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 Where did the screeching come from?: the far end of the hall – 1 mark
• 1.2 What did K. do to try to see better?: K. shaded his eyes – 1 mark
• 1.3 What did the dull light of day make the smoke?: whitish and hard to see through – 1 mark
• 1.4 What could K. only see at that moment?: that a man had pulled the washerwoman – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 into a corner by the door and was pressing himself against her. But it was not her who was screaming, but the man, he had opened his mouth wide and looked up at the ceiling. A small circle had formed around the two of them, the visitors near him in the gallery seemed delighted that the serious tone K. had introduced into the gathering had been disturbed in this way. K.'s first

11 thought was to run over there, and he also thought that everyone would want to bring things back into order there or at least to make the pair leave the room, but the first row of people in front of him stayed were they were, no- one moved and no-one let K. through. On the contrary, they stood in his way, old men held out their arms in front of him and a hand from somewhere--he did

How does the writer use language here to show confusion and how the crowd holds K. back? 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 show how the writer creates confusion through reversal, tonal clash and sentence form: not her who was screaming, but the man, the disoriented image looked up at the ceiling, the crowd seemed delighted that K.'s serious tone was disturbed, and long, comma-spliced clauses ending in the broken-off dash --he did. It would also analyse how the crowd holds K. back via enclosing and dehumanising imagery: A small circle had formed; the repeated negatives no-one moved and no-one let K. through; the pivot On the contrary; bodies as barriers in held out their arms; and the anonymous synecdoche a hand from somewhere.

The writer immediately engineers confusion through reversal and syntax. The adversative conjunction and repetition in “But it was not her who was screaming, but the man” creates a jolt of surprise, subverting the reader’s expectation and disorientating us alongside K. Vivid, unsettling detail—“he had opened his mouth wide and looked up at the ceiling”—estranges the scene, while the piling up of clauses joined by commas and “and” (polysyndeton) produces a breathless, tumbling rhythm that mirrors K.’s racing perceptions. Even K.’s cognition is doubled—“K.’s first thought… and he also thought”—so the repetition of “thought” foregrounds his uncertainty about how to restore “order,” heightening the sense of disorder.

Moreover, the crowd is configured as a self-organising barrier. The passive construction “a small circle had formed” effaces individual agency, making the crowd feel like a single, enclosing organism. The collective nouns “visitors” and “the first row” and the theatrical setting “in the gallery” turn the crisis into a spectacle; the ironic diction “seemed delighted” that the “serious tone… had been disturbed” shows a perverse appetite for chaos, intensifying K.’s bewilderment. The semantic opposition between “serious tone” and “disturbed” crystallises the collapse of control.

Furthermore, the language of obstruction makes the crowd’s restraint palpable. Anaphora in “no-one moved and no-one let K. through” stresses implacable refusal, while the discourse marker “On the contrary” signals active resistance. Concrete, kinetic verbs—“they stood in his way,” “old men held out their arms”—conjure a literal human wall. Finally, the vague modifier “a hand from somewhere—” and the truncated clause after the dash enact interruption on the page, suggesting an anonymous, encroaching force. Collectively, these choices create claustrophobia and confusion, showing how the crowd both bewilders K. and physically holds him back.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows confusion through the unexpected reversal in "not her who was screaming, but the man" and long, comma-spliced clauses like "he had opened his mouth wide and looked up at the ceiling", while the tonal contrast from "serious tone" to "seemed delighted" emphasises disorder. The crowd’s restraint of K. is conveyed by collective imagery and negative repetition—"a small circle had formed", "no-one moved and no-one let K. through"—plus the physical block "they stood in his way, old men held out their arms" and the interrupted dash in "a hand from somewhere--he did", suggesting an anonymous force stopping him.

The writer conveys confusion through contrast and multi-clausal syntax. The sudden correction, "not her who was screaming, but the man," uses contrast and repeated "but" to overturn expectation and unsettle the reader; the man "looked up at the ceiling" adds a strange, unnatural detail that heightens disorientation.

Moreover, the crowd's reaction increases the chaos and holds K. back. The noun phrase "a small circle had formed" suggests enclosure, fencing the pair off. The adjective "delighted" for the "visitors" shows a perverse pleasure in disorder, so they won't restore "the serious tone." The long compound sentence—"K.'s first thought... and he also thought... but..."—with repeated conjunctions mirrors his urgent thinking, then the turning "but" blocks him.

Furthermore, physical obstruction is emphasised by repetition: "no-one moved and no-one let K. through" hammers home refusal. "On the contrary" shows the crowd acting against him, while "old men held out their arms" creates a human barrier. Additionally, the vague phrase "a hand from somewhere--he did" reduces the crowd to anonymous parts and, with the dash and unfinished clause, fractures the sentence, capturing confusion and K.'s claustrophobia.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows confusion with contrast and long, interrupted sentences: "But it was not her who was screaming, but the man", the odd image "he had opened his mouth wide and looked up at the ceiling", and the broken dash in "a hand from somewhere--he did"; "K.'s first thought" and "he also thought" suggest he is unsure. The crowd holds K. back with phrases like "A small circle had formed", "no-one let K. through", "they stood in his way", and "old men held out their arms", showing they physically block him.

The writer shows confusion through contrast: “not her who was screaming, but the man.” This unexpected switch unsettles the reader. The verb choice “pressing himself against her” and the image “opened his mouth wide” suggest panic. Moreover, “a small circle had formed” shows the crowd closing in, and they are “delighted” the “serious tone” is “disturbed,” adding to the chaos.

Furthermore, the crowd holds K. back through repetition and sentence structure. The connective “but” and the repeated phrase “no-one moved and no-one let K. through” emphasise resistance. “On the contrary” signals opposition, and the physical verbs “stood in his way” and “held out their arms” create a barrier. Additionally, the dash in “a hand from somewhere—” interrupts the line, showing confusion and how K. is stopped suddenly.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows confusion with the surprise in But it was not her who was screaming, but the man and the vague a hand from somewhere, and the long sentence about K.'s first thought and he also thought shows rushed thinking. The crowd holds K. back with the repetition of no-one, and phrases like they stood in his way and old men held out their arms, showing they block him.

The writer uses contrast to show confusion: ‘not her who was screaming, but the man’. The long, flowing sentence in ‘K.’s first thought was to run over there’ shows lots of thoughts at once, adding to confusion. Furthermore, the writer uses repetition: ‘no-one moved and no-one let K. through’ to show the crowd holding him back. The verbs ‘stood’ and ‘held’ in ‘they stood in his way’ and ‘old men held out their arms’ show blocking. Additionally, ‘a hand from somewhere’ is vague, which makes it confusing and threatening. Therefore, the writer shows confusion and the crowd holding K. back.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Subverted expectation unsettles the reader: the scream comes from an unexpected source, heightening confusion (but the man)
• Extended, comma-spliced clause chains create a breathless, muddled flow that mirrors K.’s disorientation (and he also thought)
• Agentless formation blurs responsibility, presenting the crowd as a faceless force enclosing the scene (A small circle had formed)
• Theatre-like lexis frames them as spectators rather than helpers, reinforcing passivity that impedes action (first row of people)
• Juxtaposition of order and disruption shows the crowd relishing chaos instead of restoring calm, undermining K. (seemed delighted)
• Adversative linking and stasis emphasise resistance to K.’s intentions, keeping him back (stayed were they were)
• Repetition of negatives intensifies collective refusal and obstruction of his movement (no-one let K. through)
• Physical barrier imagery visualises the crowd actively blocking K.’s path (stood in his way)
• Indeterminate source and broken syntax capture confusion and sudden interruption during the struggle (from somewhere--he did)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace escalating disorientation via structural reversals and pacing: an in medias res disturbance in an obscured setting (the screeching amid dull light of day and smoke whitish and hard to see through) is misdirected (not her who was screaming, but the man), K.’s agency stalls (no-one moved and no-one let K. through; a hand from somewhere; took hold of his collar), and his thoughts fracture into rhetorical questions (Had he judged the people properly?). Finally, a collective reveal (badges of various sizes and colours, sudden realisation) and an undercut exit (waiting for him at the doorway, as if making a scientific study) retroactively reframe events to intensify confusion and powerlessness.

One way the writer structures disorientation is an in medias res opening with a disruptive noise and restricted focalisation. The scene begins with “a screeching from the far end” while K. “shaded his eyes… the smoke whitish and hard to see through.” Information is withheld then undercut: “it was not her who was screaming, but the man.” Long, cumulative sentences, chained by clauses, quicken the narrative pace while blurring causality, making the reader share K.’s uncertainty.

In addition, shifting focus and spatial obstruction intensify disorientation. K.’s expectation of order is blocked as “no-one moved… old men held out their arms… a hand… took hold of his collar” — the proxemics trap him. Parenthetical asides — “he did not have the time to turn round” — fracture line of sight. The perspective tightens into free indirect thought via interrogatives (“Had he judged… Had he put too much faith…?”), a zoom-in on faces and beards to the “real discovery” of “badges.” This volta recasts crowd as an “organisation,” replacing confusion with paranoia.

A further structural technique is juxtaposition and reversal. K.’s accusatory tirade crescendos into imperatives (“let go of me or I’ll hit you”), yet it is abruptly checked by the judge’s clipped “One moment,” a diegetic interruption that reasserts control at the threshold. The doorway motif — K.’s hand “on its handle” while the judge is already there — literalises blocked exit. Finally, the closing zoom-out to impersonal “noise” and “scientific study” cools the tone, leaving K. and the reader disoriented.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how the writer structures disorientation by starting in medias res with K "interrupted by a screeching" and vision "hard to see through", then shifting focus from blocked movement ("no-one moved", "took hold of his collar") to K’s rapid self-questioning, before a revealing twist in perspective with the "badges"—"All of them belonged to the same group"—and a quick exit ("hurried down the steps") that ends in renewed disorder ("the noise of the assembly rose"), showing how these shifts intensify confusion for the reader.

One way the writer structures the text to create disorientation is through sudden interruptions and shifts in focus. The scene is abruptly “interrupted by a screeching,” and the obscured setting (“dull light… smoke whitish”) makes seeing difficult. The expected cause is reversed—“it was not her who was screaming, but the man”—a clear contrast that unsettles logic. Momentum then stalls as a “circle” forms and “no-one moved,” while a stray “hand… took hold of his collar,” so the action both crowds in and blocks progress, structurally trapping K. and the reader.

In addition, the sustained internal focalisation intensifies confusion through rapid questioning and spatial shifts. K.’s tricolon of rhetorical questions (“Had he judged… Had he put… Had they been…”) fractures the narrative flow, mirroring his mental panic. The temporal marker “by this time” and the abrupt move as he “jumped down from the podium” accelerate the pace and shift the vantage point from platform to crowd to doorway, keeping the reader off-balance.

A further structural feature is the delayed revelation and anticlimax. The late discovery of the “badges” reframes the whole assembly, a pivot that reorients—and disorients—our understanding. His exit is interrupted by the judge’s clipped “One moment,” and the coda (“noise of the assembly rose… ‘scientific study’”) cools the tone, leaving a detached, uncanny aftermath.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would notice that the writer starts with a sudden "screeching" and then shifts focus from the washerwoman to K’s blocked movement ("no-one moved", "took hold of his collar"), using his questions ("Had he judged the people properly?") and the reveal of "badges of various sizes and colours" to show confusion. It would also point out the quick confrontation ("One moment") and abrupt exit as the "noise of the assembly rose", so the structure builds disorientation towards a chaotic end.

One way the writer structures disorientation is by starting mid-action. We are “interrupted by a screeching” and the “smoke” and “dull light” make it “hard to see”. Even who is screaming shifts, “not her… but the man”, confusing reader and K.

In addition, the focus then shifts to the crowd blocking K. He tries to move but “no-one moved” and a hand grabs his collar. A quick series of questions (“Had he judged…?”) and the sudden “badges” discovery change our understanding, heightening confusion.

A further structural feature is the ending as a turning point. K reaches the door but the judge is already there, which is unexpected. The perspective stays with K looking at the handle, and the hall grows noisy “once more”, “probably” leaving uncertainty and disorientation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: From the sudden screeching at the start to the noise of the assembly rose at the end, the scene feels increasingly chaotic. Simple features like blocking (no-one moved) and a quick question (Had he judged the people properly?) show K.’s confusion.

One way the writer structures disorientation is at the opening with an interruption and unclear focus. The "screeching" and "hard to see" make the reader feel confused.

In addition, the focus keeps shifting: from the washerwoman, to the man, to K., to the crowd, and then the judge. Simple questions like "Had he...?" and the sudden discovery of "badges" add to the disorder.

A further structural feature is the fast pace near the end. Action verbs "jumped", "pushed", "hurried", and time words "Now" and "today" make the ending confusing for the reader, so disorientation increases from beginning to end.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Abrupt in medias res interruption shifts focus from speech to chaos, immediately unsettling the scene (interrupted by a screeching)
• Withheld clarity and reversal of expectation destabilise assumptions as the man, not the woman, screams (not her who was screaming)
• Obstructed sightlines and atmosphere reduce orientation, with smoke and distance making events indistinct (hard to see through)
• The crowd becomes a moving barrier that halts action and traps K., heightening claustrophobia (held out their arms)
• Spatial shift from elevated podium to ground-level confrontation reorients perspective and amplifies threat (jumped down from the podium)
• A triad of self-questioning fractures narrative certainty, drawing us into K.’s unstable viewpoint (Had he judged the people)
• Delayed revelation unifies the onlookers retrospectively, overturning the sense of factions and breeding paranoia (the same badge)
• Extended outburst of direct speech accelerates pace as accusation replaces argument, intensifying disorder (all of you are working)
• Sonic contrast—sudden hush then renewed hubbub—creates jarring oscillation and cyclical unrest (noise of the assembly)
• Denied exit via timely interception prevents closure and prolongs uncertainty at the threshold (waiting for him at the doorway)

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 K. discovers everyone is wearing the same badge, he seems to be having a moment of clever realisation. The writer suggests that K. is actually mistaken, as his angry outburst only makes his situation worse with the court.

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

In your response, you could:

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

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer undercuts K.’s self-assured epiphany—his supposed "real discovery" of "badges of various sizes and colours" leading to the accusation "all of you are working for this organisation"—through ironic focalisation and the judge’s "calmly" delivered rebuke, "you have robbed yourself of the advantages", showing his outburst worsens his position. It would also analyse the hedging and detachment—"seemed", "as if", "perhaps", and the resumed institutional control in "the noise of the assembly rose... as if making a scientific study"—as evidence of the writer’s viewpoint that K. has misread the situation and damaged his case.

I mostly agree: K.'s 'realisation' looks clever but is undercut, and his fury worsens his standing; the writer frames it as both dramatic and precarious. Free indirect discourse—'Had he judged the people properly?'—registers doubt before the 'real discovery' of 'badges of various sizes'. The qualifier 'as far as he could see' limits his focalisation. A grotesque physiognomic catalogue—'dark, little eyes... cheeks drooped... claws'—externalises paranoia, so the badges, though symbolic of cohesion, are read through suspicion. The structural pivot—he 'suddenly turned round' to the judge's 'same badge'—collapses factionalism, yet the judge still 'calmly looked down'. K.'s response is theatrically hyperbolic—'throwing his arms... needed more room'—so his epiphany reads as performance rather than proof.

The ensuing outburst, rife with anaphora—'all of you... you've all... you gave...'—and breathless syntax, reveals loss of control more than cleverness. His lexis slips into ad hominem—'bunch of cheats and liars'—and even petty intimidation of a 'quivery old man', a detail that erodes any moral high ground. While there is a momentary hush—'a silence caused perhaps by the completeness of their surprise'—the modal hedging 'perhaps' keeps the effect ambiguous; the writer does not corroborate K.'s self-congratulation. The narrative then choreographs a reversal: though K. 'briskly' claims the exit, the judge 'seems to have moved even more quickly' and is 'waiting... at the doorway'. This juxtaposition diminishes K.'s mastery; his 'hand already on its handle' reads as an impulse to flee, not a strategic departure.

The judge’s measured diction exposes the consequence: K. has 'robbed [him]self of the advantages' of such a hearing. The metaphor of self-theft is a deft irony, flipping K.’s accusation of institutional theft back onto his own self-sabotage. K.'s retort—he 'laughed towards the door' and dismisses them as 'louts'—is framed spatially so that his gaze avoids the judge, implying wilful denial. Finally, the simile that closes the scene—discussion 'as if making a scientific study'—repositions K. as specimen rather than subject, a chilling coda that confirms his worsened standing: he is to be analysed, not acquitted.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer grants K. a partial insight—the badges do signal bureaucratic collusion—but saturates the moment with irony, hedging and power-reversals to show he is mistaken in imagining leverage. His angry theatrics exacerbate, rather than alleviate, his peril with the court.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree, explaining that although K.’s apparent insight—his seeing the badges and calling it "the real discovery"—seems clever, the writer undercuts him through ironic contrast and consequence: K leaps "without any thought", rants ("bunch of cheats and liars", "as if this sudden realisation needed more room") while the judge "calmly looked down". The judge’s rebuke that K. has "robbed yourself of the advantages" and the "silence caused perhaps by the completeness of their surprise" show his outburst backfires, worsening his position with the court.

I mostly agree with the statement. When K. notices that “underneath those beards… there were badges,” the moment is presented as a clever breakthrough, but the writer undercuts it and shows that his angry reaction damages his position with the court.

At the point he “jumped down from the podium,” the shift in focus is immediate and impulsive. The cluster of rhetorical questions—“Had he judged the people properly? Had he put too much faith…?”—reveals uncertainty and foreshadows error. The grotesque imagery and similes describing the audience—“Dark, little eyes,” “cheeks drooped… like on drunken men,” and hands “as if… claws”—create a hostile, inhuman crowd, reflecting K.’s anxiety rather than objective truth. The narrative’s free indirect style in “this was the real discovery made by K.” signals his interpretation, not a confirmed fact. The badges operate as a symbolic detail, but K. overreads them into a conspiracy he can expose.

His outburst then shows his misjudgment. The stage-direction-like clause “throwing his arms in the air, as if this sudden realisation needed more room” satirises his self-importance. The accusatory list and emotive language—“cheats and liars… listen in and snoop”—and the threat to a “quivery old man” portray K. as intemperate and bullying. The “silence” that follows implies shock rather than support, suggesting his speech has alienated rather than persuaded.

Structurally, his attempted exit is undercut: the judge is already “waiting for him at the doorway,” reasserting institutional control. The judge’s calm, precise diction—“you have robbed yourself of the advantages”—confirms that K.’s tirade worsens his case. K.’s defiant “laughed towards the door” and “you bunch of louts” show continued arrogance. Finally, the assembly resuming “as if making a scientific study” implies K. has become the specimen, reinforcing his mistake.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer frames K.’s “realisation” as an illusion, and his angry outburst clearly undermines his standing with the court.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: At Level 2, a response would mostly agree, noting that K.’s ‘clever’ moment is when he spots the badges and calls them a "bunch of cheats and liars", with exclamations and actions like "throwing his arms in the air" showing his rash outburst. It would then identify that the writer shows he is mistaken because the judge says "you have robbed yourself of the advantages", meaning his anger has made things worse with the court.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the writer presents K.’s ‘real discovery’ that ‘badges of various sizes and colours’ shine on everyone’s collars, which makes him feel as if he has cleverly worked things out. The earlier rhetorical questions—‘Had he judged the people properly?’—show his uncertainty, and the sinister imagery of ‘dark, little eyes’ and hands like ‘claws’ builds a hostile mood that pushes him towards this conclusion.

However, when he reacts, the methods used suggest he is mistaken. Dynamic verbs and stage directions—he ‘called out,’ ‘shouted,’ and is ‘throwing his arms in the air’—create a tone of anger and loss of control. He accuses them of being ‘cheats and liars,’ but structurally the ‘silence’ that follows reads more like shock than agreement. The examining judge then contrasts K.’s fury with calm authority: he ‘calmly’ waits at the doorway and says, ‘One moment,’ with ‘his hands in his lap.’ His formal diction—‘draw your attention’—and the line ‘you have robbed yourself of the advantages’ clearly show K. has made things worse.

Even after this, K. ‘laughed towards the door’ and insults them as a ‘bunch of louts,’ which feels like bravado rather than cleverness. The final simile—the assembly discussing events ‘as if making a scientific study’—suggests the court is still in control and K. has become their object.

Overall, while the badges may symbolise a real, unified organisation, I agree that K.’s supposed realisation is not insightful; his rash outburst damages his standing with the court.

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 K is mistaken, noticing he thinks he’s clever when he sees the badges and shouts "cheats and liars", but the judge says he has "robbed yourself of the advantages", showing his outburst makes things worse.

I mostly agree with the statement. When K sees the “badges … of various sizes” and calls it the “real discovery,” he throws up his arms and shouts at them as “cheats and liars.” He seems clever for a moment, but this only leads to trouble with the court.

The writer uses rhetorical questions — “Had he judged the people properly?” — to show K’s doubt and confusion. There is simple imagery and a simile to make the crowd seem threatening: “dark, little eyes,” cheeks “like on drunken men,” and hands “as if … claws.” The repeated phrase “as if” shows K is only guessing. The direct speech and exclamation marks (“all of you are working…”, “You bunch of louts”) present his angry outburst. In contrast, the judge is calm and controlled: he “calmly” waits at the door and tells K he has “robbed [himself] of the advantages,” which shows K has made things worse.

Overall, I agree. K’s “real discovery” does not help him, and his anger damages his position. The final “noise of the assembly” and the judge blocking the door suggest the court is in control, not K.

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:

• Pattern-recognition through visible insignia → supports K.’s moment of realisation that they act as one organisation (the same badge on the collar)
• Limiting perspective marker → undercuts certainty and invites doubt about the breadth of his inference (as far as he could see)
• Narratorial framing of insight → distances us from K.’s claim and hints his “discovery” may be subjective rather than definitive (the real discovery made by K.)
• Theatrical physicality → suggests overconfidence and performance rather than measured judgment, weakening the “clever” pose (throwing his arms in the air)
• Inflamed, sweeping accusations → convey bias and anger, implying he may misread motives and people (bunch of cheats and liars)
• Motive-attribution to the crowd → feels like suspicious overreach, so his “tests” theory may be mistaken (to test me out)
• Contrast of tones (calm judge vs. irate K.) → signals a power imbalance K. misjudges, undermining his stance (calmly looked down at him)
• Judicial warning about consequences → explicitly confirms his outburst has harmed his legal position (robbed yourself of the advantages)
• Defiant rejection of process → shows self-sabotage, strengthening the view he worsens his situation (you can keep all your hearings)
• Post-exit response of the assembly → implies they remain in control and turn him into an object of scrutiny, not a victor (as if making a scientific study)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A regional food blog is inviting young writers to contribute a short creative piece for its winter feature.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

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

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a shared meal that heals a rift.

(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:

Morning stitches gold into the glass of the display, a cabinet of small suns and moons arrayed in patient, irresistible order. The smell rises—warm butter, caramelising sugar, the shy tang of yeast—swirling into the street with a genial hand that beckons. Light slides over glaze and crumb; it pools in the corners, catches on sugar crystals, turns them into minuscule chandeliers. Everything gleams. Not yet touched. You could almost hear it: a crisp, secretive crackle, the whisper of cooling crusts; a sigh from somewhere behind the counter as the ovens exhale their last persuasive breath.

Croissants lean in serried ranks, burnished crescents, their laminated leaves so intricately folded that a breeze might loosen them into snow. They queue like commas in a sentence that refuses to end; they promise pause, then deliver hunger. Beside them, pains au chocolat keep their dark streaks hidden like sly smiles, and palmiers—elephant ears, sugar scrolled—glitter as if frost had settled indoors. Turn and fold, turn and fold, turn and fold: the mantra of patience encoded in every layer, the thousand quiet acts of the baker folded into silence and shine.

Lower down, the serious citizens of the cabinet take their places. A boule sits like a planet, its crust fissured into tectonic plates; flour settles on it like chalked maps of rivers and roads. The baguettes are sun-bleached oars; tap them and the room would ring. Seedy rye is freckled with sesame, poppy, nigella—constellations pressed into a night-sky of dough. Ciabatta slumps, sleepily generous; a brioche, all glossed dome and saffron promise, gleams as if polished by gratitude itself. What sort of patience braids itself into a challah like that, each strand obedient yet audacious?

Here the sweet counterpoints: lemon tarts with opaline curd, their torches’ kiss a tiny topography of flame; raspberry frangipane in scalloped sleeves; eclairs wearing ganache so black it holds a reflection. Cinnamon knots spiral like galaxies, tight and fragrant, lacquered with sticky light; a Danish carries apricot halves like cupped suns. Even a brownie, square and unassuming, is studded with walnuts that look pertinently placed, as if they grew there overnight. When the spoonfuls of icing sugar fall—soft, soft, softer—the air briefly snows, and the display looks almost holy.

Handwritten labels lean against each plate—Brioche à tête, Sourdough, Almond croissant—ink looped with embarrassing neatness. Prices sit modestly to one side; a pair of tongs hangs like a silver heron, waiting. Behind the glass, fingerprints; on the counter, the inaudible feathering of paper bags that breathe in and out. Order begets appetite; appetite, conversation; conversation, the tiny community of crumbs. It is ordinary, perhaps too ordinary to mention, yet it glows: the first, melt-in-the-mouth promise of the day, risen, rested, radiant. And ready.

Option B:

Evening. The hour when kitchens soften hard words; when onions surrender; when steam fogs the day’s mirror. Mara set the battered pot to a low simmer and laid out bowls that didn’t match but belonged. The long, wood-scarred table remembered quarrels; it had swallowed tears and wine. She had brined forgiveness all afternoon: garlic crushed to confession, lemons halved like small moons, cumin blooming in hot oil until the room smelled of warmth. As the broth hummed, her hands trembled, fine as porcelain. Two forks, polished; a hesitation—opposite or adjacent? The chair legs had not touched in months. The rift had begun hairline-thin and widened with every misheard word, every silence.

Their father’s recipe card, curling at the edges, sat under a magnet shaped like an orange. The first line read simply: time—a recipe and a benediction. She tasted and adjusted—salt, yes; a breath of vinegar to lift the heaviness; coriander chopped at the end so it would not go dark. Forgiveness, she thought, cannot be undercooked; it needs simmering.

The bell rang. She flinched, wiped her hands, smoothed hair she hadn’t tamed, then opened the door to Noah first—a loaf of bread hugged like a peace offering, brown paper breathing warm and yeasty. “Hi, Ma,” he said, as if months could be shrugged off with a coat. He hovered in the threshold, suddenly boyish. “Set it there,” she managed.

Leila came moments later: keys in a clatter; a rain-shiny coat; a pause long enough to sting. She stood with her apology gathered inside her like a held note. “You came,” Mara said. “Of course I came,” Leila answered—too quickly, then softer, “Of course I came.” The air shifted.

They cooked side by side because talking straight hurt. Knives whispered; parsley scattered like uncertain confetti. Noah leaned to stir; Leila reached for the salt; their hands met—a small clink and a breath of laughter. Gradually the pan sizzled, the ladle passed, the broth deepened into something they recognised.

“Do you remember when he burned the onions,” Noah asked, “and pretended he meant to?” Leila smiled with the right side of her mouth first. “He called it ‘smoky’.” It was almost a joke.

At the table, steam rose in gentle parentheses. They tore bread; they dipped; the soup clung to crust then slid away—a lesson, perhaps, in holding and letting go. Conversation arrived in spoonfuls. “I was wrong,” Leila said. Noah looked up. “Me too,” he said, and the sentence did not splinter. Outside, rain wrote its steady line on the street; inside, the old table felt lighter.

It was not fixed, not yet; mending is slower than breaking. But with each pass of the bowl—again, and again—the rift thinned, a seam being stitched from the middle.

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

Option A:

Morning slides through the shopfront in a butter-coloured sheet, laying itself across the glass counter until the whole cabinet gleams. Inside, the display is a small theatre of crust and glaze; order reigns here, but abundance hums beneath it. Croissants sit in a modest pyramid, their fluted ridges finely layered, each crescent lacquered by butter so that light clings to them and refuses to let go. The tips—minute horns—are darker, almost caramelised. If you lean close you can see the delicate strata, like pages in a paper-thin book, each leaf promising a flake that will shatter, then melt.

Beyond the croissants, the loaves take up their dignified positions: boule, batard, baguette. Flour lies on them like frost; seeds stipple others—poppy, sesame, pumpkin—an earthy constellation. Scored tops open into deliberate patterns, a map of rivers and fields; one sourdough shows a proud “ear”, crisp and lifted, as if listening to the murmur of the morning. There is a hairline crack in the crust of a rye, and from it a whisper of steam escapes—sour-sweet, warm, irresistible. The smell is layered too: yeast, nutty depth, a buttery undertow that slips between everything and binds it together.

On the right, the delicate things glitter. Custard tarts, sunset-yellow, tremble slightly in their neat tins; their surfaces are burnished, speckled with nutmeg. Éclairs lie like little boats under a tight, glossy strip of chocolate. Danishes are all spirals and knots, a mesmerising geometry; apricots sit like amber coins at their centre, cherries shine with a polite, almost shy, gloss. A snowfall of icing sugar has settled across palmiers and the corners of the plate—an indoor weather system, light and unnecessary, yet perfect. It is almost too much, almost a feast for the senses, but the glass keeps everything calm.

Sounds thread the air although the cabinet is mute: a soft tap of a knife on a board from the back, the quiet sigh of an oven door, paper bags breathing open. Tiny hand-lettered labels stand like placards—Croissant, Pain au chocolat, Seeded Rye—each name careful, proud. I hover longer than I mean to. Which to choose: the honest heft of a country loaf, or the indulgent promise of custard and crackle?

Memory stirs—Sunday mornings, a finger on glass, the warm patience of waiting. I imagine the croissant splitting to show its honeycomb, the first crunch yielding to softness, butter blooming on the tongue. Outside, the day is brisk, ordinary; here, time slows—no, it expands—around a simple, golden decision.

Option B:

Sunday. The day the house pretended to be kinder; the day radiators sighed, and steam bled from the pot in gentle flags that suggested capitulation. The kitchen was a small republic of warmth. It smelt of onions caramelising to sweetness, of rosemary bruised between forefinger and thumb, of stock that had been simmering long enough to remember. Outside, the street shrugged off a cold drizzle; inside, the window clouded over until the world looked far away and almost forgiving.

Maya set the board steady and worked methodically, as if the angle of her knife could determine the outcome. Coins of carrot rolled like tiny suns; potatoes fell away in obedient cubes; the bay leaf floated—green, assertive—like a little boat declaring a truce. Her eyes watered, though not only because of the onion. Recipes, she thought, are instructions for patience: you measure, you stir, you wait for change you cannot rush. The stew took its own decisions, thickening in a slow benediction.

She had not seen Daniel in six months. They had built a wall from small bricks: a careless comment at their father’s funeral; a text that landed too late; the brittle, unflinching sentence—You always take and never say thank you!—that echoed in her head when the house went quiet. Pride held fast, like burnt sugar at the bottom of a pan. Yet she had sent the message on Friday anyway: Come at six. I’m making Mum’s stew. It was both invitation and apology, as clear as she could manage without the tremor in her voice giving her away.

At six-oh-seven the bell rang. Winter stood in the doorway in his coat. Daniel’s face was thinner, or maybe it was just the hallway light being unkind. He hovered, his fingers worrying the seam of his sleeve, and then stepped in; steam greeted him with sensible hospitality, softening the hard edges he had carried with him. “Hi,” he said, a syllable with too much freight. “Hi,” she answered, keeping it neutrally warm. The corridor took their awkwardness and absorbed it, or tried to.

They sat. The table—scratched, honest, a palimpsest of old meals—held out its flat, faithful hands. Maya ladled the stew into bowls; glossy, mahogany, studded with tender meat and soft roots. Bread lay between them like a negotiator. He tore a piece (careful not to leave crumbs everywhere), and for a moment they watched the steam unwind. “Smells like her,” he murmured. It did. A memory you could swallow. What else do you say when you have said too much?

They ate; the heat travelled outward, a quiet migration of comfort. Conversation arrived in spoonfuls: a question about work, an answer about sleepless nights, a shared laugh that stumbled and then stood. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he began, words slow, as if crossing a river by stepping stones. “Me neither,” she replied, the admission small but precise. Salt warmed their tongues; salt stung their eyes; not all seasoning is culinary.

Outside, the rain stitched the evening together. Inside, their spoons made a soft, silver rhythm, and something intractable loosened, not erased but altered—like a seam unpicked and sewn again, neater this time, stronger where it had been weak. The stew continued its quiet work.

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

Option A:

Morning light pries at the window and spills across the glass case, so the pane clouds, clears, clouds again with every exhale of warmth from the ovens. Behind it, a careful parade of colours: deep golds, pale creams, the shy burnish of caramel. Flour powders the metal trays; a faint drift, like snow no one has walked in yet. The smell is generous, buttery and yeasted; it folds around the room and settles in the chest. Somewhere, a tray slides home and the metal rings softly.

On the top tier, croissants repose like small moons, their rims darkened as if toasted by a slow sun. Layer upon layer, fold upon fold; a crispness that whispers when a hand hovers close. Pains au chocolat sit square, two neat seams hiding their soft weight; raisin swirls coil into spirals, the fruit glinting like polished buttons. A gloss of egg wash catches the light—and holds it.

Below, loaves form a confident skyline. Round sourdoughs are scored with white leaves; baguettes lean shoulder to shoulder; seeded rye lies darker, its surface stippled with pumpkin and sesame. The crusts look stern but not unkind, chipped and blistered, the sort that crack under a knife. If you turned one over, there would be a soft belly of flour, a pale place where the heat only kissed. Names are chalked on little slates: Country, Olive Boule, Malted Grain; the handwriting loops lazily.

To the right, the display turns sweet. Tarts hold their fruit like treasures—strawberries pressed into custard, a tremor of glaze on top. Eclairs stretch in a neat row, chocolate set to a mirror; choux that would give with a sigh. Iced buns shine with a careful white that threatens to drip, then doesn’t; sugar dust gathers in the corners. The air feels sugared, you can taste it.

Between the shelves, tiny paper labels flap when the door opens; the bell tings, the case mists, clears, mists—again. Outside it is grey and ordinary; inside, this quiet theatre performs without speaking. Each loaf, each curl of pastry, is a small promise.

Option B:

Sunday evening. The kitchen breathed warmth; pans murmured on the hob, and steam curled from the pot like quiet flags. On the windowsill a basil plant leaned towards the yellow lamp. Outside, rain stitched the street into a grey sheet; inside, the table stood, set for two.

Leah moved deliberately, the knife rising and falling with a small, stubborn rhythm. It had been months since she'd cooked for him—since they'd thrown words like hot oil—over something that felt enormous then and smaller now: the house. The knock came, polite but premature, and her heart misstepped. She opened the door to Jonah, taller somehow, carrying a loaf wrapped in paper and a look that didn't know where to land.

At first they spoke in ingredients. ‘Garlic?’ he asked. ‘Three,’ she said, and he peeled them with clumsy care. The oil took the garlic and began to sing; lemon rolled under his palm; coriander released its stubborn perfume. She pushed beans and tomatoes together with a wooden spoon, then let the stew think: salt, patience, time. Then—careful, almost ceremonial—he began to slice the loaf, angled a plate towards her, found the salt without being told.

Heat gathered on their faces as steam rose; the windows clouded, softening the night. Words drifted up, tentative as the steam. ‘Do you remember,’ he started, and stopped. ‘Mum used to burn the first one,’ she said, and they both smiled because it was true and safe. He laughed—brief, startled—and the kitchen sounded like it used to.

They ate. The bread was warm; the stew was thick and bright at once; citrus chased the heaviness. Between bites, they edged towards the thing itself. ‘I didn’t mean to make you feel... left out,’ he managed. She swallowed, tasted salt that wasn’t only from the pot. ‘I know. I just thought you were deciding without me,’ she said. The rain eased; the windows cleared; something inside them did, too—no miracle, just a loosening. When they finished, there was no speech: only the small music of plates being cleared, and a space at the table where the argument had been.

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

Option A:

The glass counter glows as if it remembers the oven, a warm square of light holding rows and rows of careful things. Condensation beads like tiny pearls along the edge; when the door opens, the shop's breath sighs across it and the pearls disappear. Inside, the colours are gentle but rich: honey gold, pale cream, burnt caramel. Small cards lean against the trays, neat black handwriting - sourdough, rye, apricot danish - each one inviting. I can almost hear crispness, a quiet crackle when a crust moves. The air is thick with butter and sweet spice, a scent that is simple yet persuasive.

On the top shelf the loaves sit like small hills, each with its own map of cuts and scars. One is dusted with flour so fine it looks like snow lying on a roof; another is speckled with seeds, sesame and poppy, freckles on a tanned face. The baguettes lean together, long and straight, their flanks split open to show a pale, tender heart. There are squat, dark rounds of rye, serious and slightly sour. A soft roll has torn where it cooled (you can glimpse the steam that escaped), and pretzels twist into tidy knots. The knives and tongs rest nearby, gleaming and patient.

The pastries are lower down, closer to the eye and, somehow, to temptation: croissants folded like moons; pain au chocolat with dark stripes; cinnamon buns coiled into spirals and glazed so they shine. Fruit tarts stare out with glossy eyes - strawberries, kiwi, a brush of apricot jelly; the custard underneath sits like sunlight caught in a bowl. There are eclairs with a dark, smooth top, almost like piano varnish, and small almond triangles that will crumble. Paper bags rustle; the bell at the door tinkles; someone laughs. I hesitate, then reach. The whole display seems to hold its breath, waiting for a choice.

Option B:

The table looked too long for two people. I had laid it anyway: a clean cloth, the good plates with the thin blue ring, glasses that chimed lightly when I set them down. Steam curled from the pot like pale handwriting, the aroma of garlic and thyme wandering down the narrow hall. The radio murmured but could not drown the clock, which ticked with a stubborn patience I half envied.

We had not spoken since last winter, after that brutal row about Mum’s ring and who should keep it. Words had flown out like sharp cutlery, and we left them stuck in each other. I had written Tom’s name on an envelope for months and then rubbed it away. When his message came — Can we talk? — I stirred the soup and said yes before I could change my mind.

He paused in the doorway, shoulders lifted, a reluctant silhouette. “Smells good,” he said, his voice careful. I could see the boy he had been, in a grin that didn’t quite arrive.

We sat. There was soup and bread, still warm. We talked about the neighbour’s cat and the weather. The silence between sentences was thin and brittle; it made me sip too fast. When he asked about the recipe, I said it was Gran’s.

He laughed, a small sound that loosened something. “Remember when you hid the last roast potato?” he said. I did. The memory landed like a bird, cautious but bright. Our spoons moved; our eyes met and did not skitter away.

Between mouthfuls of soup, he cleared his throat. “I was wrong,” he said, not grand, just plain. My reply came out like steam—soft, rising. Me too. We did not fix everything; families rarely do in one evening. But the crack loosened; warmth pooled; we began again.

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

Option A:

The glass cabinet hums with morning light, and the bakery display seems to breathe out warm, sweet air. Loaves line up like patient soldiers, their crusts bronze and cracked with flour. Croissants rest like small moons, crescent and soft, sugar-dusted like frost. The glaze on the pastries catches the sun and winks; a sticky shine. I stand close, listening to the quiet clink of tongs behind. The counter is clean but dusted with flour, a pale cloud caught in the grooves.

Further along, a parade of buns carries spirals of cinnamon, brown sugar melting into syrupy pools. Apricot danishes hold little suns in the middle, the fruit trembling. Jam tarts sit like red buttons - raspberry and strawberry - with seeds like tiny stars. Powdered sugar lies across the trays, a thin winter. Labels are neat: handwriting slightly smudged, prices that feel kind.

At the end, the big breads wait. A seeded loaf wears its coat of sesame, poppy, sunflower; the baguettes are long and strict, pointing to the door. Sourdough sits heavy, sour but comforting, with a belly split to show pale crumb. It is ordinary, and it is special. The smell wraps around me - butter, yeast, heat - and I think of mornings that are slower, repeated again and again.

Option B:

Steam curled from the pot; our silence did, too. The kitchen clock clicked on like a metronome, counting out beats we had missed for months. Outside, rain fretted at the window. Inside, the kettle sighed.

I chopped onions the way I used to - swift, showy, pretending skill. Tears pricked, not only from the knife. We used to eat on Wednesdays, curry and cards and loud jokes; then one night there was a sharp word, and it split us clean. Calls stopped. Messages shrunk to tiny dots that said nothing back. I stirred the pan until the oil shimmered, until garlic softened like an apology.

There was a knock. My brother hovered in the doorway, tall and awkward, his coat like a shield. We nodded. He hung it up. The air tightened again. "Smells alright," he said. "It'll do," I answered, too quick. The spoon clattered against the rim, a small alarm.

We moved cautiously - he sliced the bread, I salted the sauce. We both reached for the pepper, fingers bumping; we both pulled away. Meanwhile the stew thickened, patient, orange and forgiving. Was food enough to fix what words had bruised? I let him taste first. He blew on the spoon and closed his eyes. "Needs more lemon," he murmured, almost smiling. Lemon. I grated the bright skin, yellow sparks flying; he laughed because I always grate too hard and the zest flies everywere.

We sat. Bowls steaming. Spoons like little oars, steering us back. "Pass the bread?" he said.

I did.

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

Option A:

The glass cabinet glows in the early light; everything seems soft and golden. Warm air rolls out when the door opens and it carries buttery, yeasty smells that sit on my tongue. Rows and rows of pastries are lined up, neat but a bit messy, crumbs like confetti. A faint hum from the fridge, the clink of tongs, a whisper of paper.

On the left, sourdough loaves sit like round stones, dusted with flour; their tops are scored into leaves. Baguettes lean in a basket, long and strict; the crust cracks. The croissants are layered and crisp; their tips are delicate, almost burnt, their bellies shine. Pain au chocolat shows two dark lines. To the right: doughnuts—golden, sugared, thick with raspberry jam. When I look closer, sugar sparkles on my knuckles and the cinnamon buns twist like little spirals, sticky and kind.

Behind the glass, little chalk labels stand like signs. A baker’s hand moves quick with tongs, click-clack; paper bags sigh. A cinnamon cloud floats up, and caramel has run from an eclair; it looks naughty. Finally, a little tart sits in the corner with sliced strawberries like a red fan. I almost press my face to the glass. I can’t decide.

Option B:

Sunday. The day the house used to smell of garlic and noisy stories. Today it smelled like waiting.

Steam curled from the pot, making the window cloudy. I wiped the table again, even though it was already clean. The spoon tapped the side of the pan; the tomatoes bubbled, slow and stubborn. Could a stew fix a year of silence? I had texted him last night: Come for dinner. He answered with one word: OK.

When the doorbell rang, my chest jumped. I opened it to find my brother on the step, hands in his pockets, eyes somewhere near the floor. He looked thinner, older. “Smells good,” he said, like a question.

At the table we put things down carefully, like they might break. On the cloth were: bread, a bowl of olives, two glasses, and the big pot in the middle. I ladled the stew; our fingers touched the edge of the bowl and both of us pulled back, then laughed, a small sound that felt like a crack in the wall.

“Mom used to add extra basil,” he said. I nodded, lifting the green leaves. The smell rose up; it was warm and simple.

He passed me the salt without me asking—like he always did. He took a breath; words arrived slowly. We ate, and the room felt less tight.

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

Option A:

The glass case is cold and clean.

Inside the breads sit in rows like soldiers. The smell is warm and buttery, it rolls out over me. I can see sugar like snow on little rings, and icing that shines. On the top shelf a croisant curls like a small moon; it is golden and flakey, with crumbs. Round loaves rest, fat and sleepy. A long baguette points at the door, like it is telling us to come in. The jam in the tarts is red, it looks like it is still hot. They wait, they wait, they wait.

I touch the glass and it fogs up, my hand is warm and the case is not. A bell dings, the door moves, people say please and thanks but some point. The lady in a hat smiles, she puts buns in a bag, the paper crackles and it makes my mouth water.

Option B:

The soup bubbled in the old pot. It sounded like quiet rain on the lid. I stirred and tried not to look at my brother. We had not spoke for weeks, I ain't sure who started it. Mum said eat together and see.

The table was small and scratched. Plates that did not match. Steam curled up like fog. He came in, he stood, he frowned. I put bread out. Too much. Too many slices.

We sat. We didn't talk. The spoon clicked. I passed him the salt. He passed me the pepper. I forgot why we faught and maybe he did too.

Our hands both reached for the same bowl and we laughed, a small laugh, it felt strange but soft. We ate warm soup. Warm faces. The rift like a crack in ice got smaller, and I said sorry, he said yeah, okay.

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

Option A:

It is a big counter with bread and cakes, you can see them through the glass and the light is on them. The loaves are brown and warm. Steam like breath comes out a bit. Crossants sit in a pile and they look like moons, flakey and shiney with sugar. Jam tarts are red and sticky, my hand wants one but I cant. Behind it a fan hums, a bus beeps outside and a dog pulls a lead. The baker has a white hat and flour on there hands. Buns are soft like pillows. The smell is sweet and butter, it makes you hungry.

Option B:

The table is small and the plates are white. I put stew in the bowls and steam lifts up. Me and my brother hasn't spoke for months but Mum says eat. We dont look at each other we look at the food and the steam goes up like little clouds. The clock ticks too loud and the dog barks, it feels slow. I push the bread over. He takes it and he nods, he chews. We say little, just yes and okay and sorry, the word is hard. We eat more. The stew is warm. It makes our hands calm and we start to talk.