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 How cordial were Captain Brown and Miss Jenkyns to each other?: Captain Brown and Miss Jenkyns were not very cordial to each other. – 1 mark
• 1.2 How many differences of opinion had Captain Brown and Miss Jenkyns ever had?: Only one difference of opinion. – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which statement best describes how often Captain Brown and Miss Jenkyns disagreed, according to the narrator?: Captain Brown and Miss Jenkyns had only one disagreement – 1 mark
• 1.4 What did Captain Brown do when Miss Jenkyns talked at Captain Brown?: Captain Brown did not reply. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 11 to 15 of the source:

11 and himself, she owned to me she had rather he had knocked her down, if he had only been reading a higher style of literature. The poor, brave Captain! he looked older, and more worn, and his clothes were very threadbare. But he seemed as bright and cheerful as ever, unless he was asked about his daughter’s health.

How does the writer use language here to present Captain Brown’s situation and beliefs? 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 perceptively analyses the narrator’s ironic hyperbole in she had rather he had knocked her down, if he had only been reading a higher style of literature to satirise genteel snobbery and, by implication, foreground Captain Brown’s belief in accessible reading over elitism. It then explores how the exclamative minor sentence The poor, brave Captain!, the polysyndetic, deteriorative lexis (older, and more worn, ... very threadbare) and the concessive shift But he seemed as bright and cheerful as ever, unless asked about his daughter’s health juxtapose hardship with stoic optimism while exposing a hidden vulnerability rooted in paternal devotion.

The writer presents Captain Brown’s situation amid social snobbery through hyperbolic reported confession. The narrator notes that a lady “owned to me she had rather he had knocked her down, if he had only been reading a higher style of literature.” The verb “owned” implies reluctant admission, while the extravagant hyperbole lays bare the community’s pretentious elitism. By contrasting physical violence with “higher” taste, the sentence satirises those who belittle the Captain’s plain tastes, implying his belief in accessible, unpretentious reading over status.

Moreover, the exclamatory minor sentence “The poor, brave Captain!” uses paired epithets to crystallise both his poverty and courage. The asyndetic juxtaposition of “poor” and “brave” compresses hardship and heroism, and the exclamation mark signals the narrator’s affectionate esteem, inviting the reader to valorise his steadfast character despite want.

Furthermore, a tricolon with polysyndeton (“he looked older, and more worn, and his clothes were very threadbare”) accumulates signs of decline. The repeated “and” and comparative adjectives build a cumulative rhythm of attrition, while “threadbare” offers concrete, tactile imagery of deprivation. This semantic field of wear suggests his circumstances are frayed to the limit, intensifying sympathy without sentimentality.

However, the adversative “But” introduces striking antithesis: he “seemed as bright and cheerful as ever.” The hedging verb “seemed” hints at stoic self-command, and “as ever” conveys unwavering resilience, a belief in cheerfulness as duty. The subordinate clause “unless he was asked about his daughter’s health” qualifies this facade, revealing paternal devotion as the sole fissure in his composure.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify emotive description and an exclamatory sentence — “The poor, brave Captain!” — plus comparative detail (“older,” “more worn,” “very threadbare”) to show poverty, then explain how the contrast signalled by “But” and the comparative phrase “as bright and cheerful as ever” presents resilience, while the conditional “unless he was asked about his daughter’s health” reveals hidden worry. It would also comment on the ironic hyperbole “she had rather he had knocked her down” and the snobbish “higher style of literature” to show beliefs about reading and class attitudes.

The writer uses irony and hyperbole in the reported comment “she had rather he had knocked her down, if he had only been reading a higher style of literature.” The exaggerated preference for violence over “higher” taste satirises social snobbery, suggesting that Captain Brown’s beliefs are practical and unpretentious. He values accessible reading rather than status, which highlights how his views clash with Cranford’s pretensions.

Moreover, the exclamatory minor sentence “The poor, brave Captain!” uses emotive adjectives to present his situation and character. “Poor” signals hardship, while “brave” praises his moral courage. The exclamation marks the narrator’s admiration and pity, directing the reader to respect his resilience despite decline.

Additionally, the descriptive adjectives “older,” “more worn,” and “very threadbare” create a bleak, visual picture of poverty and strain. The coordinating conjunction “But” introduces a strong contrast with “bright and cheerful,” a juxtaposition that emphasises his stoicism: he chooses optimism in the face of deprivation. The subordinate clause “unless he was asked about his daughter’s health” reveals the limit of that cheerfulness, exposing deep parental concern. This nuanced clause shows his beliefs in duty and love; he suppresses his own suffering, but cannot hide his anxiety for his child.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would pick out emotive words and the exclamation in 'The poor, brave Captain!' and simple adjectives like 'older', 'more worn' and 'very threadbare' to show hardship, and notice the contrast with 'But' and 'bright and cheerful' suggesting optimism. It might also say 'rather he had knocked her down' and 'a higher style of literature' exaggerate social beliefs about reading, while 'unless he was asked about his daughter’s health' hints he worries about his daughter.

The writer uses emotive adjectives and an exclamation to show Captain Brown’s situation. The phrase “The poor, brave Captain!” is an exclamatory sentence. “Poor” and “brave” make the reader feel sympathy but also respect, suggesting he faces hardship yet keeps courage.

Moreover, descriptive words present his poverty: “older, and more worn” and “very threadbare” clothes. The adjective “threadbare” shows his clothes are worn out, which suggests money problems. The mention of a “higher style of literature” hints at social judgement, implying he reads what he likes.

Additionally, the writer uses contrast with the conjunction “But” to show his beliefs. He stays “bright and cheerful as ever”, which suggests a positive, stoic attitude. However, “unless he was asked about his daughter’s health” reveals family matters most, and his cheerfulness breaks when she is mentioned.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive words like "The poor, brave Captain!" and descriptive words "older", "worn", "very threadbare" to show he is struggling, and the exclamation makes the sympathy stronger. There is contrast in "But he seemed as bright and cheerful as ever", while "unless he was asked about his daughter’s health" shows he worries about her, and phrases like "knocked her down" and "higher style of literature" show strong views about reading.

Firstly, the writer uses emotive adjectives to show his situation: “poor, brave Captain!” and “threadbare” clothes. This makes the reader feel sympathy and shows he is struggling. Also, “higher style of literature” shows he reads plain books, and people judge him. Furthermore, the exclamation mark shows strong feeling about him. Moreover, “looked older, and more worn” suggests hardship. But the conjunction “But” and the words “bright and cheerful as ever” present his belief in staying positive. Additionally, “unless he was asked about his daughter’s health” shows he cares for family.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Exclamatory minor sentence and evaluative epithets create immediate pity and admiration, foregrounding a respectful narrative stance (The poor, brave Captain!)
• Comparative adjectives stress decline and fatigue, presenting a life marked by increasing hardship (older, and more worn)
• Polysyndetic accumulation slows the rhythm to dwell on his condition, intensifying the sense of burden (and more worn, and)
• Concrete clothing detail works as metonym for poverty and reduced status, making deprivation visible (very threadbare)
• Adversative conjunction introduces sharp contrast, highlighting resilience despite material decline (But he seemed)
• Positive lexis suggests enduring optimism and stoic beliefs that resist circumstances (bright and cheerful)
• Conditional clause marks a single exception to his brightness, structuring how his mood depends on topic (unless he was asked)
• Specific focus on family centers his concern on others, revealing compassionate priorities (his daughter’s health)
• Hyperbolic preference exposes extreme judgment about his choices, implying he is unfairly condemned for taste (knocked her down)
• Abstract evaluative phrase signals elitist cultural values, framing his reading as unfashionable in others’ eyes (higher style of literature)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how, as an opening, the structure moves from the comic friction of "not very cordial" and the literary "raw" to intimate pathos—signalled by the narrator’s aside "The poor, brave Captain!" and the solemn pause at "God’s will be done!"—then widens through reported viewpoint ("I found, from Miss Matty"), an emotional oscillation ("The tears now came back and overflowed" before she is "the same cheerful Miss Jessie as ever"), and direct speech ("what a town Cranford is for kindness!") to accumulate examples that deepen our sympathy. It would also note the strategic pivot of a rhetorical challenge ("But why does not this Lord Mauleverer do something") before the reflective generalization about "fragments and small opportunities" and a circular return to Miss Jenkyns’ "apple full of cloves," a structural loop that reframes earlier antagonism and consolidates empathy for both the Browns and their community.

One way in which the writer structures empathy is by juxtaposing a petty “literary dispute” with signs of real privation. The focus shifts from Miss Jenkyns’s prickliness and Captain Brown “drumming with his fingers” to the compassionate aside, “The poor, brave Captain!” and the zoomed-in detail that his clothes were “very threadbare.” The mood deepens when his calm speech about his daughter ends with the dash and prayer, “—God’s will be done!”, followed by “He took off his hat.” This slows the pace and frames his stoic piety, drawing empathy.

In addition, layered perspective and selective zoom deepen our alignment. The first-person narrator channels Miss Matty’s testimony before pivoting, via “when I met her next,” to direct observation of Miss Jessie. This shift from reported to immediate vantage point enables incremental revelation: from “they denied themselves many things” to the intimate detail “faded and pinched,” and the “quiver” of lips. The oscillation in tone—tears “overflowed,” then she “began to scold herself” and regains cheerfulness—builds a resilient subject, so readers feel with rather than merely for her.

A further structural movement widens and then narrows the lens to embed empathy in community. The narrator’s generalising frame, “I had often occasion to notice,” introduces an iterative sequence and cumulative listing of small kindnesses—“rose-leaves,” “little bundles of lavender”—before the focus returns to a single vignette: Miss Jenkyns “stuck an apple full of cloves.” This cyclical return to the Johnson motif—from quarrel to comfort—resolves the arc from discord to solidarity, inviting communal empathy.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how the focus moves from the opening tension over the 'raw' dispute to compassionate detail about 'The poor, brave Captain!'—his 'very threadbare' clothes and reverent 'God’s will be done!'—then widens via shifting viewpoints ('said poor Miss Matty', Jessie’s speech) and a cumulative list of kindnesses ('rose-leaves', 'little bundles of lavender flowers', an 'apple full of cloves'). These structural shifts and the cyclical return to 'Johnsonian sentence' deepen empathy by revealing both private suffering and communal care.

One way the writer structures the piece to create empathy is through a shift in focus and tone. We move from the comic “literary dispute” to the narrator’s sudden, emotive “The poor, brave Captain!” The juxtaposition of his “bright and cheerful” manner with “threadbare” clothes makes us see beyond appearances. The pace then slows on a poignant beat—he “took off his hat”—and the brief direct speech (“God’s will be done!”) humanises his suffering.

In addition, the perspective shifts to those around him. Through Miss Matty’s reported viewpoint we learn of hidden sacrifices made “regardless of expense”; this delayed revelation deepens sympathy. The narrative then zooms in on Jessie: “faded and pinched”, tears “glittering”, yet she self-scolds and returns “cheerful”. The narrator’s rhetorical question (“But why does not this Lord…?”) steers our concern, before explaining their pride—they never “speak about being poor”.

A further structural feature is the zoom out to the community, using cumulative listing (“rose-leaves… little bundles of lavender”) to build quiet care. Finally, a cyclical return to Miss Jenkyns—now scenting an apple while uttering a “Johnsonian sentence”—reframes her earlier severity and softens her. This circular ending consolidates empathy for the Browns and their neighbours.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would note that the writer starts with conflict — "not very cordial", the "raw" dispute — then shifts to the family’s hardship through the narrator and direct speech ("The poor, brave Captain!", "She suffers a great deal") and ends by widening to community kindness ("what a town Cranford is for kindness!", "rose-leaves"), so the changing focus and tone make us feel empathy.

One way the writer creates empathy is by starting with a light dispute then changing tone to reveal hardship. At first we hear about 'Dr Johnson' versus 'Mr Boz', but soon 'The poor, brave Captain!' and 'threadbare' clothes shift our feelings. This contrast makes us feel sorry for his family.

In addition, the focus shifts through different voices and direct speech. The narrator, then Miss Matty, then Miss Jessie speak; Captain Brown’s 'She suffers a great deal' and Jessie’s tears are zoomed in on. This change in focus deepens empathy by showing real emotion.

A further feature is the list near the end of community kindness, 'rose-leaves', 'lavender', and the covered basin. Finishing by returning to Miss Jenkyns and her Johnson quotes makes a simple frame. This makes us care for the Browns and admire Cranford’s support.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts with conflict (not very cordial, raw) then shows pain and poverty (she suffers a great deal, threadbare). It ends with community help (what a town Cranford is for kindness!, rose-leaves, apple full of cloves), which makes us feel empathy for the Browns.

One way the writer uses structure to create empathy is by starting with a small dispute and then moving to suffering. At the beginning, it is about books, but then the focus changes to the Captain’s worn clothes and “She suffers a great deal.” This change in tone makes us feel sorry.

In addition, the first-person narrator (“I”) shares Miss Matty’s comments, so we learn gradually. This focus makes the reader care more.

A further feature is the ending, showing small kindnesses: rose-leaves, dinners, an apple with cloves. After hardship in the middle, this deepens empathy.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate focus on a petty literary rift frames mild comic tension before compassion builds (not very cordial)
• Sudden pivot from trivial quarrel to the Captain’s worn state triggers sympathy through contrast (The poor, brave Captain!)
• Delayed disclosure of the daughter’s illness after his cheerfulness reveals stoic concealment, deepening empathy (unless he was asked)
• Insertion of heartfelt dialogue and gesture personalises suffering and piety, inviting respect (God’s will be done!)
• Shift to Miss Matty’s testimony adds a corroborating community viewpoint that validates the Browns’ sacrifices (I found, from Miss Matty)
• Alternation between Jessie’s fragility and resilient cheerfulness shapes an emotional ebb-and-flow that engages empathy (sent back the tears)
• Montage of town kindnesses accumulates small, concrete acts into a communal care pattern that envelops the reader (little bundles of lavender flowers)
• Strategic mid-passage question unveils a withheld backstory, sharpening moral outrage and pity at once (saved his life?)
• Circular return to Miss Jenkyns via a caring, Johnson-tinged act reframes her earlier pedantry into kindly solidarity (apple full of cloves)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, the argument about books makes Miss Jenkyns seem petty and unforgiving. The writer suggests that this is not what she is really like, as her secret kindness with the apple shows she is very caring.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Miss Jenkyns and her secret kindness
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest a different side to her character
• 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 evaluate the writer’s viewpoint by arguing that the gently ironic narration juxtaposes Miss Jenkyns’ pedantic exterior—her habit of uttering a Johnsonian sentence and many a rolling, three-piled sentence—which can read as petty or unforgiving, with quiet, practical kindness in stuck an apple full of cloves. It would conclude, within Cranford’s ethos of fragments and small opportunities, that the writer presents her as genuinely caring beneath the pomp, so the statement is only partly true.

I largely agree with the statement: while the earlier quarrel over “books” frames Miss Jenkyns as doctrinaire and small-minded, the closing movement of the extract complicates this impression, revealing a quiet, habitual kindness that sits beneath her pedantry.

Significantly, the writer structures the second half around a widening lens of communal benevolence that narrows to Miss Jenkyns’s private gesture. The narrator’s reflective aside foregrounds Cranford’s ethos through a cumulative catalogue: “the rose-leaves that were gathered ere they fell… the little bundles of lavender,” and “Things that many would despise… were all attended to.” This catalogue not only establishes a semantic field of domestic tenderness and thrift, but also primes the reader to reassess individuals within that culture. By placing Miss Jenkyns’s act immediately after this list, the writer uses juxtaposition to align her with unobtrusive charity rather than public self-righteousness.

The description of the act itself is sensuously precise. “Miss Jenkyns stuck an apple full of cloves, to be heated and smell pleasantly in Miss Brown’s room.” The tactile verbs “stuck” and the olfactory detail “smell pleasantly” foreground a practical, embodied compassion aimed at comfort, not display. The adverb “pleasantly” is telling: it implies a concern for another’s experience beyond mere duty. Moreover, the iterative phrasing “as she put in each clove” connotes patient, repetitive care; the micro-focus on “each” suggests the careful ritual of someone who tends as much as she instructs.

Yet the writer does not erase Miss Jenkyns’s severity; instead, the passage balances it with gentle irony. As she works, she “uttered a Johnsonian sentence,” and the narrator hears “many a rolling, three-piled sentence.” The intertextual allusion to Johnson, together with the tricolon-like “rolling, three-piled,” caricatures her taste for weighty prose, evoking the very pedantry that made her seem “petty and unforgiving” in the earlier dispute. This humorous epithet is affectionate rather than scathing; it reframes her literary dogmatism as a mannerism that coexists with care. Indeed, the clause “she never could think of the Browns without talking Johnson” reads as paradoxically tender: her moral vocabulary (Johnson) and her moral action (the clove-apple) are inseparable.

Finally, the tonal context of reticent generosity—people who “never spoke about it” and who act “short and gruff” from modesty—casts Miss Jenkyns’s gesture as discreet, even “secret,” kindness. The narrative perspective, with its measured approval of “fragments and small opportunities,” invites us to revise the initial judgement.

Overall, I mostly agree: the writer strategically counterpoints Miss Jenkyns’s bookish rigidity with domestic, sensory charity, suggesting she is not simply unforgiving. However, the persistent “Johnsonian” motif ensures her sternness remains part of her identity, lending a nuanced portrait of principled yet caring severity.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: At Level 3, a typical response would partly agree, identifying the contrast between Miss Jenkyns’s lofty tone—she never could think of the Browns without talking Johnson and uses many a rolling, three-piled sentence—and her quiet deed of stuck an apple full of cloves. It would explain that, within Cranford’s ethic of fragments and small opportunities, this discreet act supports the writer’s view that she is more caring than petty.

I largely agree with the statement. Earlier, the book-argument makes Miss Jenkyns seem narrow and censorious, but in this section the writer carefully counterbalances that impression by revealing her private, practical care.

Structurally, the narrator widens the lens to Cranford as a whole before narrowing to Miss Jenkyns. The cumulative listing of “fragments and small opportunities” — “rose-leaves” for “potpourri” and “little bundles of lavender” — establishes a culture of quiet kindness. This pattern of small, sensory comforts primes us to read Miss Jenkyns’s act as part of a wider ethic, softening the reader’s earlier judgment. The writer’s selection of homely detail and sensory imagery (“to smell pleasantly”) emphasises comfort over show, suggesting genuine compassion rather than performative charity.

When the focus falls on Miss Jenkyns, the juxtaposition is particularly telling. The concrete verb phrase “stuck an apple full of cloves” conveys painstaking effort, and the purpose — to “smell pleasantly in Miss Brown’s room” — highlights thoughtfulness for an invalid’s ease. Yet the allusion to Johnson remains: “as she put in each clove she uttered a Johnsonian sentence,” with the narrator’s mildly comic description of “many a rolling, three-piled sentence.” This tonal contrast matters. Her pedantic, bookish rhetoric survives, hinting at the pettiness seen in the argument; but it now runs alongside, rather than against, care. Crucially, the narrator adds that the Browns were “seldom absent from her thoughts,” which challenges the idea that she is unforgiving: despite disagreement, they occupy her mind and prompt action.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The writer uses contrast, cumulative listing and sensory detail to recast Miss Jenkyns as more than her sharp opinions. While traces of her prim, Johnsonian severity remain in her language, her quiet, unadvertised kindness with the clove-apple suggests a fundamentally caring nature that outweighs the earlier pettiness.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree with the writer’s viewpoint, noting that while Miss Jenkyns can seem fussy or petty in her bookish talk (e.g., Johnsonian sentence, rolling, three-piled sentence), her caring side is shown through small acts like stuck an apple full of cloves to smell pleasantly in Miss Brown’s room, and that the Browns were seldom absent from her thoughts.

I mostly agree with the statement. Earlier, Miss Jenkyns seems petty in the book-argument, but in this section the writer shows a gentler side through quiet, practical help. Structurally, the passage widens our view from the town’s general kindness to Miss Jenkyns’s individual action, suggesting there is more to her than sharp opinions.

First, the writer builds a caring atmosphere in Cranford through listing and sensory detail: “rose-leaves… to make into a potpourri” and “little bundles of lavender.” The phrase “Things that many would despise” shows how small, almost hidden acts matter here. This makes Miss Jenkyns’s behaviour fit that culture of thoughtfulness rather than spite.

Then the focus narrows to her. “Miss Jenkyns stuck an apple full of cloves, to be heated and smell pleasantly in Miss Brown’s room.” The sensory language of “smell pleasantly” presents a considerate, comforting intention. It feels private and unboastful, as it is simply placed in Miss Brown’s room. However, the writer also hints that her bookish severity remains: “as she put in each clove she uttered a Johnsonian sentence,” and the narrator hears “many a rolling, three-piled sentence.” This subject terminology (“Johnsonian,” “rolling”) suggests a pompous, pedantic tone, linking back to her earlier unforgiving attitude about books.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer contrasts her petty, unforgiving public opinions with a secret, caring action. Yet the “Johnsonian” commentary shows she still has that stern streak, so she is a mixture of strictness and sincere kindness.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, simply noticing that Miss Jenkyns seems petty/strict in her "Johnsonian sentence" and constant "talking Johnson," but also caring when she "stuck an apple full of cloves" for Miss Brown.

I mostly agree with the statement. Earlier the book argument makes Miss Jenkyns sound fussy and unforgiving, but in this part the writer shows a kinder side. The passage lists lots of small kindnesses in Cranford, like “rose-leaves... to make into a potpourri” and “little bundles of lavender.” This list and the gentle imagery of smells create a caring mood. It makes the town feel kind, so we see Miss Jenkyns differently.

At the end, Miss Jenkyns “stuck an apple full of cloves, to be heated and smell pleasantly in Miss Brown’s room.” This sensory language shows a quiet, practical kindness. It is almost secret because it is such a small thing and she does not boast about it. The verb “stuck” makes it homely and simple. However, the writer also says she uttered “a Johnsonian sentence” with each clove and “many a rolling, three-piled sentence.” This makes her seem a bit pompous or strict, reminding us of the argument.

Overall, I agree that the argument makes her seem petty at first, but the apple shows she is caring underneath. The contrast between her hard words and her gentle action suggests she is not only unforgiving but also thoughtful.

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:

• Overall judgement: I mostly agree; the writer counters any sense of harshness by showing Miss Jenkyns’ quiet care in the clove-apple for Miss Brown (stuck an apple full of cloves).
• Contrast of fussiness and warmth: her lofty, performative speech reads priggish, but the practical comfort she arranges feels humane (rolling, three-piled sentence).
• Humorous characterisation makes her seem eccentric rather than unforgiving, inviting tolerance rather than dislike (without talking Johnson).
• Sensory care: the intended scent foregrounds thoughtfulness and patient-centred relief, softening any impression of pettiness (to be heated and smell pleasantly).
• Structural framing: after a catalogue of communal kindness, her deed is aligned with Cranford’s ethos, not with small-mindedness (fragments and small opportunities).
• Valuing the humble: the narrator elevates minor deeds others might dismiss, encouraging us to credit her compassion (Things that many would despise).
• Narratorial guidance: reflective first-person approval steers the reader towards agreement with this kinder view (I had often occasion to notice).
• Context of kindness: Miss Jessie’s praise of Cranford generosity primes a benevolent reading of Miss Jenkyns’ act (for kindness).
• Partial reservation: pairing each clove with a maxim suggests a didactic streak, so my agreement is strong but not absolute (talking Johnson).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

In tutor time next week, your class will share short creative pieces, and you want yours to stand out.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of an ancient amphitheatre from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a message that arrives out of the blue.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

The sun presses its palm upon the ancient amphitheatre and the great bowl exhales, warm breath of dust and thyme rising in a shimmer. Stone upon stone upon stone climbs in perfect arcs, tier after tier, as though a grey sea had been coaxed into stillness. At the lip of the cavea (the carved bowl of seats), lizards bask like dropped emeralds; a thread of cloud drifts past, idle, like a thought that has not yet decided to become a memory.

Here, everything is both broken and complete. The steps are shallow, smoothed to satin by centuries of sandals, toes, knees—pilgrims of spectacle, citizens of heat. Each seat bears the soft indent where a body once rested; each crack hosts a miniature world: stubborn moss, a sprig of wild fennel, a bead of quartz catching the light. Touch the rim and it is warm, faintly granular, as if the stone still remembers its mountain. Smell it and you catch salt carried inland and the faint sweetness of crushed herbs; taste the air and it is chalk-dry.

Down in the arena the floor glows a pale, exhausted gold. Wind strokes it into ripples that mimic water, a silent tide that moves and does not move. A ring of iron—scarred, honest—sleeps half-buried near a fallen column drum; someone once tethered a curtain there, or a door, or a dream. A faint scrawl of graffiti ghosts across one block; the letters are hesitant, almost shy, as though ashamed of their defiance. Listen: even your breath returns to you, magnified, educated, made theatrical. A whisper would climb the stone and sit beside the highest listener; a footfall would run round and round, tirelessly, like a child.

Beneath, corridors hollow the earth. Arches—cool-mouthed, patient—open to swallow the sun and give back shade. In the vomitoria, the passages that fed the audience their places, the air turns chill, damp with the stone’s slow drinking. Swallows have sewn nests into the corners; a bat pivots once and is gone. Your hand grazes a niche and raises a pale constellation of dust. The walls here are less polite: chisel marks, unvarnished and rhythmic, confess the urgency of builders who did not know your name and did not need to.

Beyond the far colonnade, a scattering of toppled drums lie like a row of sleeping giants, surfaces dappled with lichen the colour of old coins. Weeds spear through joints; ants traffic in silent, purposeful lines. The outer wall leans—not dangerously, but with the dignified fatigue of a veteran—its shadow a cool river that migrates with the day. A stray dog pads through, pauses, lifts its head, and accepts the silence as if it were a command.

And yet the place hums. Not loudly, not theatrically, but with the quiet insistence of things that have happened and will not unhappen. The roar that once lived here has thinned to a thread, but it is still thread: pull it and you feel the tug of sandals, drums, sunlit helms, mango-bright banners (perhaps that image overreaches), the shared intake of breath before the inevitable. Time has weathered the surfaces, not the purpose.

So the amphitheatre waits—patient, unembarrassed—its geometry persisting against wind and rain and the forgetfulness of maps. Light unspools across the tiers; shadows return, rehearse, return again. And in the heat, in the hush, you can almost hear it: applause like rain on stone.

Option B:

Blue is supposed to be calming; that morning wore it like silk. The sky over Lark Row was a clean, enamelled blue, and its light seeped through the dry cleaner’s windows, turning steam into drifting veils. Hangers chimed on their rail; the machine hummed; the city, for once, was almost polite. In the back room, where the scent of starch and citrus settled in the lungs, anything urgent felt far away, buffered by the soft susurrus of rotating drums. Even the clock took its time. It was one of those hours that asks for nothing and gives you nothing; an hour that holds its breath.

Maya liked that kind of hour. Order had edges she could hold onto: numbered tickets slid beneath magnet clips; garment bags hissed and ballooned; the tagging gun made its neat, percussive clicks. She moved economically—left hand straightening cuffs; right hand feeding cloth under the hot plate—until the conveyors above her head rotated a slow galaxy of shirts and silk dresses. Threads clung to her wrist like cobweb; someone’s cologne—amber and indefinable—lurked in the folds. Pockets were palimpsests of strangers’ days: a theatre stub, a chewed pencil, a list written in a hurried, looping hand. She could catalogue a day like this—twelve skirts, three suit jackets, a wedding dress with a stain the colour of tea—and, for an afternoon, forget the unanswered email from her college, the hollow way the flat sounded when she locked it at night.

She lowered the lid of the press onto a navy blazer and heard, beneath the hiss, a small, objectionable crinkle. Paper. Not unheard of—receipts, lottery tickets, folded shopping lists murmuring their domestic secrets—but this was wedged deep in the lining, an angular stiffness that resisted her. She lifted the cloth, coaxed at the seam, and drew out a pale envelope freckled with lint and a single, startling fleck of dried paint—ultramarine, as if it had once skimmed a sky. On the front, in ink that had wandered a little, was her name.

Maya.

She stared. The machine went on working; the rails went on circling; the envelope warmed in the furnace of her palm. Her name, here, where no one knew it beyond a clipped “Thanks, love,” scribbled across a carbon copy. She told herself to put it aside, to be sensible, but curiosity—thin, insistent—threaded through her, tugging. How? Who? The questions collected, bright and weightless, and then, because there are moments that only exist if you step into them, she slid a nail under the seal and opened it.

The paper inside was thick, faintly creamy, a little creased. The handwriting was steady, undecorated. It began without a greeting:

This will feel out of the blue, but I don’t believe in accidents.

I don’t know if you still watch the sky, or if you still stand on chairs you shouldn’t to reach things that are just beyond you. When you were small, you would climb onto the blue stool in my studio and refuse to come down until I showed you how to mix a colour that didn’t have a name.

If you are reading this, it means the jacket found you. Or you found it. Either way, I am asking you—carefully, urgently—to keep the key you will find sewn into the left cuff, and to come, at closing, to the door on Merle Street with the peeling blue paint.

Her heart knocked, inelegant. The press sighed behind her as if exasperated. She turned the cuff between her fingers—once, twice—feeling only cloth at first, blind to the obvious. And then, with the tiniest give, a stitch lifted. A glint. Something hidden, patient, waiting.

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

Option A:

The sun stoops over the broken rim of the amphitheatre, pouring gold down ranks of stone. Tiers rise like petrified waves, their edges worn to a soft curve by the sandpapery hand of time; heat trembles and a fine dust lifts and falls, lifts and falls, as if the place has learned to breathe. Here, there is a smell: warm limestone, crushed thyme, a tang of metal. The entire bowl holds its silence, enormous and deliberate, like a note that refuses to fade.

Close up, the seats are not smooth; they are furrowed with basins where rain has lingered, scrolled with tiny lichen maps. Where thousands once pressed knees and backs, the stone keeps a dull polish; a lizard skates along the hot rim and vanishes between the joints. Steep radial stairs, scored by centuries of sandals, cut the curve. Tufts of grass thrust up—stubborn, bright—and small flowers flag the cracks. Above, a broken balustrade notches the blue.

Below lies the arena, an oval skid of pale sand, bleached almost white; at its edges, fallen columns recline like ribs. Shadows from outer arches stride across the floor in slow bars. In the heat, a cicada's buzz leaps and stutters; swallows loop and scribble in the light, stitching the air with swift black thread. Who crossed this surface? The sand keeps its counsel; it remembers without speaking.

Beyond the glare, the vomitoria open their cool throats: arched corridors, barrel-vaulted, soot-fingered, their bricks laid with patient logic. The air changes—colder, faintly damp—and it smells of stone and shadow. Inscriptions flare and fade on the walls: half names, laurels, numbers that mean little. Light drops through gaps: bright coins on the floor; pigeons clap and settle; a drip ticks in the rear. At one doorway a gate (twisted, redundant) slants into dust; beyond it, a rectangle of black offers a story and gives only echo.

Yet the place is far from dead. Wind works the amphitheatre like an instrument; it runs its fingers along the tiers and brings up murmurs, a rustle that could be capes or banners. Time does not erase; it edits. The essential idea holds: a ring of sight, a theatre of eyes. It commands. The sky waits—patient, pale—and then clouds drift and the bowl shifts, greyed, then bright. When the shadow climbs, the arena gathers itself; shabby and grand at once, it waits for footfall, for voice.

Option B:

Evening. The hour when the sky loosens its grip on colour and bruises into blue; windows salt the street with squares of amber; kettles sigh, and the city performs its ordinary, consoling ritual.

Inside her flat, Mara lined up the cutlery so the handles made a neat horizon, wiped a streak of sauce from the hob, pressed the bin pedal with her heel. Small, quiet acts that made a day feel finished. On the table, there were three things: a chipped mug, a folded receipt, and her phone facedown. She did not expect anything. People who expected things were, she had decided, often disappointed.

The phone vibrated—an insect caught under glass. She stilled. The mug and receipt became ridiculous, tilted props in a scene she hadn't auditioned for. She turned the device over and the blank black shifted to a cool, luminous rectangle, a blue notification swelling like a bruise. Unknown Number. Then, a second later, the message itself, really ordinary and really not: "Mara?"

She read the name-that-wasn’t a name and felt something in her chest loosen and tighten at once. For a heartbeat she thought of rivers; of the last envelope she opened with that spiky handwriting, blue ink that bled when the rain got in; of a platform and a coat and a silence. It was years ago. She had promised herself she would not be tugged back.

Another bubble arrived—bright, insistent, almost cheerful despite itself. "It’s me." That was it. No explanation, no apology. The cursor blinked, a metronome counting possibilities. It had, she thought, arrived out of the blue in every sense: unannounced, unearned, and glowing cerulean in her dim kitchen.

Should she reply? The question sat between her and the table like a fourth object. She typed then erased, typed again. All the sentences she tried sounded wooden, or embarrassingly soft. The kettle clicked as if clearing its throat. In the wall, somebody laughed; in the corridor, footfalls passed and faded.

She set the phone down, then picked it up (ridiculous, really). Her thumb hovered. Another message landed, as if the sender could see the pause she was making and couldn’t bear it: "I’m outside."

Mara stood, the chair foot scraping—too loud—in the neatness she had constructed. The window held the street in a shallow bowl of blue, lacquered by drizzle. Between parked cars and a slow bus sighing at the stop, a figure waited beneath the bruise-bright streetlight, hands tucked, head lifted towards her window as if he could feel her attention.

The city breathed. So did she. She drew the blind a fraction and, without quite meaning to, replied.

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

Option A:

The amphitheatre rests in a shallow bowl of sun, a basin cupping the afternoon light. Tier upon tier, the stone seats climb in careful rings; each edge is chipped, softened by years, yet still stubborn. Dust lies like a thin veil. Shadows stitch between blocks so the steps seem to ripple—solid waves held mid-crest. Heat lifts from the slabs in wavering threads. At the top, a broken arch frames a square of sky as blue and indifferent as a painted eye.

Closer, the details assert themselves: a fallen column gnawed by lichen, a cracked capital, a carving whose letters have worn to almost nothing. A sprig of thyme has rooted in a fissure; it releases a dry, peppery smell when brushed. Underfoot, the stone is warm and granular, leaving chalk on my fingers; the steps are uneven. There are shards too—bits like teeth—piled quietly in corners.

Here, the silence is not empty. Wind skims along the arcs and makes a soft hiss, as if an audience were drawing breath together. Stand at the centre, on the pale oval that was once the stage, and your voice rises and returns—thinner, stranger—and the tiers answer. It feels ceremonial, although there is no ceremony; only sun, stone, and the steady pulse of insects.

Birds occupy the highest ledges—starlings, perhaps—clicking and fussing; their shadows wheel over the arena and are gone. A cat threads down three steps, pauses, refuses to trust me. In the vault beneath, coolness collects. Smells collect too: crushed herbs, warm lime. I trace the groove where a hand has worn smooth the edge of a block. Who sat here? Time moves differently. The amphitheatre does not resist; it endures. Sunlight walks across the ranks; the stone accepts it, then gives it back as a pale glow. Already the lower tiers are filling with shadow.

Option B:

Tuesday, 4:08 p.m. The hour of lukewarm tea and lists; the traffic outside murmured its patient grammar while a thin, ash-coloured light slid across the table and turned dust into slow, private planets. Afternoons like this measured themselves out with small domestic clocks: the kettle’s tired click, the washing machine’s swallow, the neighbour’s radio leaking a chorus it had already forgotten. The flat breathed in a comfortable, careless way. Nothing urgent. Nothing dramatic. Just a mild, ordinary grey that asked for neither courage nor celebration.

Amelia straightened the stack of receipts, aligning corners until the pile became obedient. She wrote milk, stamps, call Mum on a yellow note, then underlined call because it was the one she was least likely to do. The citrus tang from an abandoned orange peel hovered. Order soothed her; order made room for thoughts that were less noisy. So she put her phone face down—not in a dramatic way, simply because it was easier not to be interrupted by other people’s tiny emergencies. She drew a neat box next to each item on her list and imagined the pleasant future of ticking them.

Then the phone shuddered against the wood—a small, insistent tremor that did not fit the room’s gentle rhythm. She turned it over. A bright blue bubble—cool, deliberate—bloomed on the screen. Unknown. No profile picture. No chain of messages. Just this, arriving out of the blue:

“It’s still behind the loose brick on the back step.”

For a moment she only stared, as if the words might rearrange themselves into a supermarket offer or a complicated joke. A fine electric thread ran through her fingers. Behind the loose brick. The place she had used when she was thirteen, when hiding things felt almost like magic: notes, house keys, the tiny compass her gran had given her “just in case.” Who else knew about that? Not her neighbours. Not the woman from work who overused the word literally. Not anyone, really.

She typed Hello… then deleted it, then typed Who is this? and let her thumb hover. The kettle clicked off; the room seemed to wait. Outside, the sky lifted a corner of its grey and showed a precise, impossible blue. Why now? Why her? Her mind tried to assemble reasons—like flat-pack furniture with instructions missing—and found only screws rolling under the sofa.

Three dots appeared, quivered, vanished. The message didn’t explain itself. Neither did the afternoon.

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

Option A:

The amphitheatre rises out of the hillside, a bowl of pale stone cupped in sun. Tier upon tier curves away, neat ribs of seats that climb toward the sky, and the shadows between them lie cool and blue. Broken columns sleep along the edge, toppled and patient, their sides scored with age. An archway gapes like a mouth that has forgotten how to speak. Dust lifts in slow spirals; grasses push from the cracks, stubborn and bright.

I step down, feeling the shallow dips left by other feet. The stone is sun-warmed and gritty; it tastes dry on the air. Below, the arena lies pale as bone, a circle of sand. A lizard flickers over a ledge; swifts stitch the heat with thin cries. A faint scent of thyme rides the wind, mixed with chalky lime. Everything seems to pause, as if the place is holding its breath.

Under the arches, the light thins. The corridor is cool, and my footsteps echo in steady, hollow beats. Can stone remember? The walls keep their scars and chisel marks, and the air is full of a sound not quite there: the blur of voices, the rattle of drums, applause that rolls like a tide. Once, the seats must have been full; once, names were shouted until they shook the dust.

Up close, the seats are rough with lichen and scratched initials. A fallen capital has cracked clean through, its inside dark as bread. Sunlight floats in a bright sheet and paints a single row gold; the rest stays in gentle shadow. When I press my palm against a block, it is warm and steady. It feels simple and also grand—crumbling yet sure. I climb back into the blaze, and my footprint sinks and is rubbed away by the wind.

Option B:

Tuesday afternoons in our flat were quiet, the kind that settle on your shoulders like dust. The window glass shivered when the wind nosed down the alley. I buttered toast slowly, watching crumbs gather, letting the ordinary take up space; it was easier than thinking about the letter I still hadn't answered. Outside, a pale sky hung blue.

The sound came thin and sudden, a ping that cut the room in two. My phone lit the table with cold light. Unknown number. Out of the blue. For a second I thought it was a mistake, a delivery text or a network warning. But the preview sat there, clean, small, impossible: Come home.

Two words, black as a bruise. I didn't move, I didn't breathe. Heat from the toast ran out; the kettle clicked off. My thumb hovered; my heart did that rabbit thing. Come home. Home was a word we hardly used since Mum left and the rooms hollowed like shells. I had made my own routes, my own corners; I wasn't going back.

Still, the message waited. I opened it. There was more—an attachment, a photo I knew before I knew it: the brass doorknob with the scratch Dad made with his key, the hallway carpet with that stubborn stain, the tilted frame of a seaside picture. It was ours. Whoever sent it had stood on our step this morning, or yesterday; fog still hung in the image like breath.

My fingers typed yes, then no, then nothing. I thought of the letter on my shelf and how silence grows if you feed it. Who are you? I wrote, then backspaced, then wrote it again. Finally I sent it. The question went out; the room seemed to listen. A gull cried outside. The phone lay there, heavy, waiting with me for the next piece of whatever this was.

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

Option A:

The amphitheatre sits in its hollow, patient and pale. Sunlight pours across the stone, laying heat on the benches and making the dust jump. Row upon row of seats climb in a half circle; each block is chipped, each edge rubbed thin. Thin grasses stir between the cracks, stubborn, green threads against all that grey. A crack runs like a line on an old hand, crossing one seat and then another.

Through an archway the arena opens like a dry bowl. The sand is faded to a soft, tired yellow. Footsteps have worn grooves on the steps, as if a river once ran here and then forgot. A lizard flashes over a fallen column—gone. The shadows move slowly; they crawl from seat to seat, counting time.

Now, if you stand very still, you can almost hear it: the swell of people, clapping hands, leather and metal, a trumpet shout. The sound seems to grow, rising and rising, and the stone seems to drink it like water. For a moment the arena has a pulse, it breaths with the crowd, then it fades.

Today there is only wind. It snakes through the corridors and taps at doors that are not doors, just gaps, and it brings the smell of warm dust. A gull circles, white against the blue, crying once and then again. The place waits—calm, cracked, colossal. It is broken, but it endures, and in the heat it listens. It will be here after us, the same and not the same.

Option B:

Rain stitched the afternoon together, thin and silver. The kettle hissed and clicked; steam fogged the little square of window and made the garden blur. I wiped the glass with my sleeve and left a damp smear there, like a ghostly hand. It was ordinary, almost boring, and I liked that. Tuesdays, tea, toast — nothing to surprise me.

The letterbox clacked, sudden and sharp, as if the door had coughed. Out of the blue, something slid onto the mat. At first I thought it was a pizza menu, those glossy colours that promise too much. But the envelope was plain, thin, slightly soggy at the edges. My name was on it, in blue ink that had bled a tiny bit, like it had cried.

I picked it up. The paper felt cool. Someone had written fast; the loops were tall and awkward. I turned it over — no stamp, no return address. It wasn’t junk, not really; someone had thought about this. My stomach gave a small, strange twist.

Inside was only one line. Meet me by the old bridge at dusk. I know about the summer.

That sentence stuck to me. Summer. The word flared warm in my head: the dusty path, the whispering grass, the water glinting like coins. I hadn’t been near the bridge since then. I’d made sure of that, I’d definately made sure. How could anyone know? Who would write this?

The hallway felt longer; like something was stretching it. A draught slid under the door and lifted the edge of the note. I folded it and unfolded it again, listening. Nothing. Then — a truck groaned past, a dog barked twice, ordinary noises pretending nothing had happened.

I opened the door. The sky had bruised to purple and the pavement shone. No footprints, no shadow waiting — just rain falling, steady, like ticking.

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

Option A:

Sun spills over the stone tiers like warm water. The amphitheatre sits low in the earth, wide and round, a ring of steps going up and up. Some columns have fallen; they lay across the sand like pale bones. Dust hangs in the air and the smell is chalky and dry from tiny plants pushing through the cracks. Shadows cut the seating into stripes, thin and thick.

If I run my hand along the seat, it is smooth from a thousand people. Under my palm the rock is warm; it almost hums. Wind slips through the broken arches and makes a sound like whispering applause. Birds pop in and out of holes, their calls sharp, then fading. At the far arch a rusty gate leans open; old letters carved on the wall look tired. Vines creep and tug the blocks back to the ground.

I stand in the centre and clap once. The echo returns, thin at first and then rounder, going up the steps and back to me. For a second I imagine crowds, sandals scraping, sellers shouting; then it is only my breath. The sun is hot, it presses on my shoulders. Ancient stone, patient, waiting — the place feels empty and alive at the same time.

Option B:

It started on a Tuesday after school. The sky hung low, grey like a tired blanket, and the kettle hissed in our small kitchen. I dropped my bag and let the quiet move around me. Mum was late again; the clock clicked, a slow tap that sounded too loud. The fridge hummed, the house ticked, nothing happened. My phone lay on the table, face-down, black and flat. I didn't expect anything because my days were ordinary, ordinary and small.

Then it buzzed like an angry bee. Unknown number: 1 new message. Come to the park by the swings. Bring the red box. That was it—no name. I stared; I didn't own a red box and I hadn't gone to that park since last summer. Who even sends something like that?

Ping.

Another ping, faster now; the phone shivered in my palm. "Are you there?" the second message said. I swallowed. In the cupboard under the stairs there was a biscuit tin with a faded red lid—Grandad's tin. Buttons, coins, a postcard with a ship. Could that be it, or was someone messing with me? My thumb hovered above reply, and the house suddenly felt too quiet, like it was holding its breath.

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

Option A:

The ancient amphitheatre sits heavy in the heat. Stone seats climb in circles, like a big bowl left on the ground. Some colums are fallen and cracked like old teeth. The floor is dust and little stones, they crunch under my shoe. Shadows lay in long strips, moving slow when the sun moves, I watch it. The arches are dark mouths that look at the stage.

The air is dry, it taste like chalk. I touch the wall and it is rough and warm; my fingers come away grey. A bird flicks across and the sound of wings echo, then it is quiet again.

Grass and weeds grow in the cracks. There is weeds where people sat before, maybe crowds sat and cheered and stamped there feet and it went round and round. The place is empty but it is not empty, it waits. Sun on stone. Cool shade, then light again

Option B:

It was just another slow Tuesday morning. The rain tapped the window, the house was quiet. The kettle hissed like it was cross. Toast was getting cold. I stared at the clock and thought about nothing much. It felt safe and boring and small. I didnt expect anything to happen, not today, not to me.

Then my phone buzzed out of the blue. Buzz. Buzz. It made me jump! I picked it up, the screen was bright. Unknown number. The message said dont open the door. I read it once. I read it twice. My stomach felt like a knot and my hands went sweaty.

Who are you I typed back. Was this a joke. I wanted to laugh but I couldnt. The hall was still and the clock ticked alot louder now and I could hear my own breath. I looked at the door and waited, I didnt want to but I did.

Someone knocked.

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

Option A:

Old stones sit in a big circle, it's stones are worn and scratched. The seats go up and up. The sun hits the rock and it looks hot. Dust is in the air, it gets in my mouth. I hear an echo when I walk, my step taps again and again. Broken columns lay on the ground, they look like bones. Grass grows in the cracks. I feel hungry. A bird shouts on the top and then it is quiet, so quiet! Long shadows crawl the shadows move slow. I think of a crowd, people shouting and clapping, but now it is empty.

Option B:

Morning. The sky was dull and I was buttering toast. My phone buzzed like a bee, it made me jump and the knife scraped. A message. Out of the blue. No name. Just words. Don't go. It looked wrong and right. I read it again, my hands went shaky like jelly. Who are you? I typed that but I didn't send it, not yet because my credit is low and I was late for school and my laces were in knots and the dog wanted out. It dont make sense, I look at there name, there isn't one. I wait. I wait.