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 Those directly addressed at the start are: the child, the genius with imagination, or the wholly untravelled – 1 mark
• 1.2 It is particularly so if it be: evening – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the narrator, which time of day most enhances the wonder of approaching a great city for the first time? Evening – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator/speaker, the night holds things for the: the weary – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 is not here forever repeated! Says the soul of the toiler to itself, “I shall soon be free. I shall be in the ways and the hosts of the merry. The streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me. The theatre, the halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of song—these are mine in the night.” Though all humanity be still enclosed in the shops, the thrill

11 runs abroad. It is in the air. The dullest feel something which they may not always express or describe. It is the lifting of the burden of toil. Sister Carrie gazed out of the window. Her companion, affected by her wonder, so contagious are all things, felt anew some interest in the city and pointed

How does the writer use language here to present the promise of the night and its effect on Carrie and her companion? 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 perceptively trace how personification and cumulative listing present night as liberating and communal: the internalised direct speech "Says the soul of the toiler" with anaphora "I shall soon be free... I shall be in the ways and the hosts of the merry" and the luxuriant catalogue "the streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining... the theatre, the halls, the parties, the ways of rest and the paths of song" build to the possessive claim "these are mine in the night", while the juxtaposition/personification of "Though all humanity be still enclosed... the thrill runs abroad" and the staccato "It is in the air." convey its pervasive pull. It would also analyse the contagious spread of this mood—explicit in "so contagious are all things"—into character response, as Carrie "gazed" and her companion "felt anew", signalling wonder and renewed desire.

The writer dramatises the night’s promise through a personified voice. By giving "the soul of the toiler" direct speech, the declarative "I shall soon be free" frames evening as emancipation. A lavish catalogue makes that freedom concrete: "The streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me." Articles and cumulative listing build a cityscape, while the possessives "for me" and "these are mine in the night" assert ownership. The tricolon "the theatre, the halls, the parties" and the emphatic dash before "these" heighten immediacy.

Moreover, metaphor and personification universalise this promise. Although "all humanity be still enclosed in the shops," the "thrill runs abroad": the verb "runs" animates excitement as it moves through space. The terse declarative "It is in the air" makes the charge pervasive, while the archaic subjunctive "be" and the hyperbolic "all humanity" lend authority. The phrase "the lifting of the burden of toil" extends a weight metaphor; "lifting" evokes release and lightness, making the relief physical even for "the dullest" who "feel something" they cannot "express or describe."

Additionally, the narrative zooms into its effect on individuals. "Sister Carrie gazed out of the window": the verb "gazed" connotes aspiration. Her companion is "affected by her wonder"—the inverted aside "so contagious are all things" literalises contagion. "Anew" in "felt anew some interest in the city" signals renewal, while "pointed" marks a shift from passive noticing to active engagement. Structurally, the move from generalisation to close-up mirrors the thrill’s diffusion into personal desire.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer presents night as liberating through personified direct speech and exuberant listing—"Says the soul of the toiler", "I shall soon be free", "The streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining, are for me", "these are mine in the night"—showing ownership and escape. Short declaratives and spreading metaphors—"the thrill runs abroad", "It is in the air", "the lifting of the burden of toil"—create a mood that is "so contagious are all things", prompting Carrie, who "gazed", and her companion, who "felt anew some interest", to share the promise of the city.

The writer personifies desire for freedom by giving the worker an inner voice: “says the soul of the toiler to itself, ‘I shall soon be free.’” This direct speech and first-person pronouns (“I,” “mine”) create an intimate promise of the night as personal possession: “these are mine in the night.” A rich listing with anaphora—“The streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining… The theatre, the halls, the parties”—builds abundance. The lexical field of light and leisure presents night as a world of pleasure, while metaphors like “ways of rest” and “paths of song” suggest inviting routes the toiler can now travel.

Moreover, the promise is universalised through personification: “the thrill runs abroad. It is in the air.” The short sentence heightens immediacy, and the generalisation “Though all humanity be still enclosed” implies its reach. Even “The dullest feel something,” where the superlative emphasises inclusivity. The extended metaphor “the lifting of the burden of toil” presents night as relief, a weight removed.

Additionally, the effect on characters is clear. The verb choice “Sister Carrie gazed” conveys wonder, and her emotion is contagious: “Her companion, affected by her wonder… felt anew some interest.” The metaphor of contagion (“so contagious are all things”) shows how the night’s promise spreads, prompting him to act as he “pointed,” re-engaging with the city.

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 positive language and listing like "hosts of the merry", "The theatre, the halls, the parties" and the metaphorical "the ways of rest and the paths of song" to make night seem exciting and free, while the short sentence "It is in the air." and "the thrill runs abroad" show this feeling spreading. This affects the characters as we see "the lifting of the burden of toil", Carrie "gazed out of the window", and, because "so contagious are all things", her companion "felt anew some interest in the city".

Firstly, the writer uses direct speech and repetition to show the promise of the night. The voice says, “I shall soon be free,” and repeats “I shall” to create hope. The list “the streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber” piles up attractions, and the dash in “paths of song—these are mine in the night” makes it sound certain.

Moreover, personification and metaphor present the feeling as widespread. “The thrill runs abroad” and the short sentence “It is in the air” suggest the promise moves everywhere. Even “the dullest feel something”, showing it touches everyone. The “lifting of the burden of toil” is a metaphor for relief from work.

Additionally, the effect on Carrie and her companion is shown by verbs. “Sister Carrie gazed” shows wonder, and her feeling is “contagious,” so he “felt anew some interest.” This shows the night’s promise spreads between them.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses a list and repetition to make night sound exciting and free, like "the streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber set for dining", "are for me" and "these are mine in the night". Short, simple lines such as "the thrill runs abroad" and "It is in the air" show the mood spreading, so Carrie "gazed out" and her companion "felt anew some interest".

The writer uses personification when “Says the soul of the toiler,” which makes the night sound promising and hopeful. The list “The streets, the lamps, the lighted chamber” builds up exciting places, showing the promise of fun. Furthermore, the metaphor “the thrill runs abroad” and the short sentence “It is in the air.” suggest a feeling spreading everywhere. Also, “the lifting of the burden of toil” shows work being removed. This affects Carrie, who “gazed out of the window,” and her companion is “affected by her wonder,” showing the mood is contagious.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Exclamatory sentence form jolts the tone from toil to expectation, foregrounding a break in routine (is not here forever repeated).
• Personified inner voice and direct speech create immediacy and hope, inviting empathy with the toiler’s longing (I shall soon be free).
• Anaphoric, cumulative listing of venues builds a sense of abundance and social allure awaiting after work (The theatre, the halls).
• Sensory, domestic imagery promises warmth and belonging, not just distraction (lighted chamber set for dining).
• Metaphoric pathways elevate leisure into a purposeful journey toward culture and rest (paths of song).
• Possessive declaration asserts entitlement and empowerment over the city’s pleasures at night (these are mine).
• Contrastive complex clause and personification oppose daytime enclosure with a spreading, dynamic excitement (thrill runs abroad).
• Short, emphatic sentence universalises the mood as pervasive and intangible, inescapably felt (in the air).
• Generalisation and ineffability present the uplift as communal and beyond words, widening its reach (The dullest feel).
• Contagion motif shifts to character impact: Carrie’s wonder transmits to her companion, rekindling engagement with the city (affected by her wonder).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the beginning of a novel.

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

You could write about:

• how melancholy 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 trace the structural arc from the panoramic, idealised opening—“the promise of the night,” an “illusion of hope” at the “mystic period” between “glare and gloom”—through a zoom-in on Carrie as the refrain “Chicago! Chicago!” and the decelerating arrival “at a snail’s pace” under the “shadowy train shed” puncture expectation, to the negations “No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement” and the closing image “a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea,” showing how contrast, narrowing focus, and repetition cumulatively create melancholy.

One way the writer structures melancholy is by opening with a panoramic exposition that frontloads hope before narrowing to anxious interiority. The narrator’s omniscient sweep—“the approach to a great city ... is a wonderful thing,” “the promise of the night”—universalises anticipation. Structurally, this macro view contracts to “Sister Carrie,” and the focalisation becomes intimate: “Her heart was troubled by a kind of terror.” That telescoping from collective euphoria to private unease engineers a tonal shift; by juxtaposing universal promise with private dread, expectation is quietly withdrawn.

In addition, pace and sound are orchestrated to deflate the approach into melancholy. Early auditory energy—“a puff, a clang, and a clatter,” the repeated “Chicago! Chicago!”—gives way to arrival “under a great shadowy train shed,” the train now at a “snail’s pace.” This deceleration acts as anticlimax: light dissolves into “shadowy” gloom, and the glamour curdles. Positioned before Carrie’s clutching at her “poor little grip,” these shifts recast physical motion as emotional sinking, so her breathlessness reads as dread rather than excitement.

A further structural feature is the end-weighted sequence of encounter, parting, then isolation. Drouet’s brief kindness is immediately followed by his withdrawal—“the shadow of a smile”—so absence becomes the dominant beat. Next, the explicit tonal turn—“cold reality taking her by the hand” and the negations “No world of light and merriment”—cancel the opening’s “promise,” before the terminal image: Carrie as “a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea,” positioned last to leave the reader in desolate aftertaste.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures a journey from hopeful expectation to isolation: beginning with a generalised voice that romanticises the approach to a great city at evening—that mystic period and the promise Ah, the promise of the night, listing the streets, the lamps, then zooming into Carrie as Her heart was troubled while the repeated Chicago! Chicago! and arrival under a great shadowy train shed darken the mood. Finally, contrast and a tonal shift close the extract—No world of light and merriment, the bite of cold reality, and the isolating image of Carrie much alone, a lone figure—showing how melancholy emerges by the end through movement, zooming in, repetition and anti-climax.

One way the writer structures melancholy is by opening with a panoramic, idealised view of the city at 'evening', then narrowing to Carrie. The generalised promises ('the theatre, the halls, the parties') build expectation; when focus shifts to her interior—'her heart was troubled'—and later to 'cold reality' with her sister, that contrast converts hope into apprehension and loss.

In addition, the writer manipulates pace and setting to darken the tone. Early movement is brisk—'with a puff... and a clatter'—but as they enter the 'shadowy train shed' the train crawls at a 'snail’s pace'. The repeated call 'Chicago! Chicago!' acts as a structural signpost, signalling the inescapable moment of arrival and slowing into gloom, which deepens Carrie’s unsettled mood.

A further structural feature is the ending’s narrowing to separation and isolation. After dialogue, Drouet ‘turned to go’, and the viewpoint fixes on Carrie’s recognition of absence—'she felt something lost to her'. The final line foregrounds her alone-ness—'much alone, a lone figure'—so the source culminates in isolation. Ending on this image shapes the whole extract into a downward shift in mood toward melancholy.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would spot that the writer starts with a hopeful, general view, 'a wonderful thing' and 'the promise of the night', then shifts focus onto Carrie as 'Her heart was troubled by a kind of terror' and the repeated 'Chicago! Chicago!' builds tension, before ending with 'cold reality' and the image of 'a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea' to create melancholy.

One way the writer structures the text to create melancholy is by starting hopeful and ending sad. A hopeful tone: "Ah, the promise of the night". By the end we get "cold reality" and "No world of light and merriment", so the contrast makes the reader feel loss.

In addition, the focus moves from a wide view of the city to Carrie herself. This zoom from general to personal, with "Sister Carrie gazed" and "Her heart was troubled", brings us into her perspective and builds a gloomy mood as she arrives. This makes the reader feel sorry for her.

A further feature is the repeated calls of "Chicago!" and the meeting with her sister. These are stages as we move from the middle to the end. The dialogue and the final image, "a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea", leave the ending on loneliness and sadness.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the text starts hopeful with Ah, the promise of the night and Chicago! Chicago!, but by the end it turns sad with she felt his absence thoroughly and a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea, so this change makes a melancholy mood.

One way the writer structures the text to create melancholy is by starting with hopeful description of the city and night. This bright beginning (“the promise of the night”) makes the later sadness stronger.

In addition, the focus shifts to Carrie on the train and to fear. The repeated call “Chicago! Chicago!” and the busy platform change the tone, making her feel melancholy.

A further structural feature is the ending image. When Drouet leaves and the sister brings “the grimness of shift and toil,” the final “a lone figure” stays with us. Ending like this creates a sad mood.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Panoramic generalisation of first arrivals sets an idealised baseline, priming a later downturn into melancholy (old illusion of hope)
• Temporal framing at evening establishes a liminal threshold whose promise will be darkened, foreshadowing sadness (the promise of the night)
• Zoom from impersonal “to the toiler” to a named focaliser narrows the lens, intensifying vulnerability and melancholy (Sister Carrie gazed)
• Juxtaposition of Drouet’s boosterism with Carrie’s inward dread creates structural dissonance that sours the mood (her heart was troubled)
• Recurrent industrial soundscape turns the approach into an oppressive arrival, draining the romance into melancholy (clatter and clang)
• Decelerating pace on entry under the shed saps momentum, mirroring her sinking spirits (a snail’s pace)
• Anticlimactic reunion shifts from imagined glamour to work-worn reality, undercutting earlier expectations (cold reality)
• Reversal by negation cancels the early list of delights, enacting loss through structural denial (No world of light)
• Staged parting from Drouet (glance, smile, exit) marks a fading connection that deepens her sense of lack (shadow of a smile)
• Final image positions her isolated amid a crowd, sealing the text’s melancholic trajectory (a lone figure)

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, where Carrie feels terror on the train, her personal fear is a strong contrast to the earlier idea of the city’s promise. The writer suggests that for a lonely person, a big city can be more frightening than exciting.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Carrie's feelings of fear and loneliness
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the city as frightening
• 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, to a great extent, that the writer convincingly presents the city as frightening for the lonely, tracing the shift from the superficially energising alive with the clatter and clang of life to the oppressive great shadowy train shed and anticlimax of cold reality, culminating in the isolating metaphor a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea. It would analyse how visceral and defensive details like choked for breath and closed her hand firmly upon her purse, alongside the fleeting comfort of Drouet’s shadow of a smile, reveal Carrie’s fear and thus support the writer’s viewpoint.

I agree to a large extent that Carrie’s personal terror on the train starkly undercuts the city’s earlier promise, and the writer suggests that for the isolated individual, the metropolis is more frightening than thrilling. From the outset of this section, the focalised narration fixes on Carrie’s body: “choked for breath… a little sick… her heart beat so fast.” This visceral, physiological field of imagery makes fear palpable. Against it, the brakeman’s metonymic cry of “Chicago! Chicago!”—the city reduced to a beckoning name—creates an immediate juxtaposition between public promise and private panic. The yard is “alive with the clatter and clang of life”: the onomatopoeia amplifies urban vitality, yet Carrie’s instinct is defensive—she “closed her hand firmly upon her purse” and clutches a “poor little grip.” The diminutive “little” diminishes her, encoding vulnerability in a space that feels predatory.

As the train slides “under a great shadowy train shed, where the lamps were already beginning to shine out,” the writer crafts chiaroscuro: nascent light is hemmed in by shadows. The sibilance of “shadowy… shine… snail’s pace” hisses softly, creating a muffled, oppressive soundscape, while the paradoxical “snail’s pace” draws out the approach and heightens dread. Structurally, the brakeman “drawing the word out long” elongates anticipation, stretching Carrie’s tension. The crowd “all up and crowding” induces claustrophobia; in a throng, she is singularly exposed.

The text then punctures the myth of urban delight with blunt anaphora: “No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement.” The repeated negatives cancel the earlier fantasy. Personification intensifies this collapse—“cold reality [is] taking her by the hand”—a chilling inversion of the warm guiding hand she lacks. Her sister’s arrival imports a lexical field of labour—“grimness of shift and toil”—and the “lean-faced, rather commonplace” description undercuts glamour. Home ties do not anchor Carrie in joy; they tether her to drudgery, reinforcing the city’s chill.

Drouet briefly counterpoints that loneliness. His “kindness” and the exchanged, almost clandestine “shadow of a smile” provide a transient halo of safety. Tellingly, he stands “toward the gate,” a liminal guardian; when he “turned to go,” Carrie “felt something lost,” the verb crystallising the instant her fragile excitement drains away. The closing metaphor—“a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea”—compresses the evaluation: the city’s mass becomes an indifferent force, and solitude within multitude is the dominant effect.

Overall, I strongly agree: through juxtaposition, sensory imagery, and structural delay, the writer recasts the city’s promise as a mirage for the unaccompanied. A faint allure persists in the glimmering lamps and Drouet’s smile, but for Carrie in this moment, the metropolis is emphatically more frightening than exciting.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree that the writer presents a big city as more frightening than exciting for someone lonely, pointing to sensory detail like the clatter and clang of life in a great shadowy train shed and to Carrie’s panic little choked for breath. It would also note the contrast from promise to No world of light and merriment and cold reality, and the metaphor of being a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea, showing how, once Drouet leaves, isolation makes the city feel threatening.

I largely agree that Carrie’s personal terror on the train sharply undercuts the earlier promise of the city, and the writer suggests that loneliness turns the big city from exciting to frightening. Across this section, the structure moves from the noisy approach to Chicago, to a brief, comforting connection, and finally to isolation, which reinforces the evaluation.

At first, the writer presents fear through visceral, sensory imagery: Carrie feels “choked for breath… a little sick as her heart beat so fast,” which shows physical panic. The repeated cry “Chicago! Chicago!” and dynamic verbs like “slamming” and “rushing” heighten urgency, while the onomatopoeic “clatter and clang of life” makes the city feel overwhelming. Setting is used to create an ominous tone: the “great shadowy train shed” and lamps “beginning to shine out” suggest light struggling against darkness. Even the simile “moving at a snail’s pace” slows time, stretching her anxiety. Carrie’s precautionary gesture—she “closed her hand firmly upon her purse”—implies threat and mistrust in the crowd.

The promise of the city is explicitly challenged by contrast and personification. In the line “Amid all the maze, uproar, and novelty she felt cold reality taking her by the hand,” “reality” is personified as a chilling guide, and “novelty” is juxtaposed with “cold,” undercutting excitement. Her sister’s “lean-faced” appearance and the “grimness of shift and toil” replace any “world of light and merriment,” with the anaphora of “No…” doubling down on disappointment. Although Drouet’s kindness and the “shadow of a smile” hint at support, it is fleeting: when he leaves, “she felt his absence thoroughly.” The final metaphor—“a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea”—captures the city as impersonal and disorienting, and the paradox “With her sister she was much alone” intensifies her loneliness.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The writer’s use of contrast, imagery, and structural progression shows that for a lonely person like Carrie, Chicago feels more frightening than exhilarating.

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, giving simple reasons that the writer makes the city feel frightening for someone alone by showing Carrie as 'choked for breath' in 'a great shadowy train shed' amid 'maze, uproar', and finally 'a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea'. It might briefly note the loss of excitement when Drouet leaves ('something lost to her') and the 'cold reality' that replaces any promise.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, Carrie’s fear on the train is shown strongly and it clashes with any earlier hope about the city.

The writer uses physical description to show terror: “choked for breath,” “a little sick,” and her “heart beat so fast.” Sound images like the “clatter and clang of life” feel aggressive. The “great shadowy train shed” with “lamps… beginning to shine” contrasts light and dark, which makes the setting seem uncertain and threatening. She “closed her hand firmly upon her purse” and clutches her “poor little grip,” suggesting she is protecting herself. The people “crowding” around the door make it overwhelming.

The sense of promise fades when she meets her sister. “Cold reality” “taking her by the hand” is personification, replacing the dream of “light and merriment.” The blunt statements “No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement.” stress disappointment and the “grimness of shift and toil.” When Drouet leaves, she “felt something lost” and “his absence thoroughly,” showing how alone she is. The final metaphor, “a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea,” presents the big city as uncaring and frightening for someone lonely.

There is a hint of comfort in Drouet’s “kindness,” so it isn’t all fear. However, overall I agree: the writer uses contrast, sensory detail and metaphor to show the big city is more frightening than exciting for a lonely newcomer.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Shows simple awareness of the writer’s viewpoint by briefly agreeing that the city can be more frightening than exciting for a lonely person. Supports this with basic references such as choked for breath, great shadowy train shed, and a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea to show fear and loneliness.

I mostly agree that Carrie’s fear on the train contrasts with the city’s earlier promise.

At the start, the writer shows her terror through physical feelings: she is "choked for breath" and "a little sick" with her "heart beat so fast". This makes me think she is scared. The repetition of "Chicago! Chicago!" and the words "more crowded" and "shadowy train shed" make the place seem noisy and dark, which is frightening for someone alone. The "clatter and clang of life" is strong sound imagery and it feels overwhelming rather than exciting.

Later, the contrast with the promise is obvious. Carrie thinks, "No world of light and merriment. No round of amusement." The writer uses contrast here to show disappointment. Her sister is "lean-faced" and brings the "grimness of shift and toil", so the city looks hard. When Drouet leaves, Carrie feels "something lost" and "his absence," which shows loneliness. The metaphor "a lone figure in a tossing, thoughtless sea" makes the city seem huge and dangerous.

Overall, I agree that the city is more frightening than exciting for Carrie because she is lonely, so the promise turns into fear.

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:

• Juxtaposition of cheerful boosterism with inner dread → shows the city’s promise collapses into threat for someone isolated (kind of terror).
• Metaphor of an engulfing sea → the scale reads as overpowering rather than liberating for a lone newcomer (great sea of life).
• Physiological detail of panic → makes fear tangible to the reader, encouraging agreement that excitement is eclipsed (choked for breath).
• Repetition and soundscape → the insistent call and noise feel oppressive, not welcoming (Chicago! Chicago!).
• Gloomy, liminal setting → dim light and shadow cast arrival as ominous rather than dazzling (great shadowy train shed).
• Slowed movement amid crowding → suspenseful delay amplifies anxiety, implying vulnerability in the big city (snail’s pace).
• Protective gesture with money → suggests perceived threat and self-reliance, reinforcing fear born of loneliness (hand firmly upon her purse).
• Tonal shift from novelty to hardship → expectation turns to disenchantment, aligning the city with toil, not delight (grimness of shift and toil).
• Fleeting human kindness as counterpoint → brief comfort cannot sustain her; its withdrawal deepens isolation (something lost to her).
• Final isolating image → clinches the idea that the city is indifferent and frightening to the lonely (tossing, thoughtless sea).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

An after-school nature club has asked for short creative pieces to read at its next meeting.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a hedgehog exploring a night garden from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a childhood pet you can't forget.

(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:

Midnight has curled itself into the garden; a hush stitched with the soft scissoring of leaves. Moonlight puddles in the dips of the lawn, cool as tin; dew beads every blade. From the ragged mouth of the hedge, the hedgehog arrives—small, purposeful, bristled—a travelling thistle with black-button eyes. He sniffs, a discreet engine: snuff-snuff, pause, snuff. Each quill takes the cold and keeps it, a soft armour murmuring against itself.

The world, to him, is scent-first: damp compost; bruised rosemary and lavender beneath his low belly; sweetness of windfall apple; the iron rasp of snail. His nose writes in the dirt, and the ground writes back. He moves meticulously, toes splayed, leaf-litter muting his progress. A slug lays a glistening hyphen across his path; he investigates it, mild, methodical, and moves on. Above, the sycamore holds its breath; a late moth turns restlessly like unlit paper.

He stops. He listens. Sound arrives in ribbons: a fox barking beyond the fence; a distant lorry unspooling on the bypass; a tremulous drip from the gutter; the house’s quiet electricity. Nothing balances wrong. He proceeds. At the pond, the garden’s black pupil, the moon quivers in broken silver; he leans to drink, tongue brisk, careful of the cold lip of stone. Then, a sudden blur—a cat, all intention and whisker—detaches from the herb bed. The hedgehog becomes more hedgehog; he locks into himself, a clenched burr, spines radiating an answer. The cat’s confidence folds; it skirts away with a silent, dissatisfied tail. He waits a beat longer than necessary, his patience prudent; then he uncoils, relearning his own weight.

The path is stippled with snail-shells like miniature moons; somewhere a crisp crack underfoot testifies to supper. He eats with industrious calm, a tiny corrugation of sound—dry, precise. A brief cloud drifts; darkness fattens; the sky exhales again, unzipping light along the edges of leaves. Under the gate, a slat has lifted; he tests it, compresses, flows under—a slow, prickled river—and reappears where daisies are closed like tiny fists. The garden beyond is another country: damp, edible, speaking. Steam feathers the compost heap; he rummages, finds warmth; he shoulders aside a papery leaf, almost triumphant. He presses through nettle-ghosts and fern-shadow, collecting burrs and a single pale petal. As a far-off clock peels midnight—one, then another—he leaves his manuscript: a line of delicate prints and a glimmer of snail-silver. Behind him, a disturbed leaf resettles; the pond reclaims its perfect eye. By the time a breeze remembers its route and returns, he has already gone back into the hedge, subsumed, as if the night had made him and then carefully, politely, put him away.

Option B:

Memory returns first as sound: the staccato patter of claws on the tessellated kitchen floor, the bright ping of her copper tag on the bowl, the steady timpani of a tail against cupboard doors. Light lay in squares on the lino; steam swanned from the kettle; the radio murmured nonsense, and, before anything else, there was always Pepper arriving—wholeheartedly—like weather. She was the wet-fur tang at ankle height, the zephyr of breath on my palm, the look that seemed to ask and answer everything at once.

We didn’t choose her so much as she selected us. The rescue centre exhaled bleach and biscuits; metal doors conceded small, hopeful faces. Pepper, a salt-and-smoke scrap, pressed her comma-white chest to the bars and tilted her head, as if tuning to our frequency. ‘She’s smaller than she looks,’ my mother said. ‘She’ll need patience,’ warned the volunteer. Pepper licked the ridges of my knuckles with grave concentration and set her paw in my hand—an agreement older than paper. We signed. The car filled with rain-scent and the rustle of a life beginning.

She learned us. She memorised the grammar of our house—the sulky stair, the cupboard that sighed, the back door that stuck in winter—and annotated the skirting board with a discreet palimpsest of scratches. Mornings, she conducted breakfast: stood sentry beneath the toast, curated a confetti of crumbs; afternoons, she patrolled the fence, reprimanding pigeons with a scalded bark; evenings, she folded into the crook of my knees as if returning to harbour. Her coat was scarcely fur but punctuation: commas of white at the toes, an ellipsis of spots, an exclamation of tail.

She was not perfect. She stole socks with a pickpocket’s finesse; excavated flowerbeds with archaeological zeal; once ate the tinsel off the small plastic tree (it never harmed her, although the nativity never truly recovered). When I cried, she offered the warm, inarticulate solace only a creature without words can give; when I bragged, she looked away, unimpressed—a lesson, however incidental, in proportion.

And then November wrote its brilliant, brutal script across the sky. Fireworks needled the dark; the air shook; windows hummed. Pepper dissolved—anxious atoms—behind the washing machine, all shiver and whites-of-eyes. I dragged blankets into a cave between chairs, read aloud from a battered book, threaded my voice through the fizz and thud until, by degrees, her breathing unlatched. ‘I won’t leave,’ I promised, palm on her ribcage, counting heartbeats. That should be where the memory ends, neat as a ribbon; but memory isn’t tidy. Months later, when the river muscled its banks and the street became a canal, Pepper did what even I didn’t dare—and that is why I can’t forget her.

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

Option A:

The garden inhales the night, then exhales a soft, cool hush. Moonlight lays a pale film on the flagstones; dew pins sequins to each blade of grass. From the frayed hem of the shrubbery, a bristled body unbuttons itself from shadow. He is cautious but not timid: a small constellation of spines, a dark, inquisitive nose pointing ahead. He pauses—listening—and the air offers its simple syllabus: damp loam, fox from the lane, a faint apple sweetness. The hedge murmurs (a discreet susurration), and a moth taps at glass; he snuffles once, twice, and begins his slow cartography.

Each step is deliberate, a quiet punctuation on the soil; he parts the lawn like a miniature prow, leaving only a whisper of movement. The spines articulate as he turns, a subtle ripple, like wind on wheat. His snout is a compass, sweeping, testing, reading the snail-written script on stones. The night is not empty—far from it: beetles tick in their armour, the compost heap radiates fugitive warmth, marigolds hold their peppery breath. For him, the garden is not romantic but legible; every scent is a directive.

A shadow drifts across the grass, an owl’s thought passing over ground. Instantly he stills, becoming a prickled pebble; time collects around him like dew. There is nothing to his stillness, and yet it is everything—heart a small metronome, breath narrowed to a thread. The shadow slides on. A cat’s bell tinkles from the fence and is then merely memory; he unbuttons the pose and resumes, nosing beneath a wet leaf for the crisp secret of a beetle under the terracotta lip.

Beyond the herb bed, a fallen apple shines as if varnished. He circles it ceremoniously, tasting bruised sugar, leaving starry bites on the skin. A drop of water escapes a leaf and kisses his back; the spines quiver, then settle. The minutes gather; a thin seam of dawn begins to fray the horizon, and the garden blushes almost imperceptibly. He will retreat soon—to the courteous darkness under the hydrangea, to his paper-soft nest—carrying, perhaps, a stray leaf snagged on a spine like a signature. The path behind him looks unchanged, yet it is different: mapped, known, safe enough. The night folds back in like a blanket and keeps his small secret.

Option B:

Saturday. The day of no alarms; cereal bowls refilled; muddy knees promised by midday; Rusty’s breath—a warm, meaty fog—on the back of my hand. On the radio, some cheerful voice burbled; the kettle hissed; the hallway held the wet-dog smell that seemed woven into the skirting boards. If I close my eyes, I can catalogue it still: the click-click of claws on linoleum, the stamp of his impatient tail, the tiny quiver that meant we were going out.

Rusty was not a glamorous dog. He was a brindled mongrel with one ear soft and folded, the other alert, as if he couldn’t decide whether to listen to the world or dream through it. His fur carried the colour of October; his eyes were conker-dark. To my seven-year-old self, he was a map—he drew me into lanes and fields, taught me the names of things with his nose: hawthorn; nettle; river mud; the fossil of a rabbit trail only he could read. How do you forget a dog who taught you the geography of home?

That morning wore a thin sun and a wind that rubbed our cheeks pink. Mum fastened my scarf; Dad jangled the lead (he knew that game), and Rusty did his small, ecstatic dance, paws skittering—a dancer on a scuffed stage. The village breathed out its usual Saturday business—bread carried in paper from the baker, a van coughing, someone dragging a wheelie bin—and over all of it, Rusty’s focus: my hand at the clip; the gate; the world beyond.

In the field the grass was winter-short, cropped to stubble by sheep. We stood by the kissing gate and I unhooked him. Freedom, to Rusty, was not running but reading; he lowered his head as if turning the pages of the ground. He swept the hedgerow, tail flagging, then came back to press his shoulder against my knee in that old, practised way—his way of saying: it’s ours, we’re together.

Perhaps that is why the sound startled me more than it did him. A crack—sharp, clean, wrong—ripped the air from somewhere beyond the copse. Not thunder; not the bang of a dropped bucket. Fireworks in daylight, in January, because someone couldn’t wait for night. Rusty flinched, froze, and in that sliver of a second I learned how quickly a boy’s certainty can become a chase.

He looked at me, amber eyes blown wide; then he was a streak of brown across the field, his name already flying out of my mouth, too late.

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

Option A:

The moon leans over the fence, looking in. Its light spreads thinly across the lawn, silvering the damp blades and painting pale beads of dew. From the shadow of a cracked terracotta pot, a hedgehog nudges into view. He is the size of a small loaf, but bristling, purposeful. There is no haste; he belongs to this hour. Somewhere the gutter drips, a small clock for the whole garden.

Snout to soil, he reads the ground. Sniff, shuffle, pause; sniff, shuffle, pause. The leaves whisper under him, and the smallest pebbles click. His spines hold the moon like a crown of pins. A moth flutters past, erratic. He lifts, decides, lowers his head again, navigating the narrow labyrinth between the thyme and the sleeping roses. The air tastes of damp compost and that faint sweetness from night-scented stock. He coaxes a leaf aside with a neat paw; it lifts, sighs back.

Where the paving breaks, beetles shine like buttons. He stops at an apple fallen to bruise, a sour perfume cloudy in the cold; his tongue finds a gloss of juice and then the soft shape of a slug. There is the quiet business of chewing. Beyond the shed, a cat slides along the border—sleek, predatory, pretending indifference. He tucks in: a careful sphere, waiting. The cat swishes, dismisses; the night keeps going.

At the pond, dark and round, the stars are rinsed and doubled. He drinks. Each lap pulls the sky into rings that break on the stones and re-form, almost calm again. A breeze travels through the bamboo, making a shy clatter; wind chimes hesitate and then agree. A snail writes a bright sentence along the slab. Somewhere a fox coughs—a brusque sound that is not here and yet is near enough to quicken him.

For a moment he stands, nose lifted, measuring the unknown garden next door. He threads the narrow path beneath the hydrangea, vanishing like a thought. By morning there will be only the scuffed leaves to say he was here. The moon, patient as ever, goes on laying silver over everything, and the hedgehog goes on.

Option B:

Autumn. The season of smoke and soft light; pavements salted with leaves, evenings arriving almost too soon. Chimneys breathed; conkers thudded; the air held that honest smell of damp grass. Even now, when someone strikes a match for the first fire, I smell wet fur and biscuits and I think of Pippin—my dog with the lopsided ear and the heart that could not stay still.

He did not so much enter our house as tumble into it. He came in a shoebox with air-holes punched by my uncle, nose first. The box shivered; then a small head burst through, all whiskers and wonder. His eyes were the dark gloss of conkers, and his paws, absurdly large, splayed like starfish on the kitchen lino. He smelt like old milk and puddles. When he licked my fingers—carefully at first, then all at once—it felt like some private promise.

Back then I was seven, knees bruised from falling over the same cracked kerb. Mum said we could try, just for a week, although Dad said the house would never be clean again. He said it twice. Pippin did not listen; he chewed a slipper, then the newspaper, then the corner of the stair; he chased dust motes as if they were moonlight. Yet, when I cried because my best friend moved away, he climbed onto the scratchy sofa and pressed his warm, weighty head into my lap, and suddenly the room seemed kinder.

There were rules—no dogs on the bed, no dogs at the table—but rules softened like butter and went the way of the slipper. Meanwhile, Pippin learned our rhythms: school bell, kettle, the thin whistle of the evening train. His tail beat a metronome; his bark skittered up and down; he could hear a key turn from the end of the street.

If this were only a story about a good dog, it would be simple. However, fireworks tear November open, and metal is an unforgiving thing. Before any of that, though, there was the day we tied his new blue collar and I began to understand what keep means—and what let go might cost.

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

Option A:

Moonlight spills into the garden in thin, cool sheets, making the grass look silvered. From the rift under the fence, a hedgehog pushes through: a neat, bristling bundle with a bright, button-nose. The night is quiet, but not silent; somewhere a gutter ticks with yesterday’s rain. He pauses. He tastes the air with tiny, patient sniffs, as if reading a secret letter.

He sets off along the edge of the border, choosing the shadowed route. Dry leaves whisper and crackle; damp ones stick to his feet. His spines glint with beads of dew. The air smells of loam and mint, and a faint cold metal from the gate. Leaf, stone, broken shell: all are measured by the careful tap-tap of his steps. He keeps close to cover, skirting daisy heads and foxgloves, moving, then stopping, then moving again.

A slug gleams on the path like a dropped piece of moon. He noses it, decides no, and carries on to the low dish by the shed where water waits. The moon floats in that shallow saucer; when he drinks, the picture shivers. A moth taps the glass while a breeze climbs the privet and makes it murmur. He freezes; the wind speaks in leaves. What scent threads through the ivy? Cat, or only the echo of one? He swells into a small fortress, then settles.

Under the hydrangea the earth is warm with old petals and sweet rot, a pantry of beetles. He rummages; he is thorough, even if the reward is small. One thing matters: the next mouthful, the next safe space. At last, he turns back, a soft, round tide, and slips into the hedge's dark seam. Beyond the rooftops, a thin paleness unwraps the sky. He curls into himself—spines, breath, heartbeat—and the night folds its coat around him.

Option B:

At the back of the cupboard, behind paint tins and a lopsided broom, I found the blue collar. It was stiff with age, the brass tag mottled like a coin from a river. When I rubbed the leather, the smell rose — rain, cut grass, that warm animal scent from our hallway. My palms tingled, and a name arrived before tears did: Patch.

He arrived in spring; lanes were wet and hedges glittered. I was ten. Mum said, 'We can give him water and call the number on the poster; that's all.' But Patch had other plans. He stood on the porch with his front paws neat, tail sweeping the mat. His fur was a patchwork of grey and white, muddled to brown. One ear up, the other flopped. When I crouched, he leaned his careful weight against my knee, trying to be more than himself.

After that, mornings changed. He walked me to school, not all the way — to the red postbox at the end of the road. Every morning he’d stop there and sit, chest out, like he was guarding me from the day. The bus hissed and pulled away; he would still be there, tail ticking on the pavement. Once I forgot my lunch. I spotted him through the window, standing by the railings, the handle clenched in his teeth. I burned with embarrassment and pride.

Now, years later, the collar sits in my hand like a small question. Outside, the garden is quieter; the apple tree just sways. People say pets are simple, but Patch was a map: he showed me routes through crowded days, he waited, he knew. I did not realise the last morning at the postbox would be the last. Perhaps that is why I cannot forget him. I don't really want to.

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

Option A:

The garden is a dark quilt, stitched with threads of moonlight. From the mouth of a hedge, the hedgehog noses out, a bristled button with legs. Night breathes; the turf smells damp, like old tea and leaves. He feels the cold through his neat little feet. A moth skates past his face, pale as ash, and the rosemary shakes though there is no wind. He pauses, the garden holds it's breath.

He goes on, rustle-rustle, through a fall of leaves that whisper against his spines. The path is a river of silver; stones gleam, slick with dew. He sniffs - sniff, snuffle - testing the air, busy nose alive with secret messages. Something glistens: a snail, slow and foolish, drawing a bright line. He listens, then nudges it aside, not hungry yet. A gate clicks somewhere, distant; the sound falls over the beds like a dropped coin.

By the pond the night tilts. Reeds murmur, and a frog gives one bored croak. He peers at the black water and sees himself: a small raft of thorns adrift on a dark mirror. He drinks; the taste is metal-cool and clean. Is there danger? Only the quiet. Only the soft ticking of insects in the ivy.

Then a shadow moves. The cat's tail draws a question mark in the gloom, silent paws, patient eyes. The hedgehog stiffens, a tiny storm; he folds himself into a careful ball. A minute, two, maybe more, and the cat slides away. Uncurling, he shivers, slightly, and carries on under the drooping roses and the old swing seat, until the hedge receives him again.

Option B:

Autumn peeled off the trees and our street smelt of wet soil; the takeaway sent out curry steam. That was the year Buddy arrived. I didn't choose him; he chose me—trotting into our kitchen like he owned the lino. Small and messy, a patchwork of muddy white and slate grey, with ears like bent envelopes and tea-coloured eyes.

He slept under the table; he snored like a tiny engine, steady and comical. When rain hammered, he pressed his warm side against my shin. He smelt of biscuits and damp leaves. His paws clicked on the tiles, tick-tack, and his tail beat the chair legs. He didn't like fireworks, he hid under my duvet with his heart hopping; I'd stroke the rough fur at his neck and whisper it's okay. Buddy — the name stuck because he was always there — had mischief too: if the back door breathed open he slid out and nosed at the world.

On Saturdays we walked to the field by the allotments, where the grass hissed and seeds stuck to his whiskers like silver freckles. Dad always said, Keep the gate closed. I did, most of the time. But one evening the wind pushed, the latch didn't bite and he saw something—a fox, a shadow, maybe nothing—and he ran. Even now, when street lights flick on, I hear his paws in my head, the little engine going, going, then gone. I can't forget.

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

Option A:

Moonlight spills over the small garden, thin and silver, and the hedgehog noses out from the hedge. Its tiny snout twitches; sniff, sniff. The grass seems to whisper, and the damp soil gives off an earthy smell, a hint of rain. Slow, steady, it shuffles between fallen leaves that stick to its spines like tiny paper flags. A moth skates past the pond, glimmering wings, and the hedgehog pauses. It listens. It waits. Even the washing line looks stiff and serious in the dark, as if the whole place is holding its breath.

Then it goes on, brave in a small way, nudging a curled brown leaf until it flips—scritch-scratch over the path stones. A window bursts with warm yellow; a square of light slides across the lawn. The silouette of a cat drifts along the fence and the hedgehog stops, it tucks into a prickly ball, very still. Seconds fold into each other; nothing moves. When the shadow passes, the animal uncurls and continues, nose pressed to the ground, searching. Lavender brushes its side. Dew beads its whiskers. Finally it squeezes under the low shed, safe, and the night starts breathing again, soft and slow, forward and forward.

Option B:

Some pets fade like old photos; Rusty never did. Even now, years later, I hear claws on the kitchen tiles and smell that rain-and-biscuit scent. Back then, I was seven and he was small but noisy. He had eyes like marbles and a tail that drew circles in the air.

It was early spring. The grass was shiny with wet and the sky kind of smiled through thin cloud. Mum carried the cardboard box to the door while I walked beside her. Two holes in the lid; a nose pushed out, twitching. "Careful," Dad said, trying to sound strict, but he was grinning. Rusty stumbled in, shook like a tiny storm. Water spots flew; he licked my fingers and my heart jumped. One thing was certain: he belonged to us.

That first night a storm came. He crawled under my bed, shivering, and I laid my hand on it's warm back — could you believe how fast a heart can go? I whispered a promise to keep him safe. He didn't sleep much, but in the morning he stole Dad's sock and paraded it like a flag. Even now, when thunder rumbles, I see his brave little face and muddy paws.

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

Option A:

The garden is dark and still. The moon is pale like milk. A small hedgehog slips through a gap in the fence. It is like a tiny ball with pins. Dry leaves crunch. It sniffs.

Sniff, sniff, sniff. It listens to a drip from the tap and to a bird half asleep. The grass is wet on its belly. It's little nose twitches.

Its paws is small.

It goes along the path, slow but sure, the stones are hard, there is a slug and it nudges it and eats it and the sound is sticky and a bit wierd.

The wind moves the hedge like a whisper. The hedgehog stops. It prickles up. It waits. It goes again.

Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. It pushes into a pile of leaves, the leaves make a soft sound. A window throws a long shaddow. Then it finds a hole and slips away quietley.

Option B:

Spring. The grass was wet and my socks was wet too. I was nine and I had a dog called Max. I can’t forget Max, even now, because he was my first real friend.

Max was small and fast. His ears were brown like toast and they flapped like little flags. When he run across the yard, the puddles jumped. I laughed, Mum shouted, and Max barked again and again, like he was laughing as well.

That day the gate was open by accident. He saw it and he went, quick feet, a streak, and I went after.

I called, Max, Max, come here!

Cars hissed past. The world felt big and scary and slow.

He stopped at the corner and looked back. I don’t know why but I knew it was important. I am still there in my head, on the path, holding the red lead. I can still feel his fur.

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

Option A:

The hedgehog goes along the path in the night garden. It is small and round, it moves slow. The moon is big and white on the grass. Leaves are wet and make a little crunch, crunch. The smell is damp and cold, I can feel it on my nose. The hedgehog stops and sniff, it listens, then it carries on. It pokes at a flower pot, a slug is there and it licks. It moves under the bush and the twigs push its spines and it breathes loud. A cat looks from the wall and the hedgehog don't care. Back and forward, it walks to the gate.

Option B:

Spring again and the grass is wet and the sun is trying. I think about my old cat, Tiger. He was small and fast, with fur like smoke. He used to sit on the step and blink slow, like he knew a secret. I throw a ball but he did not fetch, he just watched, and I laughed! The bus was late and my shoes was squeaky. One time it rained hard and he ran inside and the floor got muddy and mum shouted but then she stroked him. We was happy then. Now he gone and the bowl is empty, I can't forget.