boots. Above, ragged crenels bite at the light; a kestrel hangs, needle-still, then slips away as if respecting the ruin.

Closer, the walls reveal their fatigue. Mortar has freckled and fallen; lichen coins spread in mottled constellations; ivy threads its obstinate fingers into the joints, prising, prising. Arrow slits—embrasures, prayer-thin—watch with a stern, blind patience. A keystone has gone; an arch sags a fraction; a buttress leans, pretending it still holds the world. Ravens arrange themselves on the parapet and croak their verdicts; their wings clap like rough applause. When the sun shoulders past a cloud it lays paler rectangles where floors used to be, and dust rises, glittering, as if the building were trying to breathe.

Inside the gate the courtyard opens, a bowl of cracked flags and thistle crowns. The well is a dark coin at its centre; the lip is cold, slick with a small, stubborn moss. It smells of wet iron and old smoke. My step kicks grit into motion—small slides, the sound held and tossed by the empty chambers. A corkscrew stair hugs the keep; its steps have been cupped by thousands of feet, now softened by rain and the green film of seasons. Upwards, daylight drips through a roof that no longer exists, and the walls glow with their history: soot, scorch, initials carved with reckless hearts.

Once this knuckled ring commanded lanes and fields; once banners flared; once horns answered horns. Now the fort is manned by thistles at attention and nettles holding the line. Who patrolled these merlons: a gaunt lord with winter in his bones, or a boy counting clouds because the enemy never came? History clings here like a shawl—comforting, scratchy, partly imagined. The stones have learned a new language: silence; they speak it well, and they do not hurry.

From the highest ledge the valley unfurls, fields stitched in greens and ochres, a river writing a patient S toward the horizon. Clouds herd their blue-grey shadows, and the fort receives them, as it receives everything—rain, frost, sun, footsteps that come rarely and leave quietly. It does not fall; not yet. It keeps negotiating with wind and with gravity, stubborn and dignified, admittedly fragile. It crumbles, a little; it endures, a little; and on the hill, above the tireless grass, it waits.

Option B:

Dust. The handwriting of time; soft and unhurried, it settled over glass and sills like grey lace. Through mullioned windows, a pale sun sifted light, turning the air to faint constellations. The archive kept its own climate, its own hush. Shelves bowed under the weight of dates and careful labels. In that pause, the past felt not dead but sleeping.

Nadia pushed a trolley, wheels whispering, fingers prickling with cold; she had volunteered for a week and already loved this order. She liked making things neat—putting centuries back into sequence. ‘Only box the Smith bequest today,’ her supervisor had said, and vanished. Everything wore a tag; everything announced itself—everything except the one oblong parcel at the end of the aisle, wedged where the light did not reach. Who had left it there—and why no catalogue number?

It was wrapped in oilcloth, the weave stiff with age, bound with faded twine; it felt light yet dense, like a sound held too long. She shouldn’t open it—obviously—but curiosity has small teeth (and it was already nibbling). Inside: a copper cylinder, greened with verdigris, a soldered seam running like a scar. On the cap, scratched with a nail: For the future when the river is bridged twice. Her breath misted the metal as she turned the cap; a reluctant pop, then a curl of beeswax and cellar.

Within, rolled like a sleeping thing, was a strip of vellum. The vellum crackled faintly, like frost underfoot; ink had browned to the colour of tea. At the top, in long-tailed script: To whoever finds this when my voice is ash. Nadia read, and the room shifted—cobbles, smoke, bells. ‘I am Thomas Averill, clerk to the Guild of Watermen, in the year 1689,’ it said. ‘If I have guessed the currents, you live amid light that runs faster than birds. Hear me.’

He wrote of a fever that came like a tide; of a boy lost to the river; of a message hidden where the water makes a hard turn, sealed into stone—meant for those who could change what he could not. The page was a palimpsest of grief and instruction. Nadia’s heart felt suddenly high in her throat. She had come to box records; to alphabetise; not to catch a voice that had crossed three hundred years and landed, exact, in her hands. Somewhere, outside, a siren wailed, thin as ink.

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

Option A:

In the pale morning, the fort crouches on the hill, a grey crown chipped. Its walls, once straight, sag where the earth has shifted; tufted grass presses against the stones like patient spectators. The wind climbs, dragging a cold smell of peat. Crenellations bite the sky; the gatehouse gapes, a mouth without a door. Lichen freckles the blocks in chartreuse stains. At the base, the grass hisses like surf under wind. Above, rooks swing in ragged circles and complain. The path up is scored into the slope, a thin scar: footstep after footstep, year after year.

Beyond the shadowed arch, a courtyard opens, rough and empty but for nettles guarding corners. A cracked trough holds rain the colour of pewter. Ferns root in mortar; a small birch leans from a stairwell, testing light. The rooms are only outlines now—low walls, a hearth blackened long ago, stone that remembers heat. Sound goes odd in here, snagging on angles. When the wind pushes, everything shivers. Without doors, without roofs, the fort is exposed, yet it still feels ordered, as if the air respects the plan.

It is easy to fill the gaps: a shout on the battlements, a pot clinking, a dog skittering. You almost see a banner along the parapet; you almost smell thin stew and smoke. Then a gust empties it all away. Time moves with stubborn patience, rubbing edges, loosening lintels, softening corners. Even the steps are worn in the middle, a shallow curve made by many soles, now rain-polished. History isn’t loud here; it speaks in scrapes and traces and an ache you can’t quite name.

From the highest wall, the world tilts out—fields checkered and small, a river like glass, the road a quiet thread. People down there are dots; their lives seem tidy. Up here, the air is larger, raw; it takes your breath a little. Clouds herd over the moor. Still, the fort holds on, hunched but stubborn, a sentinel that forgot to leave. As light shifts, the stones change colour and the hill keeps its silence—for now.

Option B:

Morning slanted into the nave through panes the colour of bruised plums and sea-glass. It brightened the spinning motes; not dust, exactly—time. Stones kept the chill like a secret, and pews shone where generations had gripped them. St Bartholomew's remembered for everyone else; a living palimpsest where voices sank like silt. Somewhere in those walls, someone had posted a letter to the future.

Leah stabilised the brass plaque with her left hand and wiped in small, patient circles. The lemon polish made her eyes sting, and the little ladder wobbled with every sweep; still, she liked it—liking, too, the way the words rose back through tarnish, letter by letter. She was meant to do a week of 'Heritage Skills' before exams; mostly she fetched kettle water, ticked boxes, and tried not to chip anything older than her whole country. Today, though, a ridge beneath the second 'R' caught her cloth. When she pressed, something shifted: a whisper of grit, a metallic click. Behind the plaque, the wall wasn’t solid. It hollowed.

She paused. The bell, far above, counted eleven, each note hanging as if it didn’t want to land. Between the echoes, Leah eased a flat screwdriver (the soft kind, the supervisor had said) into the seam. Brick powder bled out. A fingertip found an edge—cool, round, impossibly smooth—and then she slid free a narrow cylinder, no longer than her hand, capped with verdigris like meadow moss. Her throat went dry. What could possibly survive in there?

A twist; a faint hiss; paper against metal. She held it so gently it trembled. The ink had browned to the colour of tea. The first line was neat, upright, unafraid:

To you who read when I am long done, take this as a true message.

It was dated 1622. The hand continued, steady after four hundred winters: I have learned a way to send my voice forward. Stand beneath the bell when it is nearly noon; count with me. I will speak when the metal quivers. Though Leah knew it was impossible, her skin prickled. The bell had just sounded; the air still trembled.

The past had written her name, it seemed, and waited.

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

Option A:

The fort crouches on the hilltop like a broken crown, its jagged stones biting into the sky. Wind combs the grass in restless waves; seed heads bow. From a distance the walls seem solid, ancient, but up close the mortar crumbles to the touch, a chalky whisper on the fingers. Blocks lean; the whole structure slumps, shoulders hunched. Crows hop along the parapet with bossy cries, and their shadows skate over the slope.

The path spirals up, narrow, rubbed smooth by long-gone boots. The gate arch yawns; its timber door rotted away, leaving iron hinges like ribs. In the gaps, nettles bristle. Lichen blooms over the stones in pale maps, and a crack crawls from one corner to the next. Arrow slits peer out—thin eyes watching a ribbon of road and a stray sheep. There is damp moss and a faint metallic taint, as if old smoke still haunts the air.

Inside, the courtyard is a scatter of rubble and stubborn weeds. My footstep taps and echoes, then is swallowed. In the centre a sunken flagstone holds rain, a shallow mirror shivering whenever the wind slips in. A stair clings—half there, half gone—leading nowhere but to a broken platform. Once there were rooms; now there are only frames of doorways and a fireplace chipped to the bone. I brush a wall and grit comes away, grain after grain after grain.

It is easy to imagine sentries stamping their feet, a brazier burning, voices thick with cold. Time took them: the stones remember in a rough, patient way. The fort still stands—mostly. Not proud, exactly, but stubborn. It will fall further in years to come, pulled apart by frost, by roots, by careless hands. Yet on the ridge, with the wind and the crows and the long grass, it keeps its watch. For now, it endures. For now, it waits.

Option B:

Midnight. The hour when the town held its breath; clocks ticked louder, shadows stretched, and even the air felt older. In the museum’s cellar, the stone kept a little warmth, yet a thread of cold slid across the floor and curled round Leah’s ankles.

She promised to finish the catalogue before morning; it felt simple, routine, almost dull. Then her hand struck a shallow crate, stamped in thin grey ink: 1631. The numbers looked stubborn. Who writes to someone far away in time? Leah frowned and pulled the box forward.

The lid resisted—old iron does—but the wood yielded with a groan. Inside lay a narrow brass tube, greened with age, the cap worked with an intricate knot. Under the verdigris, scratched carefully into the metal, were words she had to tilt the light to read: To the reader who is not yet born.

Her mouth went dry. Not yet born; here she was in this cellar smelling of salt and paper. She unscrewed the cap. A roll of paper slid into her palm. The ink was brown, but the first line felt steady: If this reaches you, the clock has done its work. I send this across centuries like a bottle on the sea.

Leah’s heart tapped; the ceiling seemed lower, the shadows deliberate. The museum’s main clock beat above her—tick, tick—like a patient reminder. Across centuries. The phrase folded into her. How could a voice aim itself so far and still land?

She read on. The writer spoke of a bell in the tower that must not fall silent; of a map hidden beneath the third slate on the west stair. Dates, places, a street name spelled in an older way. Leah lifted her head and listened, as if the message were still travelling.

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

Option A:

It sits on the crown of the hill like a tired king, a jagged silhouette against a pale sky. The grass rises in a long sweep, patched with thistle and a narrow, stony path. Wind presses at your coat; it pulls and lets go, pulls and lets go, as if testing your steps.

The fort is a ring of broken walls: blocks tilted, mortar missing, battlements bitten down to stumps. Ivy knuckles over the stones; moss drinks the damp. In a gap where a gate might have been, rusted hinges cling, stubborn. The smell is wet earth and old iron. Crows hop and clack on the parapet, their voices hollow, echoing into the hollow rooms.

Inside, the floor is not a floor but nettles and wild grass. Your foot knocks a shard of pottery—flat, brown, harmless now. A doorway crouches; a staircase begins and then doesn't, a crumble of steps ending in air. Touch the wall and grit flecks away onto your palm. Cold, gritty, real.

Once it kept watch. Torches, boots, orders; the hard, close smell of smoke. Now only wind works here, and weather, and time, which is slow but stronger. When you look back down the hill, the village is small like toy roofs. A dog barks, the sound comes up thin. The fort listens, or pretends to. It leans into the years but does not fall yet. There is a stubbornness in it, a sort of warning too, like the last word of a story that you can almost hear, then you lose it.

Option B:

Evening turned the museum corridors the colour of old tea; thin light slid through leaded panes and dust drifted like snow. Leah rubbed her hands—winter had been stubborn this year—and leaned over the archive table. Boxes were stacked like bricks; labels curled; twine scratched her wrists. Below the floor the heating coughed and went quiet, the room seemed to hold it's breath. This job was meant to be simple: catalogue, record, move on.

At the back, half hidden, she found a green-glass bottle corked with wax. The glass was bubbled and wonky; it made the lights bend and swim. A date was scratched into it: 1679. It shouldn't have been anything. It was. The bottle was cold as a river stone and heavy; it seemed to hum in her palm—like a voice from far away.

She prised the wax with a blunt knife; the seal cracked, a brittle little thunder. Inside, a tight scroll slid out, pale as a moth wing. The smell was sharp: smoke and salt and something sweet. Leah unrolled it slowly. Ink bloomed across the page, careful letters, a hand that didn't rush. At the top it said, To whoever finds this, when I am long gone. I write to you because I cannot keep silence.

Words from three hundred years ago speaking now. Who were they? What storm had forced them to send a message like this? The clock on the wall ticked—too loud. Leah bent closer, breath held, and began to read, feeling the centuries stretch and then fold near.

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

Option A:

At the top of the hill the fort sits, crumbling. Its walls lean at odd angles, as if the whole place is tired. Wind runs through empty windows and whistles, a thin lonely sound. Grass crawls up the broken steps like soft green fingers; moss grips the cracks. Breathing in brings damp earth and dust, a dry taste. Stones lie in little piles, as if the fort is shedding its skin.

From the path below the towers look like teeth in an old jaw—crooked, chipped, still set in place. Up close, grey flakes fall at a touch, and chalky grit coats my palms. The stones are rough and pale, they scratch at my hands. A bare arch stands; the heart of it is open. Inside, rooms are only shadows. Bird calls echo and the roofless ceiling shows a thin stripe of sky. The walls remember battles, or maybe just storms. A faint carving is there, almost a secret, nearly gone.

Meanwhile, the valley waits beneath. Long shadows slide across the grass as clouds pass, back and forth, back and forth. The fort keeps watching, like a guard that wont go home. Broken yet still proud. It is ruin, and it is still here.

Option B:

Autumn light lay on the river like a thin blanket. Mist clung to the surface and the water slid past the stones, quiet and cold. It had carried leaves and lost keys. In the reeds a green bottle rested, cloudy glass and a neck wrapped in old twine. It waited. When the sun moved, the bottle winked, and that small flash found Maya on the path.

Maya had come to collect litter for school; gloves, a black bag, bored feet. She bent, thinking this was just more junk. But it felt heavy, important somehow. Inside: a roll of paper, pale as a moth. Not trash. Her fingers shook like thin leaves as she worked at the cork. It was stubborn, old. She twisted and tugged; it sighed, then let go. A smell of damp and dust slipped out and made her think of the museum her gran liked. Who wrote this? How long had it been trapped here?

She uncurled the paper and read the first line. "Year of Our Lord 1693," it said in uneven ink. "To the finder, in a century I cannot see. Keep our names. Tell them the river remembers." The words seemed to speak aloud. Maya swallowed, and the river moved on.

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

Option A:

On the top of the hill the old fort sits like a broken tooth. It's stones are cracked and green with moss and wind pulls at them. The path is narrow and muddy with alot of stones, it twists up and up. I hear crows and the grass shivers, long hiss. The walls lean a little, they look tired. It feels old — very old.

The gate is half a gate, like a mouth with no teeth.

Inside there is only shadow. I do not go in, I ain't brave, also the roof might fall. Stones lay on the floor like bones and water drips again and again. A rag of flag hangs on a stick, it flaps slow. The fort watches the sky and the fields and no one watches it. The wind goes round it, around and around and around. I touch the wall it is rough, it leaves dust on me.

Option B:

Morning. Light on the old stones by the water. The tide was going out. A bottle rolled and tapped. It tapped my shoe.

I picked it up with cold fingers. The glass was green and scratched and it looked tired, like a old eye. Inside there was paper, tight and thin, like a leaf. The cork didn’t want to move, I twisted and pulled and breathed out, and it came with a little pop.

The paper smelt of salt and smoke. It cracked in peices when I opened it, and the words was faded and brown. To whoever finds this. I write in the year 1623. Please send word. Please.

I stared and I could hear the sea whisper like somebody talking far away. Was this for me, now, across all that time

I didn’t know what to do. I held the message like it could break and I looked at the waves.

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

Option A:

The old fort sits on top of the hill. Broken walls and dust. The stones are broke and the walls is leaning, like teeth. Wind push my coat and the grass waves, it goes shhh shhh round and round. Dust falls in little peices. I can smell wet dirt and cold air, its sharp. There is a big crack on the gate and the gate dont move. Birds hop on the edge, then off, then on again. I think about my lunch for a bit, my hands are cold. The sun is low and it looks pale, the fort looks tired and it might fall soon

Option B:

Spring. The old clock is loud in the hall, it ticks like a small hammer. I open the wooden back and I seen a thin piece of paper, yellow and bendy. The message says Hello - I am writing from 1623 please hear me. It feels like a breath in the dust I dont get it, I look at my phone and the bus time app because I am late for school but I read again. I think if I write back it will go through the clock like a bottle in the sea. Mum shouts tea is ready. Rain taps. Do you hear me?