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 From where does the speaker look?: Over the shoulder – 1 mark
• 1.2 What does the speaker prefer to do?: keep them on – 1 mark
• 1.3 What colour are the spectacles?: blue – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which feature is mentioned with the spectacles?: sidelights – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 11 to 30 of the source:

11 He made no answer, and had turned his face away from her again, and Mrs. Hall, feeling that her conversational advances were ill-timed, laid the rest of the table things in a quick staccato and whisked out

16 of the room. When she returned he was still standing there, like a man of stone, his back hunched, his collar turned up, his dripping hat-brim turned down, hiding his face and

21 ears completely. She put down the eggs and bacon with considerable emphasis, and called rather than said to him, “Your lunch is served, sir.”

26 “Thank you,” he said at the same time, and did not stir until she was closing the door. Then he swung round and approached the table with a certain eager quickness. As she went behind the bar to the kitchen she heard a sound

How does the writer use language here to show the awkward mood between Mrs Hall and her guest? You could include the writer's choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how the simile 'like a man of stone' and concealment imagery 'collar turned up', 'dripping hat-brim turned down, hiding his face and ears completely' signify emotional withdrawal, while dynamic, staccato choices—'a quick staccato', 'whisked out', 'with considerable emphasis'—and the contrast 'called rather than said' reveal Mrs Hall’s strained formality. It would also evaluate how sentence forms shape the awkwardness: long, multi-clausal build-up to clipped speech ('“Thank you”'), the avoidance in 'did not stir until she was closing the door', and the belated shift to 'a certain eager quickness'.

The writer uses musical metaphor and clipped verbs to encode Mrs Hall’s discomfort. "Quick staccato" makes her movements percussive, a series of short, jerky actions that betray anxiety; the modifier "quick" intensifies this. She then "whisked out of the room": the swift domestic verb implies a deliberate retreat from an exchange that has misfired. That misfire is explicit in "her conversational advances were ill-timed," an evaluative metaphor of approach, while the blunt declarative "He made no answer" establishes a stubborn silence.

Furthermore, the guest’s description builds a semantic field of concealment that heightens the awkwardness. The simile "like a man of stone" petrifies him into unresponsiveness. In the parallel triad "back hunched, … collar turned up, … hat-brim turned down," repeated participles create cumulative closure; everything folds inward. The purposeful "hiding," reinforced by the intensifier "completely," signals total withdrawal: even his "ears"—organs of listening—are occluded.

Additionally, dialogue and sentence form dramatise strained civility. She sets down "eggs and bacon with considerable emphasis," a passive-aggressive flourish echoed in the corrected reporting "called rather than said," as if volume can plaster over tension. The formality of "sir" keeps distance. His "Thank you … at the same time" subverts natural turn-taking, and the polysyndetic "and … and … and" slows the prose into a hesitant shuffle. He "did not stir until she was closing the door," timing movement to her exit; only then does he move with "eager quickness," relieving the constraint. The uncertain "she heard a sound" leaves the moment hanging, sustaining the unease.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 answer would identify the simile "like a man of stone" and restrained verb choices "He made no answer"/"did not stir" to show rigid silence, note how Mrs Hall’s "quick staccato" and "called rather than said" with him "hiding his face" create tension, and comment that the clipped dialogue "Thank you" and his "eager quickness" once she is leaving, alongside extended multi-clause sentences, emphasise awkwardness and relief.

The writer uses verbs and sound imagery to present the awkward mood. The phrase “made no answer” shows silence, while “turned his face away” signals avoidance. The musical metaphor “in a quick staccato” suggests choppy, clipped movements, mirroring broken conversation, and “whisked out” implies she escapes the tension. The repeated “and” creates a dragging rhythm (polysyndeton), emphasising the strained pause between them.

Furthermore, the simile “like a man of stone” portrays the guest as rigid and unresponsive. The list “his back hunched, his collar turned up, his dripping hat-brim turned down” uses parallel structure to build an image of a closed, defensive posture. The present participle “hiding his face and ears completely” shows deliberate concealment, shutting Mrs Hall out and deepening the awkwardness.

Additionally, the dialogue underlines social discomfort. She “called rather than said”, a comparative phrase suggesting forced formality, and his “Thank you” comes “at the same time”, overlapping her words. This mistimed exchange, followed by “did not stir until she was closing the door”, then the contrast with “a certain eager quickness” only once she leaves, shows he relaxes only in her absence. Finally, the vague noun phrase “a sound” keeps things uncertain, sustaining the uneasy, awkward tone.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The simile "like a man of stone", plus phrases like "no answer" and "hiding his face", show the guest is closed off and silent, creating an awkward mood. Mrs Hall’s "quick staccato" and "considerable emphasis", and the choice "called rather than said", suggest tension and distance, while the long, joined sentences slow the moment down to make it feel uncomfortable.

The writer uses negative responses and verb choices to show awkwardness. The short, blunt clause “He made no answer” and “turned his face away” suggest he is avoiding Mrs Hall, which makes the mood uncomfortable for the reader. Moreover, the simile “like a man of stone” shows he is stiff and unresponsive, while “hiding his face and ears completely” makes the encounter feel closed off. Additionally, Mrs Hall’s actions are described “in a quick staccato” and she “whisked out” of the room. These verbs imply she is nervous and wants to get away. Furthermore, she puts the food down “with considerable emphasis” and “called rather than said” to him, which sounds forced and formal. Finally, he “did not stir until she was closing the door,” showing distance between them. Overall, the language highlights an awkward mood.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might spot simple techniques: the simile “like a man of stone” and the phrase “He made no answer” show he is silent and stiff, making the mood awkward. It might also pick out verbs/phrases like “whisked out”, “did not stir”, and “called rather than said” to suggest tension between Mrs Hall and her guest.

The writer uses a simile, “like a man of stone,” to show the guest is stiff and unresponsive, making the mood awkward. The phrase “He made no answer” and “turned his face away” show silence and avoidance. Furthermore, the verb “whisked” and the words “quick staccato” suggest Mrs Hall is nervous and wants to get out. Additionally, “hiding his face” and “collar turned up” show distance. Moreover, “called rather than said” and “considerable emphasis” feel forced. Finally, “did not stir until she was closing the door” shows he waits to avoid her, showing the awkward mood between them.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Silence shuts down the exchange, immediately creating social tension (no answer)
• Averted body language signals avoidance and emotional distance (turned his face away)
• Simile presents rigid unresponsiveness that feels hostile and uncomfortable (like a man of stone)
• Concealment imagery (hunched back, raised collar, lowered brim) shows deliberate withdrawal (hiding his face and ears completely)
• Aural description makes her movements clipped and nervous, mirroring the mood (quick staccato)
• Forceful, formal delivery sounds strained and distant (emphatic serving; called rather than said)
• Overlapping timing of polite phrases suggests miscommunication and social clumsiness (at the same time)
• Stillness in his body language sustains the unease while she remains present (did not stir)
• Pace shift once she is leaving reveals relief, implying her presence was uncomfortable (eager quickness)
• Vague, unnamed noise keeps the tension unresolved and secretive (heard a sound)

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 ambiguity?

You could write about:

• how ambiguity 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 ambiguity is built through incremental concealment and delayed revelation: the narration accumulates obstructions—big blue spectacles, bush side-whisker, collar turned up—then interrupts our view with offstage sound (Chirk, chirk, chirk) and a fleeting white object disappearing, before a paced close-up on inscrutable blue glasses and bandages that withhold identity. It would also analyse limited focalisation through Mrs. Hall and shifts from bustling routine to stunned stasis (rigid) and the repeated imperative Leave the hat, explaining how sequencing and repetition sustain uncertainty and tension.

One way the writer structures ambiguity is by opening in medias res and withholding exposition. The first line — “I prefer to keep them on” — arrives without context, so even the referent of “them” is unclear. The narrative then drip-feeds visual fragments — “blue spectacles” and a “bush side-whisker … completely hid his cheeks and face” — while he stands “like a man of stone.” This delay and suspended movement slow the pace, foreground concealment, and make the reader question who he is and why he hides.

In addition, the sustained focalisation through Mrs Hall and an oscillating focus between parlour and kitchen intensify uncertainty. As she exits, a diegetic sound motif intrudes: “Chirk, chirk, chirk,” a spoon whisking. Structurally, this auditory bridge misdirects; she blames Millie and “finished mixing the mustard” herself, so the sound’s origin remains equivocal. When she re-enters, even the narrator hedges — “It would seem he was picking something from the floor” — signalling limited knowledge. This alternation and hedging keep the reader guessing, elongating the moment of clarity.

A further structural feature is incremental revelation that paradoxically deepens ambiguity. The focus tightens from silhouette to coverings — “a white bandage,” a serviette, “inscrutable blue glasses” — leaving only a “pink, peaked nose.” The repeated imperative “Leave the hat” reasserts concealment, while temporal connectives (“When she returned,” “Then,” “As she did so”) choreograph a controlled drip-feed of information, and sustaining uncertainty about identity and motive.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain that ambiguity is built through gradual, partial revelation across Mrs Hall’s repeated exits and returns: from the stranger “like a man of stone” and the misdirecting sound “Chirk, chirk, chirk,” to a fleeting “a white object disappearing,” and finally to close-up details like “white bandage” and “inscrutable blue glasses” that still conceal him. It would also note structural control and repetition—such as the imperative “Leave the hat” and persistent barriers (serviette, collar)—which limit our view alongside Mrs Hall’s so information accumulates without answers, deepening the uncertainty.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of ambiguity is through delayed revelation at the opening. We begin in medias res from Mrs Hall’s viewpoint, but the focus stays on external props (blue spectacles with sidelights, a bush side-whisker, a hunched back) rather than identity. By withholding his face and even his name, the writer steers us to question who he is and why he hides.

In addition, sequencing and pace heighten uncertainty. The action cuts away to Mrs Hall’s routine ('whisked out', mixing mustard), while offstage sounds ('Chirk, chirk, chirk') intrude, shifting the mood from homely to uneasy. This shift in focus and delay keep his activity ambiguous. On re-entry we get a fleeting glimpse of 'a white object' and him 'picking something', which sustains mystery.

A further structural choice is the partial reveal near the end. The writer zooms in (the serviette masking the mouth, bandages over forehead and ears, 'inscrutable blue glasses') but this incremental disclosure paradoxically deepens ambiguity because 'not a scrap of his face' is shown. The repetition of the imperative 'Leave the hat' and the final glance 'to the door' leave motive and identity unresolved.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer focuses on the stranger’s concealed appearance — big blue spectacles, back hunched, like a man of stone — to withhold his identity and create ambiguity. This deepens as the scene slowly reveals odd details (white object, muffled voice, white bandage, inscrutable blue glasses) and ends with commands like "Leave the hat" and him glancing from her to the door, which keeps the reader unsure and curious.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create ambiguity is by withholding identity at the beginning. It starts with ‘He’ and no name, and the focus is on coverings: blue spectacles and a turned-up collar. This hides his face and makes the reader unsure who he is.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts to Mrs Hall and the mustard. The sound ‘chirk, chirk’ and the task interrupt the scene and slow the pace. When she returns, we only get a brief ‘glimpse of a white object,’ so the reveal is delayed, deepening the mystery.

A further structural feature is the gradual reveal at the end. The writer lists details—bandages on the forehead and ears, a serviette over the mouth—so only the ‘pink, peaked nose’ is seen. The short command ‘Leave the hat’ and the glasses keep the tone tense and the man unclear.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer first hides the man with details like "big blue spectacles" and him standing "like a man of stone", then adds the odd sound "Chirk, chirk, chirk" and a glimpse of a "white bandage" to keep us unsure about him. The repeated "Leave the hat" and his "inscrutable blue glasses" at the end still cover his face, so the structure makes it ambiguous and makes the reader wonder who he is.

One way the writer creates ambiguity is the opening focus on the stranger hiding his face. The start withholds clear detail with his turned head, glasses and bandages.

In addition, the focus shifts to Mrs. Hall and the mustard in the kitchen. This delay interrupts the scene and we hear “Chirk, chirk, chirk.” The change of focus and repetition make things unclear.

A further structural feature is a zoom in on the coverings, then an ending with short dialogue: “Leave the hat.” His glance at the door keeps questions open.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Ambiguous opening refusal with a vague pronoun creates instant uncertainty about what is being concealed (I prefer to keep them on)
• Layered concealment via spectacles, whisker, hat and collar progressively masks identity, deepening mystery (hiding his face and ears)
• Exit–return pattern controls our access; he stays inert under scrutiny but moves when unobserved, making motives unclear (a certain eager quickness)
• Offstage auditory motif bridges scenes and hints at unseen action, sustaining uncertainty about his activities (Chirk, chirk, chirk)
• Hedged narration and fleeting glimpses limit certainty, so we speculate about his actions and purpose (It would seem)
• Delayed “reveal” still withholds identity at the climax, keeping questions alive despite close focus (not a scrap of his face)
• Repetition of a controlling imperative diverts attention and asserts secrecy, reinforcing that something must be hidden (Leave the hat)
• Parenthetical, belated explanation clarifies the muffled voice yet introduces new oddities, complicating rather than resolving questions (it was a serviette)
• Lexis of unreadability fixes a barrier between character and reader, preventing interpretation of intent or emotion (inscrutable blue glasses)
• Juxtaposition of homely chores with the uncanny figure shifts tone sharply, heightening strangeness through contrast (mustard pot)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 46 to the end.

In this part of the source, the description of the man's bandaged head is very mysterious. The writer suggests that there is something frightening or damaged hidden underneath.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the man's bandaged head
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest something frightening is hidden
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue to a great extent that the writer crafts ominous concealment to imply injury or otherness, tracing a lexical field of covering—“white bandage,” “another covered his ears,” “not a scrap of his face exposed”—and dehumanizing details—“inscrutable blue glasses,” “muffled voice,” “curious tails and horns”—reinforced by Mrs Hall’s reaction “for a moment she was rigid.” It would also acknowledge nuance by noting the incongruous “pink, peaked nose,” which momentarily humanizes the figure and tempers outright horror, creating an uncanny tension rather than a single-note terror.

I agree to a large extent that the description of the man’s bandaged head is deeply mysterious and implies something frightening or damaged beneath. The writer carefully withholds information and layers images of concealment to make the reader, like Mrs Hall, suspect that what is hidden is either injured or uncanny.

From the moment she enters, there is structural delay and obliquity: she gets only “a glimpse of a white object disappearing behind the table” as he “moved quickly.” This furtive movement, paired with the ambiguous “white object,” immediately establishes secrecy. Crucially, these details are focalised through Mrs Hall (“It would seem”), so our impressions are filtered through her uncertainty, intensifying the mystery. The cosy domesticity of the “tea-tray” and wet boots that “threatened rust” is then juxtaposed with his evasiveness, heightening the sense of an uncanny intrusion into the ordinary.

When the head is revealed, the writer constructs a semantic field of concealment. A “serviette” hides “the lower part of his face,” producing a “muffled voice” (auditory imagery that sounds unnatural), while “all his forehead… was covered by a white bandage, and another covered his ears,” leaving “not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose.” The negative construction “not a scrap” creates absoluteness, implying an extreme need to cover whatever lies beneath. The medical colour symbolism of “white” hints at injury or deformity, yet the “bright, pink, and shiny” nose (a triadic list) is oddly comic, producing a grotesque, uncanny effect rather than comfort. Further barriers—“inscrutable blue glasses,” a “high, black… collar,” and a “brown gloved hand”—complete a meticulous armour of concealment that feels deliberate and therefore sinister as well as possibly medical.

The description of hair “in curious tails and horns” adds a faintly demonic connotation, and the superlative “the strangest appearance conceivable” elevates his presentation beyond mere illness to the uncanny. Mrs Hall’s reaction—she is “rigid,” “too surprised to speak”—confirms the shock. The man’s imperatives, “Leave the hat,” spoken “very distinctly through the white cloth,” sound controlling and inhumanly detached, while his “glancing from her to the door” suggests anxious secrecy. Even Mrs Hall’s broken utterance, “I didn’t know, sir, that—”, conveys destabilised expectations, as if what lies under the bandages defies normal social categories.

Overall, I strongly agree. Through structural withholding, colour imagery, hyperbole, and sustained focalisation, the writer crafts a figure whose comprehensive self-veiling implies damage, while his calculated concealment and eerie voice conjure something more alarming than mere injury: a frightening, unseeable truth beneath the wrappings.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: Typically, Level 3 would mostly agree that the description suggests something hidden and possibly damaged, pointing to the 'white bandage' over his forehead and ears, the 'serviette' masking his 'mouth and jaws' and 'muffled voice', and the 'inscrutable blue glasses'. It would also note that the hair in 'curious tails and horns' makes him look strange and a bit frightening, supporting the writer’s viewpoint.

I agree to a large extent that the description of the man’s bandaged head is mysterious, and the writer strongly hints that something frightening or damaged is hidden beneath. From the outset, the writer engineers secrecy: the visitor “moved quickly,” and Mrs Hall sees only “a white object disappearing behind the table.” This structural delay, combined with the tentative narrator’s aside “it would seem,” builds uncertainty. Even the room details carry menace: the “wet boots threatened rust,” a personification that foreshadows damage and decay.

When the head is revealed, the language of concealment is relentless. The man holds “a white cloth… over the lower part of his face,” while “all his forehead above his blue glasses was covered by a white bandage, and… another covered his ears,” leaving “not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose.” This cumulative listing and absolute phrasing make the concealment total. Colour imagery (“white” bandage, “blue” glasses, “dark-brown” jacket) creates stark contrasts that feel clinical yet uncanny, suggesting medical injury as well as deliberate disguise. The adjective “inscrutable” attached to his “blue glasses” implies an unreadable, inhuman gaze, intensifying the mystery.

Moreover, the hair “projected in curious tails and horns,” a noun choice with zoomorphic, even demonic, connotations. Alongside the “high… collar” and “brown gloved hand,” the repeated coverings create a motif of masking; the structural patterning of layer upon layer implies there is something disturbing to hide. Mrs Hall’s reaction—she is “rigid,” her “nerves” recovering from “the shock”—guides our response, signalling that the sight is alarming. His terse imperatives, “Leave the hat,” and the adverb “drily,” plus his furtive glance “to the door,” suggest evasiveness and control, deepening the sense of threat.

Overall, I agree that the writer’s choices—structural delay, cumulative detail, colour imagery, and unsettling connotations—make the head powerfully mysterious and imply that something damaged or frightening lies beneath, even though its nature is withheld.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree because the writer hides his face with "a white bandage", "another covered his ears", a "white cloth"/"serviette", and "inscrutable blue glasses", so there is "not a scrap of his face exposed", and the "muffled voice" and hair like "curious tails and horns" make a "strangest appearance conceivable" that seems scary. However, it could also just show he is injured, since it is a "muffled and bandaged head" and he covers his mouth with a "serviette", so the hidden thing may be damage rather than something terrifying.

I mostly agree with the statement. The man’s bandaged head is described in a mysterious way, and the writer hints there is something hidden and possibly damaged underneath.

At first, the writer withholds details to build suspense. Mrs Hall only gets “a glimpse of a white object” as he moves, a structural choice that keeps us guessing. His “muffled voice” and the “serviette” over “the lower part of his face” show deliberate concealment. This creates the impression he is hiding his mouth, which feels secretive and uneasy.

The description then becomes more intense. We are told “all his forehead…was covered by a white bandage” and another “covered his ears,” with “not a scrap of his face exposed except…his pink, peaked nose.” The listing of coverings (bandages, “blue glasses,” a “high…collar,” a “brown gloved hand”) suggests something wrong beneath that must be hidden. The adjective “inscrutable” for the “blue glasses” implies we cannot read him, which is unsettling. Even the hair, poking out in “tails and horns,” gives him “the strangest appearance,” hinting at something almost devilish and frightening.

Mrs Hall’s reaction supports this mood. She is “rigid” with “shock,” showing the effect of the frightening sight. The repeated command “Leave the hat,” spoken “drily” and “very distinctly,” makes him seem cold and threatening. However, the “bright, pink, shiny” nose is comic, which softens the fear a little.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer’s choices make the head mysterious and suggest there is something frightening, or damaged, hidden.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because his face is hidden by a white bandage, another covered his ears, and inscrutable blue glasses, and he has a muffled voice. This makes him seem mysterious and suggests something frightening or damaged underneath, as there is not a scrap of his face exposed.

I mostly agree that the man’s bandaged head is very mysterious and suggests something frightening or damaged underneath. From the start, the writer makes him secret: Mrs. Hall only gets “a glimpse of a white object disappearing,” which sounds like he is hiding something.

The voice is “muffled” because he holds a “white cloth” over his mouth. This word and the covering make him seem hidden. The detailed description that “all his forehead… was covered by a white bandage” and “another covered his ears” also adds to the mystery, as if nothing can be seen.

We are told there is “not a scrap of his face exposed excepting only his pink, peaked nose.” This is strange and makes me think there could be damage. The “inscrutable blue glasses” mean you can’t read his eyes, and the hair in “tails and horns” is vivid imagery that feels a bit scary.

Even his speech, “Leave the hat,” repeated through the cloth, and his “brown gloved hand,” show he keeps everything covered. Overall, I agree with the statement because the simple details, colours, and bandages, and his secret behaviour, suggest he is hiding something worrying under the wraps.

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:

• Judgement (extent) → Largely agree: layered concealment and shocked reactions make the head feel uncanny and potentially damaged/frightening → (the strangest appearance conceivable)
• Medical/concealment imagery (bandages) → Bandages across head suggest injury and deliberate hiding → (white bandage)
• Extreme occlusion → Only the nose is exposed, creating unease about what is hidden → (not a scrap of his face)
• Masked speech (cloth) → Speaking through a covering makes him seem secretive and abnormal, hinting at something to conceal → (through the white cloth)
• Obscured gaze → Hidden eyes deny readers empathy and increase threat/mystery → (inscrutable blue glasses)
• Costume concealment → High collar and gloves reinforce protective hiding of the head/neck area → (high, black, linen-lined collar)
• Monstrous connotations → Hair jutting like ‘horns’ evokes demonic imagery, amplifying fear of what lies beneath → (curious tails and horns)
• Defensive control (imperatives) → Commanding what may be seen suggests anxiety about exposure, feeding suspicion → (Leave the hat)
• Onlooker’s shock → Her frozen, wordless reaction frames the sight as alarming and disturbing → (too surprised to speak)
• Counterpoint (politeness) → Clear, courteous diction softens overt threat, implying control rather than aggression → (Thank you)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A regional rail company is running a student writing contest about travelling by rail.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

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

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a chance meeting on a journey.

(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 train inhales, then loosens itself from the platform with a feline stretch; metal murmurs, windows tremble, and the world begins to flow. A whistle slits the cool morning, brisk and surgical, and the platform slides away—umbrellas, fluorescent vests, a solitary coffee steaming—smearing into streaks of colour. I sit by the window where my face hovers like a pale watermark over everything beyond; my breath fogs the glass, then clears, then fogs again, matching the engine’s measured exhalations.

Fields unfurl almost immediately, an emerald scroll unrolling beneath a thin, pewter sky. Hedgerows stitch the land with precise, dark thread; beyond them, sheep are scattered punctuation marks—ellipses of wool on the slope. Sunlight lifts, uncertain at first, then decisive, gilding puddles into coins. The tracks below chatter in a steady rhythm—da-dum, da-dum, da-dum—until the sound folds into my pulse. There is the smell of warm dust and yesterday’s coffee, a faint tang of grease, the soft animal scent of seat fabric warmed by the bodies of strangers.

Meanwhile, the carriage composes its own quiet symphony: a newspaper crackles; a zipper nibbles shut; a child names colours against the glass. A woman’s bracelet makes a punctuation of light as the countryside blurs past in filmed greens and sudden, astonished yellow—rape fields like spilled paint. The train, an obedient silver needle, threads villages and allotments with unerring patience; it hums over culverts, humbles bridges into the sound of itself, and leans—so slightly—into the curves as if listening for permission to continue.

We dive without warning into a tunnel. Blackness closes like an intake of breath; the windows turn to mirrors and my reflection steps to the foreground, startled, as though I have been caught eavesdropping on my own thoughts. The overhead lights buzz; the carriage acquires a submarine hush. Then, as abruptly, the world returns—explodes—into light. A river appears, a sheet of hammered glass; a heron lifts itself with the deliberation of an old clock, and the bridge throws our shadow across the water, long and skeletal.

Beyond, gardens unspool: trampolines, tarpaulins, washing lines hoisting flags of daily life. Someone in a red coat pauses, looks up, raises a hand—the briefest exchange, no more binding than a wink. A distant church winks back with a spear of window. Cows congregate around a gate like gossipers. A girl on a swing freezes mid-arc as we pass and then, belatedly, continues; the moment feels like it will never end, and then it does.

Inside, time loosens. The conductor’s voice arrives—measured, courteous, and carrying that slight apology native to announcements: “We will shortly be arriving…” A man collapses his map into an origami of uncertainty; a student’s laptop, bright as a shoal, reflects itinerant clouds across her cheeks. I sip lukewarm tea and taste iron; the spoon tings against paper cup. For a beat, I imagine we are motionless and the world is the thing moving—pulled on rails, obedient, inevitable.

Yet the brakes begin their soft, regretful song. Signal lamps bloom red, then surrender to green. The train draws breath in reverse; the countryside tightens back into edges. The window that was cinema becomes simply glass, and my ghost-face—superimposed on a last, reluctant field—blinks, steadies, disappears as the platform gathers us in.

Option B:

Rain stitched the windows of the 06:12 to Brighton, hemming the morning into a grey, reluctant seam. Inside, the carriage breathed a tired warmth; the air tasted faintly of coffee grinds and wet wool; advertisements smiled down too brightly, as if the day could be persuaded. I had taken the corner seat, the one that pretends to be private but never is. Outside, rails banded away, parallel like promises.

I wasn’t running away, not precisely; I was pausing my life and pressing it into a small, zipped pocket. In my coat, an envelope waited—off-white, slightly buckled by the damp—with my handwriting trying to look brave. It contained a confession and a return address I wasn’t sure I deserved; it contained, too, a train ticket folded and refolded until the fibres had learned my indecision. Not fear, not dread, not even hope—just an alertness, pricked and persistent. Nevertheless, the tiny tremor at the base of my thumb said otherwise.

The train lurched forward; the aisle swayed like a slow pendulum; a woman in a cobalt raincoat lunged, laughing under her breath at the timing, and fell into the seat beside me. “Sorry—catastrophe,” she whispered, although nothing catastrophic had occurred except the undignified tumble of her suitcase, which barked its shin against the armrest. Her scarf smelled faintly of oranges, a pocket of summer in this diluted dawn. She gathered herself with swift, competent fingers and, almost concurrently, my cup quivered, sloshed, and a small brown comet spattered across the corner of her book.

“Perfect,” she said, but smiling, as she dabbed at the page with the cuff of her coat and then—because kindness has its own reflex—with the corner of her scarf.

“I have tissues,” I offered, wildly overprepared.

“I have disaster,” she replied.

Because misadventure starts conversations the way timetables end them, we talked. Of spilled drinks and stubborn lids; of maps that never fold back the way they’re supposed to; of the outrageous price of station sandwiches. Her voice had a low, smoky certainty; mine kept finding the clean edges of silence. Yet, by the time the train had shouldered through Croydon’s grids and the estates slid into fields, we had exchanged names, destinations, thin truths, and the unearned confidences travel encourages. She was going to the sea; so was I. “Newhaven,” she said. My ticket agreed.

“What are the chances?” she asked, leaning back. Statistically small, I wanted to say; instead, the arithmetic assembled itself: the hour, the carriage, the apple tucked into her pocket (mine too), the book drying on her knee—the very novel my mother had read to me on sick days—and the way her left thumbnail was stained blue with ink, exactly as mine was.

Outside, the sky began to concede morning. Fields lifted into colour; hedges raised thorny eyebrows; a fox unstitched itself from a thicket and trotted, insolent, across a dew-shined field. Inside, she tilted the book so I could read a line: People meet by accident, it murmured, but make of it an intention. The cliché glowed anyway.

“I don’t usually talk to strangers,” she added, a disclaimer offered too late.

“I’m better on trains,” I said. “Everything seems edited.”

She considered that, then rummaged in her bag and produced a photograph: a narrow pier, gulls like quotation marks, a brass plaque on a bench glinting at the edge. “Before the wind farm,” she said. “Before the kiosk closed. I grew up there.”

“So did I,” I answered, too quickly.

She smiled. “All fifty of us? The bench with the plaque—‘For Ida, who loved this view’—does it still wobble?”

The envelope pressed against my ribs, insistent. “I’m going back to return something,” I said.

“Me too,” she answered, and the train’s wheels answered also, a steady, metallic amen. And in the small, unlikely geometry of Carriage E, our parallel lines appeared—briefly, bravely—to touch.

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

Option A:

Doors hiss open; a draught draws in the breath of the platform: coffee, diesel, cold iron. I step into a metal lung; the carriage inhales me, then seals. Seats are tired blue; windows smudged; my reflection floats. We lurch; somewhere under my feet a vocabulary of clanks and whispers begins. The rhythm settles—two beats, a pause—steady as a heart taught to behave. Announcements fall from the ceiling, velveted by static, polite and implacable. Already the world begins to peel away.

Fields unscroll like fabric; hedges scribble dark ink lines; a crow lifts, a fleck of punctuation. Cottages appear and vanish; a lone horse turns its long face as we thunder by (we do not thunder, not really; we persist). Light slips between clouds and rides our window; the glass makes everything a watercolour, edges feathered, greens softened into one wide, patient word: countryside. A canal twines beside us, patient as an old thought; reeds tilt their heads. Pylons stride the hill, silver and ungainly. A tunnel swallows us—black, then a spray of ash—then gives us back. Past, past, past, whispers the track; the sound settles in my ribs.

Inside, life miniaturises. A man in a graphite suit edits a document with his jaw set; his screen throws pale squares onto his knuckles. A woman unwraps an orange, its citric perfume bright; she offers a segment to a child whose headphones leak a tinny storm. Opposite me, an elderly lady folds her newspaper with reverence; the headlines smudge her fingers the same grey as the morning. Suitcases murmur in the racks. The guard arrives with a courteous nod, composes my ticket with a soft click of the punch, and leaves confetti of oval moons behind. Somewhere, a laugh appears and goes, like a gull over a pier.

Between here and there, I am nobody in particular; I am a moving pause. Windows remake me: my face floats over a copse, over a river braided with light; for a second, time almost stands still—and then, obediently, it runs. We pass an allotment, a football pitch, a sudden graffiti bloom; the romance thins, then returns with a sweep of meadow. How far can rails take a person, really? They take me into a city softening in the distance, its glass catching a fragile silver. Brakes sing; the carriage exhales. We glide past platforms crowded with coats and plans; doors part; the cold steps in. I gather my bag, my changed breath, and step out into the next sentence.

Option B:

Morning shivered on the platform; pale light pooled beneath the iron ribs of the canopy while a gull balanced on a sign and watched us all with clinical curiosity. The tannoy crackled and apologised in a tired voice that sounded almost human. A paper cup rolled in an aimless ellipse; a suitcase wheel rasped. The train slid in with a metallic sigh, doors parting like gills, and the air was suddenly warm and breathy, full of coat-sleeves and hurried decisions.

I found my seat by counting, lips moving at first—B12, B13—then smiled at my own nervousness and sat very straight. The window was a watery mirror, holding a ghosted version of my face. In my coat pocket, I had tucked an envelope addressed in an old-fashioned, generous hand; even through the fabric it seemed to press against my palm with its own insistence. I was going north to return something that was never mine: a watch that had stopped between ticks, a small circle of time waiting to resume.

There were two kinds of passengers: those who slept and those who stared. I tried to be the latter. The seat beside me remained empty as the whistle blew; relief walked in, light-footed, because I had promised myself I would not talk, would not tangle my thoughts with anyone else’s today. Then, at the last moment, a man shouldered his way through the nearest door—rain clinging to him like a second jacket—and paused, searching. He was perhaps thirty, with a battered satchel, a scarf the colour of dull moss, and a thin scar by his temple, as if a comma had been punctuated into his skin.

‘Is this taken?’ he asked, breath hitching slightly. His voice had that low, steady quality that makes instructions sound like reassurance.

I shook my head. He dropped into the seat with a murmur of thanks just as the train gathered itself and pulled us both forward. Outside, the city unstitched into allotments, then fields stitched with hedges; pylons held up wires like harp strings, soundless but taut. The carriage warmed, bones relaxing into upholstery. My stomach fluttered—ridiculously—like a trapped bird.

He nodded at the crumpled rail map on my knees. ‘You’ll want to change at Wrenford. They moved the platform last month. Everyone misses it the first time.’

‘Do they?’ I tilted the map, feigning confidence. ‘I thought you couldn’t move a platform.’

He smiled, one corner first. ‘You’d be surprised what they move when no one’s looking.’

We fell into easy conversation, the kind that threads itself: where are you headed, do you prefer window or aisle, tea or coffee. He told me he was going home, after too many months away; his words had the cautious glow of someone returning to a room he wasn’t sure would still be there. I did not say why I was travelling. Silence can be a kind of modesty.

As I adjusted my coat, the envelope slid forward and flashed its address. He glanced, politely, then frowned, not nosy but struck. His finger hovered. ‘Ashbridge,’ he said, testing the word. Then, softer, almost to himself: ‘L. Kavanagh.’

He looked at me properly, his steady gaze sharpening. ‘I know that name.’ He said it like a key turning.

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

Option A:

The carriage shudders awake before I do; a low hum trembles through the floor and up into my shoes. Fluorescent lights buzz; the window is a pale, misted rectangle that remembers the night. Around me there is the small orchestra of departure: the sigh of doors, the clink of cups, the sharp blow of a whistle, and then that heavier thump as metal seals against metal. Someone coughs; someone else drags a suitcase that complains. The air tastes of coffee, damp wool and something like warm iron. I rub a circle on the glass and find my own dim face staring back, doubled by the glass.

We let go of the station. Brick backs, dead-straight fences, a wedge of graffiti slide past as if pulled by a gentle hand; then the city loosens. Allotments flare with tatty flags of washing, a fox flashes, and the rails begin their steady rhythm: ta-tum, ta-tum, ta-tum. Meanwhile the land opens—fields stitched with hedgerows tilt towards us, yellow rapeseed puddled like spilled paint. Telegraph poles pace the train; sheep scatter like commas on a page. A stream flickers quick as a fish, and light pools on it in coins. The sky is a thin blue wash, edged with cloud that looks torn. I watch the world go by and, strangely, feel as if I am the one who is still.

Inside, however, there is another country. A man in a crumpled suit annotates a report with a green pen; a teenager’s earphones leak a whispering beat; a grandmother counts stitches, lips moving. The trolley rattles, apologising its way down the aisle—“Mind your feet, sorry”—and my tea quivers in its cup. Then an announcement clears its throat: “Next stop… Ashford.” The words wobble slightly and make us smile. Snatches of talk stick and float: schools, sales, someone who didn’t call. There’s a kind of hush between stations, a lull that is almost a lullaby.

We burrow into a tunnel; the windows fill with ourselves. For a breath, we are ghosts—my face, her face, his—hovering over blackness. The rush roars in my ears, and then: light. A valley spreads out, green as new paint, a river ribboning under a stone bridge. Time stretches; the journey feels both brisk and long. Finally the brakes sing, high and thin, and the platform grows, almost flowering, into view. We arrive, not quite ready to stop, the rhythm still tapping in our bones.

Option B:

Autumn. The season of leaving; trees shrugged gold into gutters, daylight thinning like old paper. The station breathed steam and urgency; announcements crackled overhead—half comfort, half command. I found my carriage on the 07:12 to Newcastle and slid into a window seat where the glass was cold enough to sting my skin.

In my lap, my folder sat too neat, as if tidiness could keep my hands from shaking. I had rehearsed answers, reasons, a smile that didn’t look like a wince. When I’m afraid I am always early; I like to watch people and tell myself stories about them. It calms me, usually. Today, it didn’t.

As the train pulled away, the city smeared into grey and brick; fields took over, rain stippling hedges and the bleak backs of billboards. The carriage had the particular smell of travel: coffee, wet wool, the sweet damp of breath. Luggage wheels muttered in the aisle. I tried to steady my mind with the rhythm—metal on metal, a clean, stubborn beat.

At Darlington the seat opposite filled. A woman with a rain-sparkled coat flung her hood back and smiled an apology that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her gloved hand brushed a beige envelope and a scatter of photographs slipped like flat fish over the table. One slid to my side; instinctively, I caught it.

It was small, glossy, and startling: a harbour open to a thin, white sky, boats huddled like old men. The curve of the pier tugged at me. I knew that curve.

“Whitby?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

“Close,” she said, breathless, amused. “Staithes. My grandfather lived there.”

I turned the photo; on the back, in careful ink: For the days we thought would last.

“What are the chances,” I said, and heard how ordinary my voice sounded. “I grew up two stops along that coast. We used to go for chips there, even in rain.”

She laughed—not loud, but real. “Then you know the wind that steals your words,” she said. “And the gull that always wins.”

We sat with the picture between us like a small truce. Outside, fields blurred, then a river, then a stand of poplars that gleamed like coins. Her name, I would learn, was Elise; mine she would guess before I offered it.

Neither of us knew it then: the hour between stations was about to rearrange our journeys.

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

Option A:

The carriage gives a small shiver, then slides away, and the city loosens its grip on the window. Brick and graffiti smear by; a last rooftop with a wavering aerial. Inside the carriage, the air smells of warm dust, coffee, wet coats, and diesel. The rails begin their steady chant: clatter, clatter, clatter. Sunlight blinks like a shutter as hedges break and mend the view.

Beyond the glass, fields spread in simple squares; hedgerows stitch the edges. Telegraph poles stride past, precise as a metronome; the train keeps time. A thin river glints; we skim it on a rattling iron bridge. A tunnel opens — sudden dark, breath held. A child presses his nose to the pane, leaving a clear oval. Then light again, louder than before, the sky rinsed a pale blue. A tractor turns the earth. All of it moves, yet we hardly do; we sit, and the world rolls.

Inside, journeys knot together. A student scribbles; the guard passes with clipped steps. An announcement crackles: Next stop, Brookham. We slow for a small station: peeling paint, a tired flower bed, a woman waving while a dog trembles with joy. Doors beep, a draught tastes of rain and iron. Then the pull returns, gentle at first, then certain — we gather ourselves and go. I watch my faint reflection float over trees and houses and think the journey is ordinary and delicate, as if the day has decided to carry me. Clatter, clatter; mile after mile; the line draws forward, and I let it.

Option B:

The train breathed at the platform, a slow, patient sound, while rain stitched lines across the windows. An announcement crackled overhead; words blurred into a tired murmur as people tugged coats closer and shuffled forward. The air smelt of coffee and brakes, something sharp and metallic that caught in my throat. Everything was busy: the hiss of doors, the scrape of suitcases, the squeal of a trolley. I stood beneath the flickering board, my ticket warm and damp in my palm, my name repeated like a rhythm, as if saying it could steady the drum in my chest.

I found carriage B and a seat by the window. The cushion was scratchy; a pale thread frayed at the edge like a loose thought. Outside, umbrellas nudged each other and the platform glided away. I exhaled—slow, on purpose—and placed my backpack under the seat, then my book on my lap. The train gave a gentle lurch, a throat-clearing thrum that travelled through my knees. I told myself this was brave, that leaving was a choice I had made. It sounded neat in my head, but underneath there was a tremble I couldn’t quite explain.

That was when a man slid into the aisle seat with an apologetic smile. He was about my age, maybe a little older, with rain in his hair and a scarf that looked hastily knotted. As he put his bag down, a paper escaped—a photograph, curling at the corner—and drifted towards my shoe. I bent to catch it. In the moment my fingers touched the glossy edge, I froze. The face on it was familiar, startlingly familiar. A park bench, a child with a crooked grin, a woman with a red coat. My mother’s coat. “Is that yours?” he asked, reaching too. Our hands bumped; the picture trembled between us. “I think,” I said, hearing my voice wobble, “I think I’ve seen this before.”

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

Option A:

The train shudders into pace, a low hum under everything. Through the wide window, countryside slips past like a slow film. The fields lean into the wind; hedges scribble dark lines. A river glints, thin and sly, then is gone. The rails drum: thud, thud, thud — over and over until it becomes its own song. The smell is faint coffee and warm dust; the air tastes metallic, almost coppery.

Inside, life folds around the rhythm. A student yawns, earphones leaking a tinny buzz; an old man hides behind a cracked newspaper. A child presses her nose to the window and leaves a circle of fog. The guard passes, his keys rattling, I look down at the faded seat and pick at a loose thread. The carriage is not silent, it flickers with sounds: a cough, a laugh, a phone that chimes once then pretends to sleep. Sunlight stutters across us as we pass a line of skinny trees.

Then the world blinks. We slip into a tunnel; everything jumps inward. In the black glass I am doubled — me and a darker me, framed by scratches and tiny marks. It’s strangely calm, like holding your breath under water, waiting. Soon, we burst out; fields return, greener, brighter, the sky wide as a promise. Villages appear with neat roofs; smoke curls like pencil smudge. I do not know every name we pass, but the journey stitches them together. Eventually, the train slows, sighing, and the rails fall quiet.

Option B:

Autumn. Leaves skittered along the platform; the wind pressed them against the rails. The train shivered when it rolled in, doors hissing a tired sigh. I stepped on with everyone else, boots squeaking, breath like a little cloud.

My backpack tugged at my shoulder, heavier than it looked. Inside was a folder with my CV, a bottle of water and a brave face I wasn't sure I had. I was travelling to a town I'd never seen for an interview I thought I wanted. The carriage was empty; I picked the seat by the window to watch fields rush past. The glass was smeared with rain, lines running down it like a map of rivers. Just a journey, just a morning, nothing special.

Then he sat opposite me, sudden as a door banging shut. His coat was damp and smelled of outside. A photograph slipped from his pocket and skated to the floor. I leaned forward and caught the edge. 'You dropped this,' I said. Two boys on a pier stared up; one was him, younger and sunburnt. 'Thanks,' he replied, eyes flicking to the window, then to me. 'I almost forgot I had it.' 'Who keeps a real photo now?' I asked, half joking.

The train jolted and we both grabbed the table — strangers holding the same piece of plastic. Something small shifted. Words started to move between us, slow at first, like the train leaving the city. I didn't plan for anything. I didn't plan for him.

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

Option A:

At first, the carriage shakes as we pull away from the quiet platform. The doors hiss and the rails start to hum. My breath fogs the cold window, then clears, and the town slips back, smaller and smaller.

Through the glass the countryside goes past. Fields spread out like a patchwork blanket; hedges are the stitches. A scarecrow leans in the wind, sort of waving. Sunlight flickers between trees - bright then shade, bright then shade - until my eyes blink. The seat vibrates under my legs, and there is a faint smell of coffee and damp coats.

People sit and murmur. A child taps the glass, counting pylons; an old man folds his newspaper very careful. "Tickets, please," the guard says, keys tinkling on his belt. We rush into a tunnel, sudden dark, ears popping. For a moment I only hear clack-clack, clack-clack, like a slow heart.

Then light comes back. Yellow fields, a slim river that glimmers, sheep like little clouds on the hill. We pass a lonely station - one bench, one bin - and nobody gets on.

Finally, roofs appear and a blur of graffiti. The train leans and slows. The carriage shakes again; the hum dies, but the journey feels like it still goes on.

Option B:

Who expects to meet anyone on a Tuesday morning bus?

Rain tapped the window like quiet fingers. The glass was misty and cold; I drew a circle in the fog. The engine hummed and street lights slid past like sleepy eyes. I was heading across town for an interview, trying to breathe steady. I had a plan: get there early, speak clearly, don’t mess it up. Just rain. Just the road.

At the next stop the doors hissed and a girl climbed on with a red scarf and a heavy bag. She glanced along the aisle, cautious, then swung into the seat beside me. "Is this free?" she said, a bit out of breath. I nodded and moved my backpack. Something slipped from her pocket, fluttering to the floor—a small ticket, and a photo with a bent corner.

We reached for them at the same time and paused. Our fingers touched, quick, like sparks. "Thanks," she said, voice soft. "I'm always dropping stuff." "Where are you going?" she asked.

"An interview," I said. "City House."

Her eyes lifted to mine. "Me as well," she whispered, surprised. "First day, sort of."

We half laughed, unsure. The bus jerked on and the photo trembled between us; a tall grey building circled in blue ink. Maybe this journey wasn’t just a journey.

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

Option A:

The train rumbles on, a long metal snake on the tracks. I sit by the window and the world goes by in strips. Fields, trees, houses. The glass trembles. The train rocks back and forth. The seat is scratchy and the air smells of coffee and dust, it tastes like coins. Click-clack, click clack, clickclack, like a slow drum in my chest.

Sun shine slides over the grass and fences and cows stand like they forgot to move. My breath makes a cloud on the pane. I draw a line in it but it fades. Someone coughs and a baby laugh and then it is quiet again the train keeps on.

We slow for a station, then we dont stop we move, on and on. I see a river, thin and silver, it looks cold. I press my hand to the window, it is cold to. Tunnels gulp the light, then fields again.

Option B:

The bus rattled down the long road and the seats made a low buzzing sound, I held my ticket tight. I was going to the city to see my brother, the sky looked like wet paper. My bag was heavy. My eyes were heavy too.

At the third stop a girl in a red coat got on and sat beside me. She smiled.

She said hi I said hi too. Her coat was like a little flame.

Her bag tipped over and a photo slid onto the floor, it showed the old pier. Thats my pier I said! I grew up there, I still go there when I can. She stared then smiled bigger, me too she said, we are going back today. We both laughed and then we looked out, the rain started and the window cried a bit. It felt like the bus suddenly got warmer, maybe because we wasnt strangers now.

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

Option A:

I sit on the train. It moves and shakes. The window shows fields and houses. The trees slide past like a picture. The sky is pale and the sun is a bright light. Click clack, click clack, the track goes. A child laughs somewhere, a bag falls, someone coughs, it is loud then quiet. I look for my ticket in my pocket and I can’t find it, I think it is gone. The carriage smells like crisp packets and wet coats. My shoe rubs and I think of chips. The train goes on and on, forwards and back. I wait and watch.

Option B:

Spring was bright and windy the bus shake. I sit by the window and look at the road, it goes and goes like lines on paper. My bag is heavy and the strap is broke. My shoe is wet. Mum said be careful but I was just going, just going to town. At the next stop a man get on he looks lost and he sits by me, his hat is blue. He drops a photo on the floor and I pick it up, we both reach and our hands touch and it is strange. Are you going there too I say.