AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 What was cloven apart at the back of the stage?: the clouds – 1 mark
• 1.2 How old is Nana?: Eighteen years – 1 mark
• 1.3 Where did Nana come down to?: the footlights – 1 mark
• 1.4 How does the narrator describe Nana's hair when Nana appears as Venus?: Loose and unfastened over Nana's shoulders – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 20 of the source:

6 grand ditty: “When Venus roams at eventide.” From the second verse onward people looked at each other all over the house.

11 Was this some jest, some wager on Bordenave’s part? Never had a more tuneless voice been heard or one managed with less art. Her manager judged of her excellently; she certainly sang like a squirt. Nay, more, she didn’t even know how to deport herself on the stage: she thrust her arms in front of her while she swayed her whole body to and fro in a manner which struck the audience as

16 unbecoming and disagreeable. Cries of “Oh, oh!” were already rising in the pit and the cheap places. There was a sound of whistling, too, when a voice in the stalls, suggestive of a molting cockerel, cried out with great conviction: “That’s very smart!”

How does the writer use language here to present the audience’s first reaction to Nana’s singing? 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 analyse how the rhetorical question 'Was this some jest, some wager...' and hyperbole 'Never had a more tuneless voice' construct incredulity and scorn, while pejoratives and dynamic verbs ('unbecoming and disagreeable', 'thrust', 'swayed her whole body to and fro') and the colon in 'she didn’t even know how to deport herself on the stage: she thrust her arms...' provide damning elaboration of her ineptitude. It would also explore derisive direct speech and sound imagery—'Cries of "Oh, oh!"', 'whistling', the zoomorphic comparison 'a molting cockerel', and the ironic exclamation '"That’s very smart!"'—to show collective mockery spreading 'all over the house.'

The writer frames the audience’s first reaction as collective disbelief through rhetorical questioning and hyperbolic assertion. “From the second verse onward people looked at each other all over the house” uses “house” metonymically, implying unanimity. The rhetorical question “Was this some jest, some wager on Bordenave’s part?” draws us into incredulity, suggesting the performance seems like a prank. The sweeping claim “Never had a more tuneless voice been heard, or one managed with less art” combines superlative with formal diction to amplify scorn.

Furthermore, ridicule is sharpened through simile and loaded verbs. “She certainly sang like a squirt” is a striking simile: “squirt” suggests a thin, forced jet, reducing Nana to a spatter of sound; “certainly” makes the condemnation unequivocal. The apparently laudatory “Her manager judged of her excellently” is ironic, undercut. Onstage she “thrust” and “swayed… to and fro”: these dynamic verbs, and the balanced phrase “to and fro,” evoke ungainly, pendulum movement, while the negation “didn’t even know how to deport herself” and prim adjectives “unbecoming and disagreeable” add social censure.

Moreover, an auditory soundscape captures the crowd’s hostility. The semantic field of noise—“cries” of “Oh, oh!”, “whistling,” a “voice in the stalls”—turns the theatre into a chorus of derision, with class markers “the pit and the cheap places” showing where it swells first. The zoomorphic “molting cockerel” evokes a cracked squawk, while the exclamative “That’s very smart!” drips with sarcasm. Therefore, the audience’s first reaction feels immediate, unanimous and scornful.

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 the rhetorical question "Was this some jest...?" and hyperbole "Never had a more tuneless voice" to show disbelief, alongside the mocking simile "sang like a squirt", negative description "unbecoming and disagreeable", and dynamic verbs "thrust"/"swayed" to present Nana as clumsy and inept. It would also explain how derisive crowd noises—"Cries of 'Oh, oh!'" and "whistling"—plus the simile "molting cockerel", the range of places "pit...cheap places...stalls", and exclamatory punctuation convey a growing, widespread hostility across the theatre.

The writer uses a rhetorical question and an adverbial phrase to convey immediate disbelief. “From the second verse onward people looked at each other all over the house” shows the reaction begins quickly and is shared, while the verb “looked” hints at uncertainty. The rhetorical question, “Was this some jest, some wager...?” presents incredulity, as if the performance must be a prank.

Moreover, hyperbole and a belittling simile emphasise Nana’s incompetence. The superlative “Never had a more tuneless voice been heard” exaggerates how bad she sounds, and “she certainly sang like a squirt” reduces the voice to a small, spurting noise. The colon in “she didn’t even know...: she thrust...” piles on faults, while dynamic verbs “thrust” and “swayed... to and fro” reinforce contempt for her singing, and the paired adjectives “unbecoming and disagreeable” echo moral disapproval.

Additionally, sound and animal imagery convey rising hostility. “Cries of ‘Oh, oh!’” and “whistling” create derisive noise from “the pit and the cheap places,” showing the reaction is widespread. The heckler’s “voice... suggestive of a molting cockerel” mocks her, and the ironic direct speech, “That’s very smart!”, confirms the audience’s first response is ridicule rather than admiration.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses negative description and simple comparisons to show the audience’s shocked disapproval: words like “tuneless” and “unbecoming and disagreeable” make Nana seem bad, the simile “sang like a squirt” makes her look ridiculous, and the rhetorical question “Was this some jest” shows disbelief. Sound details like the crowd’s “Oh, oh!” and “whistling,” plus the mocking comparison to a “molting cockerel,” show people reacting noisily and making fun of her.

The writer uses a rhetorical question, “Was this some jest…?”, to show the audience’s shock and disbelief. Also, the phrase “people looked at each other all over the house” suggests confusion and shared embarrassment at Nana’s singing.

Moreover, exaggeration in “Never had a more tuneless voice been heard” shows how bad she seems, while the simile “she certainly sang like a squirt” mocks her, making the audience see her as ridiculous rather than talented.

Furthermore, the negative adjectives “unbecoming and disagreeable” and dynamic verbs “thrust” and “swayed” describe her awkward stage manner, which adds to the audience’s first negative reaction.

Additionally, the writer uses sound imagery: “Cries of ‘Oh, oh!’” and “a sound of whistling” to show disapproval building. The animal comparison to a “molting cockerel” and the sarcastic cry “That’s very smart!” make the reaction noisy and mocking.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses negative words like "tuneless voice" and "unbecoming and disagreeable" to show the audience thinks Nana is bad, and the exclamation "Oh, oh!" and "whistling" show their disapproval. The simile "sang like a squirt" and the question "Was this some jest, some wager on Bordenave’s part?" make her performance seem silly and doubtful.

The writer uses a rhetorical question to show the audience’s first reaction. “Was this some jest…?” shows people are confused and shocked by Nana’s singing. Moreover, strong adjectives like “tuneless” and “disagreeable” clearly present a negative view. Furthermore, the simile “sang like a squirt” makes her voice seem silly and weak. Additionally, animal imagery in “a molting cockerel” and the short exclamations “Oh, oh!” show noisy disapproval. Therefore, the audience’s first reaction is mockery and dislike.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Temporal marker and collective response show immediate, widespread unease across the house (all over the house)
• Rhetorical question conveys disbelief and suspicion about motives (Was this some jest)
• Hyperbole heightens the sense of a worst-ever performance (more tuneless voice)
• Discourse marker escalates the criticism from singing to behaviour (Nay, more)
• Comic simile belittles the performer with demeaning humour (like a squirt)
• Dynamic, awkward verbs create a vivid image of clumsy stagecraft (thrust her arms)
• Loaded evaluative adjectives present moral and aesthetic disapproval (unbecoming and disagreeable)
• Onomatopoeic interjections and crowd noise signal mounting dissent (“Oh, oh!”)
• Animal imagery reduces the heckler’s voice to something coarse and ridiculous (molting cockerel)
• Sarcastic exclamation encapsulates public mockery rather than praise (That’s very smart!)

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 enchantment?

You could write about:

• how enchantment shifts 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 the structural arc from a mythic opener—the clouds... were cloven apart and Venus appeared—through a dip in enchantment (tuneless voice, audience Oh, oh!) to a clear pivot when a single aside (That’s very smart!) reverses the crowd, as Nana’s playful complicity (began to laugh herself, Go ahead, old boy!) escalates into a crescendo of Applause burst forth and plaudits... frantic. It would also identify the deliberate anticlimax as focus shifts to routine plot beats (Vulcan wanted to slap Venus), with the enchantment ebbing as the whole house... making for the doors.

One way in which the writer structures the opening to enchant the reader is through a dramatic reveal and ironic juxtaposition. The text begins in medias res—"At that very moment"—as the "clouds... cloven apart" and "Venus appeared", a mythic tableau. Yet "from the second verse onward" the narration undercuts this with "never had a more tuneless voice", so the spell becomes comic rather than sublime. This contrast resets tone from awe to amused complicity, drawing the reader into enchantment with the crowd.

In addition, the writer engineers a turning point via catalytic dialogue and shifting focus across the auditorium. The lone cry "That’s very smart!" halts the hissing; focus slews to the "cherub", then to Daguenet, then to "the young gentlemen", as the narrator pans through pit, stalls and boxes. This ensemble focalisation choreographs the audience like a chorus. The stack of exclamatives—"That’s it! Well done! Bravo!"—accelerates narrative pace and makes the enchantment contagious.

A further structural strategy is an incremental zoom on physical detail, paced by temporal markers, to create a crescendo. As Nana resumes, a chain of temporal cues—"in the meantime"..."then"..."thereupon"—gives a mounting rhythm. The focus narrows from her smile to "little red mouth", "great eyes", "rosy nostrils" and the "nape of her neck", while kinetic beats—she "kicked up her leg", "turned on her heel", "was going up the stage"—punctuate the action. This shift from sound to image peaks in "plaudits... frantic" before an anticlimax—"The close... not so exciting"—reveals enchantment bound to Nana alone.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain the clear structural shift from spectacle to ridicule to seduction: opening with the theatrical reveal "the clouds at the back of the stage were cloven apart and Venus appeared", then undercutting it with crowd reactions ("a more tuneless voice", "Oh, oh!") before a turning point sparked by "That’s very smart!" and "The gaiety of all redoubled itself". It would show enchantment rebuilt through repetition and escalation—the second verse ("Still the same acidulated voice") now delights as sensual detail prompts "the men raised their opera glasses" and "Applause burst forth"—but ending anticlimactically with the house "making for the doors", suggesting the spell is brief.

One way the writer has structured the text to create a sense of enchantment is through a dramatic in medias res opening and mythic framing. “At that very moment… Venus appeared” immediately centres spectacle. The marker “From the second verse onward” signals development. This is juxtaposed with deflating detail (“sang like a squirt”), a contrast that sustains interest as the mood swings from awe to mockery, back to fascination.

In addition, shifting focalisation between stage and audience builds a communal spell. The focus moves from the pit’s “whistling” to a single “cherub,” then out to “young gentlemen… applauded,” creating escalation. Exclamatives (“Bravo!”) quicken the pace like a call-and-response, while Nana’s repeated “laugh” and “smile” reinforce her allure. The narrative then zooms in on sensuous detail—“dimple,” “rosy nostrils,” “red-gold hair”—slowing the pace so the reader lingers.

A further structural choice is the climactic peak followed by anticlimax. After her heel-turn and the “frantic” plaudits, the narrator abruptly summarises the plot (“Vulcan wanted… The gods held a consultation”), a brisk shift in tone that drains the magic. The finale briefly reignites energy, but the closing focus on the audience “making for the doors” completes a rise-and-fall arc, showing enchantment as intense yet fleeting.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response typically identifies that the writer starts with a dramatic reveal (“the clouds… cloven apart and Venus appeared”) to create a magical feel, then shows the crowd shift from “cries of ‘Oh, oh!’” and “whistling” to “Bravo!” and “Applause burst forth”, so the mood turns to enchantment. It also notices simple focus and ending shifts—following Nana’s actions like “kicked up her leg” before the spell fades when “the whole house… making for the doors.”

One way the writer structures the text to create enchantment is the opening. At the beginning, the clouds are “cloven apart” and “Venus appeared,” with Nana “exceedingly tall.” This dramatic entrance and the focus on her walk to the footlights make a magical start that hooks the reader.

In addition, the focus shifts from the whole audience to one boy, “the cherub,” and back again. This shift, plus the interjection “That’s very smart!” and “Bravo!”, changes the mood from hissing to laughter. Nana’s smile and small details help the pace lift and the crowd feel enchanted.

A further feature is contrast at the end. After “applause burst forth,” the writer briefly summarises the rest of the act, calling it “not so exciting,” and ends with the curtain and people leaving. This ending shows the enchantment rises around Nana then fades, showing change across beginning, middle and end.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 response would spot that the text starts with a dramatic entrance (“clouds … were cloven apart”, “Venus appeared”) and then shows a simple shift in audience reaction from “Oh, oh!”/“whistling” to “Bravo!” and “Applause burst forth”, creating a basic sense of enchantment. It might also note the ending with the “finale” “chorus” before people are “making for the doors”, showing the spell briefly fades.

One way the writer structures enchantment is the opening. The clouds part and "Venus appeared", so the beginning focuses on Nana's entrance at the footlights. This sudden start feels magical.

In addition, the focus shifts to the audience. At first they hiss, then the "cherub" speaks and the tone changes. Verse by verse, with her laughter, the mood rises until "applause burst forth".

A further point is the ending: pace speeds up in a quick list, then anticlimax as the house leaves, so earlier enchantment stands out.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening spectacle: a sudden, mythic reveal focuses attention and primes wonder at once (Venus appeared)
• Reversal of expectation: the enchantment is undercut by criticism of her ability, heightening tension between image and reality (tuneless voice)
• Authorial aside as pivot: the rhetorical question reframes events with teasing uncertainty, sustaining curiosity (some jest, some wager)
• Audience interruption turns the tide: a single cry refracts crowd energy from hostility to amused interest (That’s very smart!)
• Perspective shift to the blushing onlooker softens the mood; communal amusement displaces aggression (the public laughed)
• Call-and-response dynamic: Nana mirrors the crowd’s mood, and the shared laughter amplifies the spell (redoubled itself)
• Repetition with variation: the second verse repeats form but now provokes a bodily response, signalling captivation (shiver of pleasure)
• Gradual zoom on sensuous details shifts focus from song to presence, deepening fascination (raised their opera glasses)
• Physical crescendo: when voice fails, bold movement carries the climax, with approval peaking in frenzy (plaudits became frantic)
• Anticlimax and dispersal: once the plot resumes, energy dips and the brief spell breaks as the audience leaves (making for the doors)

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, Nana's terrible performance could be seen as a surprising success. The writer suggests that her confidence and good looks are more powerful than any singing talent.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Nana and her performance
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray her surprising success
• 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: Perceptively evaluates the writer’s viewpoint by arguing that Nana’s brazen confidence and sexualized presence eclipse her lack of skill—contrasting not two farthings’ worth of talent and acidulated voice with her complicity (admitting with a wink), calculated display (kicked up her leg), and the male gaze (men raised their opera glasses) that swells into plaudits became frantic as she tickled the public in the right quarter. Balances this with nuanced judgment that the success is performative and fleeting, noting that the curtain once down the audience is making for the doors, implying allure, not artistry, drives a momentary triumph.

I largely agree that Nana’s terrible performance becomes a surprising success, and that the writer suggests her poise and beauty eclipse any vocal talent. Zola structures the scene to track a swift turn from derision to delight, and his ironic narration keeps foregrounding her lack of skill even as he shows how confidence and allure harness the crowd.

Initially, the house is hostile: “Cries of ‘Oh, oh!’” and whistling signal impending disaster. Yet a single, naïve outburst—“That’s very smart!”—from the “cherub” pivots the mood; the audience is “disarmed and no longer anxious to hiss.” This structural volte-face is catalysed not by musicianship but by the boy’s dazzled gaze—his “fine eyes” and “face glowing very hotly” at the sight of Nana—inviting complicity as the “young gentlemen in white gloves,” “fascinated… by Nana’s gracious contours,” applaud. Nana cannily meets the moment: “seeing the house laughing, [she] began to laugh herself,” an easy charisma that forges rapport. The narrator’s aside that she seemed to admit she had “not two farthings’ worth of talent” but “other good points” is deft narrative irony, explicitly weighing physical charm over skill. Even her breezy signal to the conductor—“Go ahead, old boy!”—telegraphs unflappable confidence.

Crucially, Zola’s language recodes vocal failure as sensual pleasure. Her “acidulated voice” remains sour, yet it now “tickled the public in the right quarter,” provoking a “little shiver of pleasure.” The semantic field of touch and sensation (“tickled,” “shiver”) reframes reception as bodily, not musical. Close-up description—her smile that “lit up her little red mouth,” the “bright flush” and “rosy nostrils”—intensifies the male gaze; tellingly, “the men raised their opera glasses.” When her “voice completely failed her,” dynamic verbs and adverbials show a choreographed substitution of spectacle for song: “rather than fret,” she “kicked up her leg,” her figure “roundly outlined” beneath a “diaphanous tunic,” then “turned on her heel… presenting the nape of her neck,” where red-gold hair lies “like some animal’s fell.” That simile and zoomorphism suggest a primal, erotic allure. The effect is instantaneous—“Applause burst forth… plaudits became frantic”—rewarding the display rather than the music.

However, Zola also satirises the ephemerality of such triumph. The “close of the act was not so exciting,” other scenes feel “winy-piny,” and although the finale is “more appreciated,” structurally the ending undercuts the success: “the clappers tried in vain to obtain a call,” while “the whole house” heads for the doors. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the text posits confidence and beauty as more potent than talent, producing a dazzling, crowd-pleasing, but ultimately shallow success.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that despite Nana having "not two farthings’ worth of talent" and her "voice completely failed her", her confident allure—she "kicked up her leg" under a "diaphanous tunic" so men "raised their opera glasses"—wins "plaudits became frantic". It would also comment on the writer’s humorous audience reactions (the "cherub", "molting cockerel") and briefly note limits to the success in the ending ("the clappers tried in vain to obtain a call").

I mostly agree that Nana’s terrible singing becomes a surprising success because her confidence and attractiveness outweigh any musical talent, though the ending suggests this success is brief and superficial.

At first the crowd is hostile, but the mood shifts when the “cherub” blurts “That’s very smart!” and “the public laughed, as though disarmed.” The writer uses contrast in audience reaction (from “cries” and “whistling” to “applauded”) to track how Nana wins them over. Nana’s own confidence drives this turn: she “began to laugh herself,” and the playful tone (“the gaiety of all redoubled”) shows she controls the room. The narrative comment that she seemed to admit she had “not two farthings’ worth of talent” but “other good points” explicitly supports the idea that charm and presence matter more than voice.

Crucially, the writer juxtaposes her poor singing with alluring description. Her voice remains the “same acidulated voice,” yet it “tickled the public,” a metaphor that focuses on effect rather than quality. Sensory and colour imagery foreground beauty: her “little red mouth,” “great eyes… clearest blue,” “rosy nostrils,” and “bright flush” build a semantic field of allure. Audience response (“the men raised their opera glasses”) underlines the male gaze. When “her voice completely failed her,” Nana replaces talent with physicality: she “kicked up her leg,” her “diaphanous tunic” outlines her figure, and the simile “red-gold hair showed like some animal’s fell” adds sensual, tactile imagery. Applause “became frantic,” suggesting it’s her confidence and body language that secure the success.

However, structurally, the final lines undercut any lasting triumph. After the chorus, “the clappers tried in vain to obtain a call,” while “the whole house was already… making for the doors.” This anticlimax implies her victory was momentary and based on spectacle, not artistry.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer shows Nana turning failure into short-lived success through poise, wit, and looks rather than singing talent.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Shows some understanding by agreeing that the writer presents Nana’s success as based more on confidence and looks than talent, noting she “had not two farthings’ worth of talent” yet “Applause burst forth” as men “raised their opera glasses” at the leg under her “diaphanous tunic.”
Makes basic comment on method by pointing to audience reaction and playful tone (she “still smiled her smile,” which “tickled the public in the right quarter,” and “the house laughing”) to support the idea of a surprising success.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, the writer shows Nana turning a poor performance into a kind of success. At first the mood is hostile: there are “Cries of ‘Oh, oh!’” and whistling, and even a voice “suggestive of a molting cockerel.” This creates a negative tone. But there is a clear shift when the “cherub” blurts “That’s very smart!” and “the public laughed, as though disarmed and no longer anxious to hiss.” This contrast in audience reaction suggests the success is surprising.

More importantly, the writer presents Nana’s confidence and beauty as her real power. She “began to laugh herself,” and the narrator adds that she seemed to admit she had “not two farthings’ worth of talent” but “other good points.” This direct comment guides us to evaluate her appeal. The physical imagery centres on her looks: a “little dimple,” “little red mouth,” “great eyes,” and a “bright flush.” The men even “raised their opera glasses,” and when “her voice completely failed her” she simply “kicked up her leg” under a “diaphanous tunic,” which triggers “applause… on all sides.” The hyperbole of “frantic” plaudits shows how charm and display outweigh singing.

However, the ending hints that this success is limited. Although the finale is “more appreciated,” “the clappers tried in vain to obtain a call,” and the audience head for the doors. Overall, I agree to a large extent: her confidence and looks win the moment, but the achievement feels shallow and short-lived.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Simply agrees that the writer presents Nana’s surprising success as based on confidence and looks rather than singing, pointing to audience reaction like 'Applause burst forth on all sides' and 'the plaudits became frantic'. Gives basic references to her appeal—'had not two farthings’ worth of talent', 'had other good points', 'the men raised their opera glasses', 'she kicked up her leg'—to support this.

I mostly agree that Nana’s terrible performance becomes a surprising success because her confidence and looks matter more than singing. At first the audience is negative, with “cries of ‘Oh, oh!’” and whistling, but when someone shouts “That’s very smart!” the crowd “laughed” and “applauded.” The writer shows this change through the people’s speech and action verbs.

Nana seems very confident. She “began to laugh herself” and is “familiar with her audience,” almost admitting she has “not two farthings’ worth of talent.” This simple description shows she isn’t worried. Her appearance is described with adjectives like “little red mouth,” “great eyes,” and a “dimple,” and the men “raised their opera glasses,” which makes her beauty important.

Her singing stays weak: the “acidulated voice” and it “completely failed her.” Instead, she uses movement and body language: she “kicked up her leg” under a “diaphanous tunic,” and her hair is “like some animal’s fell.” This imagery and simile link to the reaction: “applause burst forth” and “plaudits became frantic.”

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The ending shows people were “making for the doors,” so the success feels mostly about her charm and looks, not talent, which supports the statement.

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:

• Authorial aside/ironic tone → strongly agree: success is framed as despite talentlessness because she has “other good points” → (not two farthings’ worth of talent)
• Shift in audience mood → agree: her presence quickly disarms hostility and turns it into amusement and applause → (no longer anxious to hiss)
• Rapport/confidence with crowd → agree: effortless ease and complicity win favour more than any technical skill → (familiar with her audience)
• Mythic/flirtatious framing → agree: the Venus persona amplifies allure beyond musical ability → (’Tis Venus who)
• Contrast of weak vocal with sensual effect → agree: even with a harsh tone she produces pleasurable responses → (shiver of pleasure)
• Male gaze/objectification → agree: admiration focuses on appearance rather than artistry → (raised their opera glasses)
• Explicit vocal failure → agree: the text underlines absence of talent even as the crowd stays on her side → (voice completely failed her)
• Tactical physical display → agree: provocative movement substitutes for singing and secures ovation → (Applause burst forth)
• Animalistic beauty imagery → agree: primal allure intensifies the audience’s frenzy, eclipsing technique → (like some animal’s fell)
• Limitation/nuance → partly disagree: the success feels fickle and momentary as the audience departs instead of calling her back → (making for the doors)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

As part of Sports Week, your school's PE department is running a creative writing challenge and will share the best entries at assembly.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a 1940s football match from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about rivalry turning into respect.

(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 sky, a slab of obstinate pewter, presses low over the ground, and every breath rises like a ghost. Under the corrugated iron roof, the crowd stamps and shivers; the whole stand answers with a corrugated drumbeat. Bovril fumes bloom from enamel mugs, sugar scarce but warmth abundant. Flat caps tilt; scarves—utility wool, darned and precious—are looped twice round necks. Rattles chatter in pockets like mechanical crickets. A policeman, collar up against the drizzle, pretends sternness and fails.

Across the touchline, the pitch is a quilt of wounds. Chalk lines have bled into milky streams; the centre circle is a cratered pond. Nets hang patched with knitting and hope. The ball is a dark, slick planet with a seam like a healed scar; the laces promise pain. Players' shirts cling—heavy cotton, woollen numbers stitched on with haste—and their boots are hulking, studded, more like tools than shoes. A goalkeeper in a cap shades his eyes with a gloved hand; his sleeves are rolled, his knees already browned and baptised.

The whistle splits the air—thin, tinny, inexorable—and the game jolts into motion. A full-back scythes through puddles; mud erupts in fans that spatter socks and shins. The leather thud of boot on ball is satisfyingly blunt. "Get it up!" someone bellows, and obediently the ball climbs, hangs, plummets. Children, perched on their fathers' shoulders, squeal at the spray. Somewhere a rattle erupts; somewhere else a harmonica wheezes a bar and then surrenders.

Concurrently, at the wings, a slip of a winger feints and slides, his legs a metronome; the turf clings to him as if jealous. He cuts inside; the ball, fat with rain, sulks, then obeys. A centre-forward shoulders past a defender—old injuries in the way he moves, a seam of stiffness—and he rises into the grey, eyes shut against the watery sting. The header is brave and foolish; the contact sounds like a dull book slammed shut. The keeper’s cap tilts as he flings himself, fingertips skimming leather, absurdly elegant mid-mire; the save is parried into a scramble.

And the scramble is a choreography of studs and grunts: calves churn; a boot slices air; a knee grazes chalk; the ball pinballs between ankles. The crowd roars—almost leonine, almost operatic—then holds its breath in a communal inhale that thins the world. For a heartbeat, all sound is the tap, tap, tap of drips from the crossbar.

Beyond the barrier, a woman in a headscarf ladles tea from an army-issue urn; steam lifts like a prayer. A man with a ribboned medal pinned beneath his coat watches with an intensity that might be habit. He has looked up at tracer; now he looks at raindrops, and there is relief in the substitution. On the far terrace, two sailors laugh at a miskick; a boy in short trousers copies their laughter faithfully.

By the second half the light has leaked away. The pitch is treacle; legs churn slower; the whistle acquires authority. Yet grit accumulates. A move is built piece by stitched piece: a tackle won cleanly; a pass threaded—not pretty, but pertinent; a lay-off cushioned with the instep; then, sudden, a low cross shaved along the face of goal. The centre-forward lunges. The net, as patched as a grandmother’s cardigan, bows and quivers.

Explosion. Rattles everywhere. Hats bolt into the air. The policeman claps once, twice; the harmonica returns for a jubilant trill. For a fraction, even the sky feels less obdurate—its grey is nearer to pearl.

At the final whistle the noise folds back into coats and cups. Mud peels from boots in reluctant sheets. Players shake hands, their palms gritty, their eyes alight in a way that refuses the weather. The pitch will scar, then mend. The boots will be dried by the fire; studs tightened; laces threaded through again. And the memory, like mud, will refuse to let go—streaked on hems, under nails, in the cold of the next morning—proof that on a battered field, in a battered decade, something bright kept moving forwards.

Option B:

Winter. The gym smelled of polish and nerves; the piste ran silver through the centre like a narrow river someone had drawn with a ruler and a shaking hand. Fluorescent lights hummed in their brackets—impatient, conspiratorial—while the scoring box blinked awake: red, green, red, a tiny heartbeat rehearsing. Around us, bags sighed open and closed, masks clicked like small doors; steel whispered against steel, a quiet, steady susurrus that threaded the room. The air tasted of metal and menthol. A start, I thought; a reckoning. The strip was a corridor leading to one of two endings, and I had rehearsed both in my head.

Cass Hale rolled his shoulders as though they were joints in a well-oiled machine. My shadow and spur for two seasons, he was taller by an irritating inch, all spring and swing, his lunge elastic enough to steal breath. We had traded points, glances, barbs. In the locker room, our remarks echoed off tile and bench, preserved in that acoustic as fossils of pettiness; online, we liked to pretend civility with very polite full stops. Yet even as I tightened my glove, there was an unwilling attention in me—a cataloguing of his rituals—because rivalry, for all its heat, makes students of us.

“En garde.” The referee’s voice was a metronome; the world narrowed inside the black rim of my mask. Knees soft, back heel down, blade lifted: familiar shapes my body drew before my mind could finish the command. “Allez.” The syllables cracked like flint. We moved—not rushing, not quite—small, precise steps that stitched the distance smaller. He showed me a feint to sixte; I didn’t bite. I showed him tempo; he refused. Our blades spoke in sparks and taps; my parry was a fraction late, his riposte a thread of silver that landed clean: red shimmered on the box. 1–0. We both reset. Again. 2–2. 3–3. Breath thundered in the cathedral of my mask; the mouthguard tasted of rubber and old effort.

On the next phrase my weapon went dull in my hand—no sound, no light—and panic surged, feral and fast. A malfunction, now, at 3–3, was treachery. I could have carried on, pretended ignorance until it helped me, but he had the initiative; he could have exploited it. He didn’t. “Halte,” Cass called, before the referee had seen. He lifted his mask; his face, pink with effort, was open. “Body cord,” he said, and when mine refused to behave, he tugged his spare from his bag without theatrics. “Here—take it.” Absurdly, kindly. We both knew we were mid-duel.

We started again. The pace sharpened. He surprised me with a beat to the blade and a fleche at the edge of my comfort; I answered with counter-parry, toe barely scuffing the metallic earth. 4–4. One light left for each of us. In that pause, we looked at one another through wired visors: not enemy, not friend; something truer. “Allez.” We launched. He won—just—by the width of an idea. Green flared on his side, and my shoulders dropped with the relief of having fought honestly.

We touched blades—flat, courteous—then shook hands, properly this time. “Good phrase,” he said, and meant it. I heard the hum of the lights again, the whisper of steel restarting around us, and felt the old bite of rivalry dilute into something clear. I had come to beat him; I left measuring myself against him. In the narrow river of the piste, respect had found its current.

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

Option A:

The sky is the colour of old pewter, a lid pressed low over the terraces, and the pitch below is already a quilt of churned earth. Wooden goalposts stand like bleached ribs; the nets, mended with string, hang slack. A cracked tannoy burbles—names, numbers—and sighs into static. Turnstiles clack; thin programmes, printed on whispering paper, go soft in damp hands. Pipe smoke and Bovril steam rise in small fogs. Flat caps, headscarves, army greatcoats; enamel mugs nudged together; a child hoisted for a better look. On the far wall: Dig for Victory. Make Do and Mend.

They come out to a shy murmur that gathers into applause. Heavy shirts darken with the first kiss of drizzle; sleeves are shovelled to the elbow; numbers sit slightly askew. Boots with nailed soles bite at the sod; laces knot like scars across the scuffed leather. The referee in funereal black checks his watch, pinches the pea whistle, and with one sharp shriek sets everything loose. Studs clatter; a tackle scythes through mud; the ball skids and seems bloody-minded. Breath blooms in the cold, cheeks raw. The linesman’s flag shivers like a reluctant flame. Play on; play on.

A winger hugs the chalked touchline, hair slicked, shirt clinging; he feints once, twice, then goes. The full back’s slide is a small brown landslide that misses by a boot’s width. A pass—careful, cunning—splices the middle, and for a heartbeat the ground inhales. The goalkeeper, cap tugged low, is suddenly vast; two crabbed steps and he launches, arms telescoping. The leather thuds his palms, obedient, and he smothers it to his chest. The sound that comes back is peculiar and perfect: a cheer that is also a thank you. A soldier on leave grins into his scarf.

Half-time is brief and homely; Bovril grows richer, and orange segments—bright contraband—flare in cold hands. A man with a bucket and sponge (no science, just grit) trots out; a bandage is rewound; the whistle bites again. The second half is more relentless: long punts arc into the pewter air; grey on grey, yet the pitch keeps inventing colour—bottle-green clods, red clay streaks, white shirts turned honest brown. Back and forth, back and forth. In the goalmouth a melee looks almost farcical—arms, legs, a ball that could be anywhere—until it appears, tame as a cat, in the net’s corner. For a breath no one believes it; then heat roars through the cold, the terrace finds its voice, and, after a slightly late whistle, they go home together.

Option B:

Silence in the recital hall had weight; it pressed gently on my ribs as if to remind me to breathe. Behind the curtain, I rubbed warmth into my fingers; polish and dust and the thin sting of disinfectant made the air feel metallic at the back of my throat. From the practice room next door, a line of scales unspooled with infuriating poise, each note placed with surgeon-like precision. Felix. Even his warm-ups sounded like verdicts.

We had orbited each other for years: grade exams, festival finals, assemblies where certificates were handed out like brittle applause. In conversations, our names arrived as a pair, braided together by gossip and comparison; on posters, our surnames sat side by side, two hard consonants refusing to blend. My teacher said his name like a warning; my friends fed it to me as fuel. I told myself I didn’t care about him—only about the music—but the truth was simpler and sharper. He made me tighten my jaw, sharpen my practice, and measure myself against something I could not quite touch.

Backstage, the carpet swallowed our footsteps. He stepped out of the practice room and almost walked into me. Up close, he looked less like a legend and more like a boy who hadn’t slept: pale under the lights, a curl escaping its discipline, a strip of tape looped around his third finger. He dropped a page; reflex beat rivalry and we both reached down. Our knuckles knocked. An awkward spark.

“Thanks,” he said. Not smugness; not triumph. Just a voice, grainy with concentration.

“Rachmaninov?” I asked, nodding at his score.

“Second movement,” he replied. His eyes flicked, not to see if I flinched, but because the stage manager was gesturing. The tape on his finger glinted. Hours of work live in such small details; the secret grammar of a craft is written on skin and tendon.

He went on before me. From the wings, I let myself listen. The first chord did not blaze; it settled, like a hand easing a heartbeat. His left hand was a tide; his right traced light. There were mistakes—tiny slips you’d miss if you weren’t waiting for them—but something about the way he recovered made the hall lean forward. What I had taken for arrogance was something else: focus, fierce and private, the same currency I spent every night. Something in me, stubborn and tight as a clenched fist, began to loosen.

When my name was called, the stage lights bleached the edges of the world. I crossed the floor—varnish gleaming, coughs stitched into the hush—and sat. The keys were cooler than I expected. His last chord lingered in the air like a vapour you could almost taste. For once, I didn’t imagine conquering him. I imagined answering him. What if rivalry, sharpened on scoresheets and whispers, had only been the rehearsal for something sturdier?

I curved my hands into their familiar arc. Not enemies, I thought—apprentices of the same difficult language. I breathed, and began.

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

Option A:

The sky hangs low, a grey woollen blanket over the town, and the first whistle slices the damp air. Mud takes the first touch; it grabs at boots and makes every stride a negotiation. The chalk lines blur into brown; the goalmouth is a shallow trench. The ball—heavy, rain-fed, laced like a boot—thuds off a thigh and skids away. For a second, everyone edges, then someone commits: a straight back, a grim jaw, a clump of studs. Breath smokes. Voices bark. Play begins in earnest.

Shirts cling to hard shoulders; sleeves are rolled to elbows. The right-half digs a pass out of the mire, a neat, square thing that looks simple; it isn't. The leather resists, the pitch sucks, but the movement builds—left, inside, back again—until a winger, slick with rain, lifts his head. He arcs a cross that hangs like a wet gull and the centre-forward piles in. Forehead to lace, pain sparks; the ball dies before the keeper, who smothers, elbows deep in sludge. A murmur rolls; no complaint.

Beyond the touchline, the crowd is a patient, steaming animal. Flat caps jut; scarves coil; cigarette smoke threads with the smell of Bovril and wet wool. Men on leave stand with sweethearts, and boys rattle wooden rattles that make a thin, cheerful clack. A brass band essays a chorus before giving up to the weather. Meanwhile, a linesman trots with a stiff little flag; a trainer in a thick coat keeps a towel like a talisman. Coins change hands; someone mentions coupons. They shiver, but they watch.

Time drags and quickens by turns. There is a tackle that sounds like furniture tipping; there is a break that opens like a door. Then, at last, a clean thing: a low pass along the slick line, a toe‑poke past a sliding boot, and the forward is free. The keeper rushes; the world narrows. He rolls it, almost humble, into the bottom corner. The rope net bows; the stands erupt. For a beat, the grey lifts. The whistle comes, shriller now. Hands are shaken, sleeves spattered. The wooden posts drip steadily as people button coats and carry the small good news into the thin afternoon.

Option B:

Autumn. The season of thin light; the stadium sat under a sky the colour of tin, and the chalked lines glowed like fresh scars across the track. My breath lifted in pale threads; the tart smell of rubber rose as I pressed my spikes into the lane, testing the give. The starter’s stand looked skeletal, waiting. So was I, shoulders tight, jaw set, trying to fold all the noise in my head into one steady line.

Then he arrived—Ethan Hale—precise as ever, zipping his warm-up jacket with that small, fixed smile. He was the name that lived on the noticeboard above mine, the finish line just half a stride further. Last season he edged me three times; once by a shoe, once by a breath, once because I stumbled and he did not. People called it a rivalry. It felt personal. We had traded looks that winter could not thaw, and words, clipped and civil, frost underneath. Now, as he ran drills, there was that efficient elegance I resented. It made me feel cluttered.

However, the wind tugged, unpredictable, and the starting blocks refused to sit straight. I knelt, adjusted them, adjusted again. Ethan glanced over. ‘Here,’ he said, not loud, passing me his spare wrench. ‘Yours is too blunt.’ Was it generosity or just habit? His voice was ordinary, not triumphant, and his eyes were not a dare; just focused. I took it—reluctantly, gratefully—and the blocks settled with a satisfying click. He looked at the lane ahead, not at me, and nodded once, as if at the race itself. Something eased, almost imperceptible.

The pistol would come soon; the crowd had begun their low murmuring, a tide that rose, fell, and rose. I rolled my shoulders. He bounced on his toes. We moved to our marks, two outlines at the same edge. The rivalry was still there, sharp as the bite of air on my cheeks; but beside it, another shape developed—respect, spare and new, like the first star before evening takes. If I beat him, it would not be because he failed me. If he beat me, I would understand why.

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

Option A:

The sky was the colour of old tin, low and heavy over the ground. Rain stitched pale lines and tapped the corrugated roof, a drumming that would not stop. The pitch had given up pretending to be green; it was a churned quilt of mud with shallow pools holding a dull shine. Steam lifted from damp coats; wet wool and tobacco drifted along the packed touchline. Boots stamped; a whistle fluted, thin and important.

The men wore thick, plain shirts, numbers hand-stitched and already smeared. Mud clung to their shins like rough armour. They chased the blunt leather; it skidded, it spat, it sank. When a pass was swung, the ball thudded like a fist on a door. Breath fogged. A shout went up—sharp, brief—and they surged together. The goalkeeper, cap pulled low, stared through the drizzle, gloves swollen, boots planted, stubborn as a gate-post.

Along the rail, men in flat caps leaned forward, faces pale slices under the grey. Women in scarves pressed children to the front, small fingers hooked through the wire. A rattle clacked and clacked; a whistle pierced; someone laughed, then coughed. Hot pie steam rose, sweet and metallic, mixing with the coal-smell from a nearby yard. The crowd swayed like one creature, rough-voiced and loyal. They wanted a simple thing: effort, grit, a scrap of cheer.

A wingman broke free down the touchline, knees lifting, water flying in small sprays. He glanced up—once—and sent the ball up and over, a brown arc against the pewter sky. The centre forward waited an instant too long, or exactly right; he threw himself at it, eyes shut. The header glanced, skidding off a cap of mud. The net jerked. For a second nobody breathed; then sound crashed in. The referee’s whistle cut through; the game was not over, but in the grey and wet it felt, briefly, like more than a match.

Option B:

Morning. The kind that slices, clean and pale, over the school track. Frost braided the fence and the air tasted of metal; the rubber lanes carried a ghost of summer heat. Coach’s whistle split the quiet, and I rolled my shoulders, fiddled with my spikes, tried to look like I wasn’t watching him.

Jae Patel jogged past with that easy, arrogant bounce; he didn’t look at me—he never did. We had been side by side since Year 9: same event, same times, the same tight smile when one of us edged the other. In my head he was a shadow on my shoulder, an echo at my heels. Today would be different. Today I would stop chasing.

We crouched into the blocks. Fingers cold against the painted line, breath steady-then-not. Set. The world shrank to lane four and the drum in my chest. The gun cracked; I drove hard, knees high, arms cutting. He floated. We were level into the bend, our footfalls a staccato pattern, bite-bite-bite.

I drifted a fraction—careless—and brushed his elbow. His jaw tightened; mine did too. For a heartbeat everything could have gone wrong. He could have held his line and let me pay for it. Instead his arm opened just enough, a slice of space offered without words. It was small, nothing, but it rocked me. Heat rose up my neck—anger, shame, gratitude tangled—and I ran straighter.

We hit the straight and the world roared back: the fence, the voices, the winter sun. He leaned first, a breath ahead. I folded over my knees, lungs scraped raw, and his hand appeared in front of me. “Good run,” he said, not smug, not soft, just true. I took it. “You too.” The word respect didn’t feel heavy anymore; it felt earned, and it surprised me.

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

Option A:

The sky droops over the ground, a low grey blanket. The air tastes of smoke and Bovril. Boots stamp; mud answers, striping socks. The pitch is a patchwork of churned earth and shy grass. A thin whistle slices the chatter. Men in long shorts jog to the centre. Their shirts are thick woollen: stripes dulled by rain. The leather ball waits, darker where the laces grin.

Kick-off, and it begins. Back and forth, back and forth, the play skids. The ball thuds like a brick on toe-caps; breath blows in white steam. “Man on!” a half back bawls. A tackle scythes, both players down, then up again, stubborn, mud-masked. The goalkeeper in his heavy jersey pats his palms; he leaps, catching a shot to his chest—oof—holding it like a loaf. The defence are tight, boots carving wet arcs.

Beyond the touchline, the crowd is packed and patient. Flat caps nod. Wooden rattles chatter; cigarettes glow like small coals. A soldier on leave lifts a boy to see, the boy’s scarf wound twice round his thin neck. A woman cups a tin mug and blows. “Come on lad!” someone shouts. Meanwhile the vendor shuffles by with programmes, paper soft with drizzle, coins clinking.

At last the whistle blows again. The cheer rises, then thins into the grey. Players shake hands, mud on palms. They tramp off together, boots heavy, the pale sun a shy coin behind cloud, watching.

Option B:

Rain stitched crooked lines across the track. Beside me, Kai rolled his shoulders. His spikes were neon and neat. He always looked calm, like the storm was inside him and he had made friends with it. I had chased him for a year: dawn runs, extra laps, timing my breath to beat his shadow. We were flint and steel in every heat; sparks, noise, the sharp smell of burnt effort.

The starter raised his arm. Set— the stadium fell quiet, even the rain held its breath. Bang. Blocks bit. My legs punched forward, heart like a drum. Kai slid ahead by a step, smooth, efficient. I hated it, or thought I did. Then the bend, the bit that swallows weak ankles. My foot skated on a slick patch, my stride jerked, panic flared. Over the crowd he said—just one word, sharp as chalk on a board—“Relax.” Stupid to listen, but I did: jaw loose, arms tidy, knees up. The track straightened and so did I.

We hit the line almost together; his chest broke the tape first, mine a breath after. I bent double, tasting metal. Kai held out a bottle like a handshake. “Nice run,” he said, not loud, not mean. I wanted to spit back, to make it a joke, but the word stuck. Thanks. He nodded. For the first time, I noticed the tight wrap on his ankle; the cost behind his clean stride. Rivals, yes. But something shifted, small as a click, real as rain.

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

Option A:

A grey sky presses down on the little ground like a damp blanket. The pitch is churned and brown; boots bite into the mud; the earth answers with a sucking sound. A heavy leather ball sits in the centre, its laces dark with water. The crowd in flat caps stamp their feet, steam rising like breath from horses. The air tastes of coal smoke and wet wool. The whistle squeals; we lean forward.

Then they kick off. The ball splats; it skids and jumps. Backwards and forwards it moves between boot and knee. Shouts slice the afternoon. Man on! someone yells. The right winger tears down the line – mud flicking like sparks – then he slips, arms windmilling. The keeper wears a cap; it's tugged low over his eyes. He steps out, grabbing the ball to his chest like a rationed loaf, and the crowd breathe out together.

Finally, there is space. A pass, a stumble: the ball rolls over the line. For a second everything stops; everyone hold their breath, then the cheer comes, warm. The whistle is sharp, final. Hands shake, sleeves muddy. We drift to trams and bikes. The grey sky lifts a little.

Option B:

Monday. The sports hall smelt of polish and old sweat. Light slid across the glossy floor, stripy lines painted in red and blue. Trainers squeaked; the whistle bit the air.

I tightened my laces and stared at the paper on the wall with my name. Next to it, in bold pen, was his: Malik. We had raced since Year 7 and every sports day it was the same—me and him, neck and neck, people shouting our names like a storm. He took the 400 last year by half a shoe; I said it was the wind. Now Coach called, 'Relay practice.' Of course he put us together. I groaned under my breath. Why did it have to be him?

We lined up; the tape on the floor was a thin, serious line. 'Hand back, eyes forward,' Coach said. My heart was a drum. The baton clattered to the floor, a loud insult. 'Too early,' he snapped. 'Too slow,' I fired back. We tried again. 'Count three steps, then reach,' Malik said, softer, not like a rival. I did, and the baton settled into my palm, warm and certain. 'Nice,' he said, and I nodded.

Maybe I had been racing the wrong thing.

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

Option A:

The sky is grey and low. Wind bites faces. The pitch is mud and puddles, heavy. The leather ball looks wet and hard. The whistle blows and the game starts and the crowd shouts.

Boots thud, thud, thud, splashes go up. Men in thick wool shirts push and slide. The keeper wears a cap, he waves his gloves and yells come on lads. Some men by the wire wear army coats, they clap.

The crowd is a sea of flat caps and wet hair. Steam comes like little trains. Tea in tin cups, hot; cigarette smoke sits low like a cloud.

A winger runs down the touchline, the ball sticks then jumps. He crosses, a high slow cross, it hangs. A head meets it, bang.

Goal.

The net shakes and mud goes up and down, up and down. Rain starts; the grey sky dont care. The match goes on.

Option B:

Rain sat on the track and the sky was heavy. The whistle looked small in sir's hand. Me and Jay stood on the line. We always was first and second, never friends. He stared at me like I took his air. I wanted to beat him again.

The whistle went and we ran. My feet slapped the ground, breath hot and fast. Jay was next to me, shoulder to shoulder, like two buses. People shouted and it was loud.

He hit a wet patch and his foot slid, he went down. Mud on his knee. I passed him and then I looked back, it was just a second, I stopped.

Are you okay, I said. My voice sounded strange to me.

He looked up and his eyes changed. Not angry now, just tired. He took my hand, it felt heavy but real, like a deal. We walked off the track together.

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

Option A:

The sky is grey and low over the ground. Its cold. Mud is thick, boots sink, shirts stick and faces are brown with dirt. The leather ball is dark and hard and it thuds like a stone when it hits. Men run and slip and shout, they push and tug and the whistle goes sharp. On the side people stand in coats and caps, they clap with red hands, some smoke, a soldier in a big coat stands quiet. You hear shouts and I smell smoke. Back and forth, back and forth. The keeper dives in a puddle, a boot kicks, it goes in and the crowd roar.

Option B:

We was at the start line, the sun in my eyes, Jay looked at me and I looked at him. Everyone went quiet and I remembered the corridor yesterday. I hate him, he hates me, that is just how it is. The whistle screamed and we ran. My legs felt heavy, my heart banged like drums. He was in front, I tripped and my knee burned. I got up slow and he slowed too, he turned his head. I thought he would laugh. He reached out his hand. I took it and we ran together, and it felt weird, like respect.