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 According to the narrator, from what materials are the silkworms' houses made?: Scraps from old copy-books and exercises – 1 mark
• 1.2 How many long rows of desks are there?: Three long rows of desks – 1 mark
• 1.3 How many forms are mentioned?: Six forms – 1 mark
• 1.4 How many rows of desks does the narrator describe in the schoolroom?: Three rows – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 81 of the source:

6 Two miserable little white mice, left behind by their owner, are running up and down in a fusty castle made of pasteboard and wire, looking in all the corners with their red eyes for anything to eat. A bird, in a cage very little bigger than himself, makes a mournful rattle now and then in hopping on his perch, two inches high, or dropping from it; but neither sings nor chirps.

11 There is a strange unwholesome smell upon the room, like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books. There could not well be more ink splashed about it, if it had been roofless from its first construction, and the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink through the varying seasons of the year.

16 Mr. Mell having left me while he took his irreparable boots upstairs, I went softly to the upper end of the room, observing all this as I crept along. Suddenly I came upon a pasteboard placard, beautifully written, which was lying on the desk, and bore these words: ‘TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.’

21 I got upon the desk immediately, apprehensive of at least a great dog underneath. But, though I looked all round with anxious eyes, I could see nothing of him. I was still engaged in peering about, when Mr. Mell came back, and asked me what I did up there?

26 ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ says I, ‘if you please, I’m looking for the dog.’ ‘Dog?’ he says. ‘What dog?’

31 ‘Isn’t it a dog, sir?’ ‘Isn’t what a dog?’ ‘That’s to be taken care of, sir; that bites.’

36 ‘No, Copperfield,’ says he, gravely, ‘that’s not a dog. That’s a boy. My instructions are, Copperfield, to put this placard on your back. I am sorry to make such a beginning with you, but I must do it.’ With that he took me down, and tied the placard, which was neatly constructed for the purpose, on my

41 shoulders like a knapsack; and wherever I went, afterwards, I had the consolation of carrying it. What I suffered from that placard, nobody can imagine. Whether it was possible for people to see me or not, I always fancied that somebody was reading it. It

46 was no relief to turn round and find nobody; for wherever my back was, there I imagined somebody always to be. That cruel man with the wooden leg aggravated my sufferings. He was in authority; and if he ever saw me leaning against a tree, or a wall, or the house, he roared out from his lodge door in a stupendous voice, ‘Hallo, you sir! You Copperfield! Show that badge

51 conspicuous, or I’ll report you!’ The playground was a bare gravelled yard, open to all the back of the house and the offices; and I knew that the servants read it, and the butcher read it, and the baker read it; that everybody, in a word, who came backwards and

56 forwards to the house, of a morning when I was ordered to walk there, read that I was to be taken care of, for I bit, I recollect that I positively began to have a dread of myself, as a kind of wild boy who did bite. There was an old door in this playground, on which the boys had a custom of

61 carving their names. It was completely covered with such inscriptions. In my dread of the end of the vacation and their coming back, I could not read a boy’s name, without inquiring in what tone and with what emphasis HE would read, ‘Take care of him. He bites.’ There was one boy--a certain J. Steerforth --who cut his name very deep and very often, who, I conceived, would read it

66 in a rather strong voice, and afterwards pull my hair. There was another boy, one Tommy Traddles, who I dreaded would make game of it, and pretend to be dreadfully frightened of me. There was a third, George Demple, who I fancied would sing it. I have looked, a little shrinking creature, at that door, until the owners of all the names--there were five-and-forty of them in the school

71 then, Mr. Mell said--seemed to send me to Coventry by general acclamation, and to cry out, each in his own way, ‘Take care of him. He bites!’ It was the same with the places at the desks and forms. It was the same with the groves of deserted bedsteads I peeped at, on my way to, and when I was in,

76 my own bed. I remember dreaming night after night, of being with my mother as she used to be, or of going to a party at Mr. Peggotty’s, or of travelling outside the stage-coach, or of dining again with my unfortunate friend the waiter, and in all these circumstances making people scream and stare, by the unhappy disclosure that I had nothing on but my little night-shirt, and that

81 placard.

How does the writer use language here to describe the bleak atmosphere of the schoolroom? 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 show how the writer layers sensory and animal imagery to render the schoolroom oppressive: the olfactory triad "mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books" and the caged creatures—"miserable little white mice" and a bird that "neither sings nor chirps"—seed decay and entrapment, while the hyperbolic weather metaphor "the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink" thickens the sense of grime. It would also analyse how the dehumanising, capitalised motif "TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES." (reinforced by polysyndetic repetition: "the servants read it, and the butcher read it, and the baker read it"), the burdening simile "on my shoulders like a knapsack", and long, cumulative sentences together create a relentless atmosphere of surveillance and shame.

The writer opens with animal imagery and oppressive sensory detail to saturate the schoolroom in decay. “Miserable little white mice” scurry in a “castle made of pasteboard and wire”, a pointed juxtaposition of grandeur and cheapness, while the caged bird makes only a “mournful rattle” and “neither sings nor chirps”, draining the scene of life. Olfactory imagery—an “unwholesome smell… like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books”—accumulates rot, rendering the atmosphere literally sickly.

Moreover, hyperbole and personification extend this bleakness beyond surfaces. The room “could not well be more ink splashed… if it had been roofless” and the “skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink”: this extravagant conditional and the personified weather blacken every season, implying grime ingrained by time. Even diction like Mr Mell’s “irreparable boots” functions as an epithet of poverty, suggesting an institution so threadbare that deprivation clings to its inhabitants.

Furthermore, dehumanising labelling and sentence forms make the schoolroom a theatre of public shame. The placard—“TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.”—with its graphological capitals turns a child into an animal, while the correction “that’s not a dog. That’s a boy” exposes that cruelty. The simile “on my shoulders like a knapsack” renders the punishment a palpable burden. Curt interrogatives (“Dog?” “What dog?”) feel brusque; imperatives—“Show that badge conspicuous”—and the “bare gravelled yard” enforce surveillance. Anaphora in “There was one boy… another… a third” builds an inescapable chorus of mockery, deepening the bleak atmosphere.

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 clearly explain how Dickens uses sensory imagery and figurative language to create a bleak, oppressive atmosphere: the metaphor 'fusty castle', auditory detail 'mournful rattle', and simile/list 'like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books', along with hyperbole 'rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink', suggest decay and confinement. It would also comment on the capitalised and repeated warning 'TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.' and the stark setting 'bare gravelled yard' to show humiliation and isolation, explaining their effect on the reader.

The writer uses negative adjectives and sensory imagery to build a bleak atmosphere. The “miserable little white mice” in a “fusty castle” suggest poverty and neglect, while the caged bird’s “mournful rattle” and “neither sings nor chirps” create lifeless silence. This makes the schoolroom feel cramped and joyless.

Moreover, olfactory imagery intensifies the gloom: the “strange unwholesome smell… like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books” draws on a semantic field of decay. The personification in “apples wanting air” implies suffocation, so the room seems stale and unhealthy. Hyperbole in “the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink” emphasises grime ground in over time, reinforcing neglect.

Furthermore, the placard “TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.” uses capitalisation and imperatives like an official warning, adding fear. The contrast with “beautifully written” makes the cruelty colder, and the simile “on my shoulders like a knapsack” presents the sign as a weight, showing the schoolroom as a place of punishment.

Additionally, repetition in “the butcher read it… the baker read it… everybody” and anaphora in “It was the same…” create an inescapable rhythm. Even the “bare gravelled yard” feels empty, so the whole school remains bleak and dehumanising.

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 adjectives and sensory imagery, like 'miserable little white mice', 'fusty', and the simile/list 'like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books', plus sound detail 'mournful rattle', to make the room seem dirty and depressing. Repetition and capitalised short sentences in 'TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.', along with bleak details like 'bare gravelled yard' and 'cruel man with the wooden leg', create a fearful, isolating atmosphere.

Firstly, the writer uses sensory imagery and adjectives to create a bleak mood. The “miserable little white mice” in a “fusty castle” and the caged bird with a “mournful rattle” suggest lifelessness and neglect. The simile and list “a strange unwholesome smell… like mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books” piles up decaying images so the room feels stale and sickly.

Furthermore, hyperbole in “the skies had rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink” exaggerates the mess, implying long-term dirt and disorder, which deepens the atmosphere. The verb “roared” for the man with the wooden leg adds a harsh, threatening tone.

Additionally, the placard’s short sentences and repetition, “Take care of him. He bites,” sound blunt and humiliating. The simile “on my shoulders like a knapsack” shows the shame as a heavy burden, making the school feel oppressive and unfriendly.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses negative words and phrases like "miserable little white mice", "fusty" and "mournful rattle" to make the place seem gloomy, and a simile "like mildewed corduroys" to show the bad smell. The repetition of "TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES." creates fear and adds to the bleak atmosphere.

The writer uses adjectives to show the bleak schoolroom. Words like 'miserable', 'fusty' and 'mournful' make it sound sad and dirty. Moreover, the list 'mildewed corduroys, sweet apples wanting air, and rotten books' creates a bad smell. This makes the reader think the room is unhealthy. Furthermore, hyperbole in 'rained, snowed, hailed, and blown ink' suggests it is covered in ink and neglected. Additionally, the capital letters 'TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.' and the negative phrase 'neither sings nor chirps' make the place feel strict and lifeless, adding to the bleak mood.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Diminutive, dejected animal imagery establishes neglect and smallness, setting a joyless tone (miserable little white mice).
• Irony/metaphor makes grandeur feel shabby and stale, undercutting any nobility in the setting (fusty castle).
• Sound imagery of confinement drains vitality; even the bird produces only bleak noise (mournful rattle).
• Olfactory imagery and decay-laden lexis render the room unhealthy and airless (strange unwholesome smell).
• Hyperbolic personification piles on mess and gloom, suggesting filth is inescapable (rained, snowed, hailed).
• Typographical emphasis and contrast between neat form and cruel content intensify humiliation (TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.).
• Simile turns the punishment into a constant, physical weight he cannot shed (like a knapsack).
• Polysyndetic listing and generalisation create a sense of universal surveillance (everybody, in a word).
• Stark, concrete description presents the environment as barren and comfortless (bare gravelled yard).
• Metaphor reimagines empty dorm furniture as eerily lifeless, deepening desolation (groves of deserted bedsteads).

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 sympathy?

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively trace an intensifying arc of sympathy, from the retrospective opening—“I see it now.”—and panoramic bleakness of a forlorn and desolate schoolroom populated by Two miserable little white mice and a bird’s mournful rattle, to the turning-point revelation of the placard “TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.” that repositions the boy as victim. It would then show how focus widens and deepens—through the placard tied to his shoulders like a knapsack, public exposure to everybody, in a word, and the internalised end in “I remember dreaming night after night”—so the refrain “Take care of him. He bites.” works as a structural motif driving a shift from anxiety to self-blame (“began to have a dread of myself”), thereby heightening reader sympathy.

One way in which the writer structures sympathy is by opening with an external, desolate setting that zooms toward trapped life. The first-person retrospective aside “I see it now” sharpens internal focalisation, while the catalogue of decay (“mildewed corduroys… rotten books”) segues to “miserable little white mice” and a “bird… very little bigger than himself,” a symbolic mirroring that foreshadows the child’s own confinement.

In addition, a structural pivot arises with the placard’s reveal. The elegant warning—“TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.”—prompts misreading, so the naïve search for a “dog” is overturned by “That’s a boy.” This volte-face moves from description to public shaming. Rapid direct speech quickens pace, and the motif is fixed by the temporal marker “afterwards,” signalling durable humiliation “wherever I went.”

A further structural technique is cumulative widening and prolepsis. The lens expands from room to “bare gravelled yard,” as a catalogue of onlookers—“servants… butcher… baker”—are imagined reading the badge, turning private shame public. Anaphora makes it inescapable: “It was the same with…”. Naming future tormentors (“J. Steerforth… Tommy Traddles”) projects dread ahead, while “five-and-forty” voices form a hostile chorus.

Finally, the closing temporal shift into iterative dreaming (“night after night”) juxtaposes remembered havens—“my mother… Mr. Peggotty”—with the intrusive badge, so the motif colonises sleep. The final image, “my little night-shirt, and that placard,” fuses innocence with stigma. Thus the structural arc intensifies sympathy from bleak setting to public shaming to inescapable psychological harm.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would clearly explain how the writer builds sympathy by shifting focus from the bleak opening setting — “forlorn and desolate”, “I see it now” — to the sudden reveal of the humiliating placard “TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.”, moving from description to personal threat. It would then track how sympathy intensifies as the humiliation spreads and is internalised — “wherever I went”, “everybody... read it”, the anticipated reactions via the list of boys (e.g., “J. Steerforth”), and the repetition of “Take care of him. He bites.” leading to “I positively began to have a dread of myself” and “dreaming night after night” — showing how shifts in focus, time and tone deepen the reader’s pity.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create sympathy is by opening with a bleak setting before revealing the boy’s punishment. The focus first lingers on the “forlorn and desolate” schoolroom, then zooms to caged creatures and a “strange unwholesome smell.” This sequencing, from wide description to symbolic detail, builds an oppressive mood. The imprisoned mice and bird foreshadow the narrator’s own confinement, so the reader is prepared to pity him even before the placard appears.

In addition, there is a clear turning point that alters pace and perspective. “Suddenly” signals a shift, and the burst of dialogue shows his vulnerability as he mistakes the warning for a “dog.” This contrast between innocent misunderstanding and harsh treatment intensifies sympathy. A temporal shift follows—“afterwards”—as the narrative widens to summary. Structural repetition and listing (servants, butcher, baker; “Take care of him. He bites.”) make the shame constant and public, suggesting it is inescapable.

A further structural feature is the movement from external spaces to the boy’s inner world. Through prolepsis, he anticipates each named boy’s mockery, and finally the focus narrows into dreams. Ending on the image of a child in a “little night-shirt” still burdened by the placard slows the pace and leaves a lingering pathos.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might identify that the writer opens with a bleak setting (forlorn and desolate) to make us pity the narrator, then shifts focus with Suddenly to the humiliating placard (TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES). Repeated time phrases like afterwards, wherever I went, and night after night show the suffering continues, which increases sympathy.

One way the writer structures the text to create sympathy is by the beginning focus on a bleak setting. The long opening description of the ‘forlorn’ schoolroom, the caged bird and abandoned mice creates a sad mood, so we feel the boy is small and trapped before anything happens.

In addition, there is a clear turning point when the placard ‘TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.’ appears. The shift from description to dialogue with Mr Mell makes the humiliation immediate. Temporal markers like ‘afterwards’ show it continues, and the authority figure with a wooden leg shouting builds our pity.

A further structural feature is a change of focus towards the end. The listing of boys’ names and the repetition of the warning in his head show sympathy intensifying. The ending moves to dreams ‘night after night’, and sustained perspective shows the impact lasts, making the reader feel sorry for him.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the beginning the writer shows a bleak setting ('forlorn and desolate') and then introduces the placard 'TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.', which makes us feel sorry for him. This keeps coming up ('Show that badge conspicuous', 'placard', 'dreaming night after night'), so by the end the sympathy has grown.

One way the writer uses structure is by starting with the setting. In the opening, the “forlorn, desolate” schoolroom comes first, which makes the boy seem alone, so we feel sorry for him.

In addition, the focus changes in the middle to the placard, “TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES.” This is repeated again and again, and it is on his back, so his embarrassment is clear.

A further structural point is the ending moves to his dreams, with “night after night.” This shows time passing and he still suffers, so the sympathy builds from beginning to end.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Retrospective framing (“I see it now”) makes the memory feel immediate and enduring, inviting sympathy for pain that still persists (I see it now)
• Opening on a bleak, depersonalised setting (long lists of desks/forms) positions the narrator as small and vulnerable within a hostile space (forlorn and desolate)
• Early focus on trapped, neglected creatures mirrors the narrator’s position, priming empathetic responses through parallel confinement (Two miserable little white mice)
• Accumulated sensory detail and hyperbole build oppression before the reveal, so sympathy is seeded by atmosphere as well as events (strange unwholesome smell)
• A structural pivot arrives with the typographically stark placard, an abrupt public branding that shocks the reader into pity (TAKE CARE OF HIM. HE BITES)
• The delayed misunderstanding (searching for a dog) slows the reveal to spotlight childlike innocence, intensifying pathos when the truth lands (I’m looking for the dog)
• Time then stretches (“afterwards”) to show sustained humiliation and anxiety, shifting sympathy from an incident to an ongoing ordeal (What I suffered)
• The introduction of an authoritarian voice amplifies exposure and powerlessness, structuring repeated public shaming (Show that badge conspicuous)
• The circle of witnesses widens from servants to “everybody,” and the shame turns inward, so humiliation becomes self-identity (everybody, in a word)
• Refrains across spaces (“It was the same”) culminate in intrusive dreams, ending with psychological torment that maximises sympathy (night after night)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 41 to the end.

In this part of the source, the boy becomes paranoid that everyone is reading the sign on his back. The writer suggests the boy's own imagination is what makes the punishment so cruel.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the boy's paranoia and suffering
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey his vivid imagination
• 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 largely agree, showing how the writer makes the punishment’s cruelty arise from the boy’s interiority through repeated mental verbs—'always fancied,' 'there I imagined,' 'I conceived,' 'I dreaded'—and by projecting voices onto the carved names ('in what tone and with what emphasis HE would read'), culminating in intrusive dreams where he has 'my little night-shirt, and that placard.' It would also acknowledge the institutional catalyst—'that cruel man with the wooden leg' roaring 'Show that badge conspicuous'—which sharpens but does not eclipse the imagination-driven paranoia.

I largely agree that the boy’s imagination intensifies his suffering, making the punishment crueller than its physical reality, though Dickens also shows how external authority feeds that paranoia. From the outset, the placard is framed as an inescapable burden: the simile “on my shoulders like a knapsack” and the ironic aside “I had the consolation of carrying it” highlight its weight and the corrosive sarcasm of a child trying to cope. Hyperbole in “nobody can imagine” invites readers to grasp the extremity of his distress, while the adverbs “always” and “wherever” in “I always fancied that somebody was reading it” create an atmosphere of omnipresent surveillance generated from within. The paradox “no relief to turn round and find nobody; for wherever my back was, there I imagined somebody always to be” is especially telling: the synecdoche of “back” symbolises the unseen part of himself he cannot control, and therefore fears, so the gaze that haunts him is largely self-summoned.

However, Dickens also suggests the institution legitimates and magnifies his anxiety. The “cruel man with the wooden leg” “roared” in a “stupendous voice,” and the imperative “Show that badge conspicuous” functions as a public command to display shame. The austere setting, a “bare gravelled yard, open to all,” positions him as constantly on show. These choices establish the external scaffold of humiliation against which the boy’s imagination runs riot.

That imaginative escalation is clear in the catalogue “the servants… the butcher… the baker… everybody,” the polysyndeton echoing his snowballing certainty. Yet the retrospective narrator’s qualifiers—“I recollect… I positively began”—expose a cognitive distortion: his belief hardens into identity. When he confesses a “dread of myself, as a kind of wild boy who did bite,” the label on the placard becomes internalised; the punishment’s cruelty lies in making him believe the slur.

At the carved door, Dickens dramatises anticipation through modality and sound imagery. He reads each name and asks “in what tone and with what emphasis HE would read” the line, capitalisation foregrounding his fixation on others’ voices. The triadic sequence of imagined reactions—Steerforth to “pull my hair,” Traddles to “make game,” Demple to “sing it”—creates a choric humiliation. Personifying the names so they “send me to Coventry by general acclamation” underscores a chorus of rejection that is, crucially, conjured by him.

Structurally, anaphora in “It was the same…” extends the torment into empty spaces and, finally, into dreams. “Night after night” he is exposed in “my little night-shirt, and that placard,” the diminutive “little” amplifying vulnerability. Overall, I strongly agree: Dickens crafts a punishment whose real cruelty is its colonisation of the boy’s imagination, even as institutional shaming provides the spark that sustains the flame.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree because the punishment is intensified by his imagination: he 'always fancied that somebody was reading it', felt 'wherever my back was, there I imagined somebody always to be', and 'began to have a dread of myself', even 'dreaming night after night', showing paranoia making the shame inescapable. However, the writer also shows external pressure—the 'cruel man with the wooden leg' who 'roared' to 'Show that badge conspicuous' and the list of 'the servants... the butcher... the baker'—so the social gaze feeds his fear as much as his mind does.

I largely agree. The boy’s paranoia is foregrounded by the first-person voice and the ‘knapsack’ metaphor: the placard sits on his ‘shoulders’ as a burden he must always carry. He claims ‘nobody can imagine’ his pain and ‘I always fancied that somebody was reading it’. Even when ‘it was possible…not’ to be seen, ‘wherever my back was, there I imagined somebody always to be.’ This obsessive imagining makes the punishment constant.

Dickens does include real humiliation, which ‘aggravated my sufferings’: ‘that cruel man with the wooden leg’ ‘roared’, ‘Show that badge conspicuous, or I’ll report you!’ The direct speech and imperatives shame him in public. Yet the list ‘the servants… the butcher… the baker… everybody’ is hyperbolic. He ‘knew’ they read it, but this certainty comes from his mind. He even ‘began to have a dread of myself, as a kind of wild boy’, showing he internalises the label.

At the carved door, his imagination multiplies reactions. He cannot read a name without deciding ‘in what tone and with what emphasis HE would read “Take care of him. He bites.”’ The predicted responses—Steerforth would ‘pull my hair’, Traddles would ‘make game’, Demple would ‘sing it’—build a chorus of ridicule. Through personification, the ‘owners of all the names’ seem to ‘send me to Coventry… and to cry out’ together, so the mockery becomes a collective voice in his head.

Structurally, the anaphora ‘It was the same…’ spreads the fear from yard to desks to ‘groves of deserted bedsteads’, following him into sleep. The recurring dream ‘night after night’ ends with exposure—‘nothing on but my little night-shirt, and that placard’—so even in bed his imagination makes the shame inescapable.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: while authority publicly shames him, it is his vivid imagination that magnifies the punishment into paranoia and makes it most cruel.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree because his paranoia drives the cruelty: he says "I always fancied that somebody was reading it" and "there I imagined somebody always to be," and he even invents reactions like "pull my hair" or "make game of it." But there is also some real meanness, as the "cruel man with the wooden leg" "roared out" "Show that badge conspicuous."

I mostly agree with the statement. The boy becomes paranoid, and the writer shows his imagination makes the punishment feel endless.

At the start of this part, the first-person voice uses verbs like ‘fancied’ and ‘imagined’: ‘Whether it was possible for people to see me or not, I always fancied that somebody was reading it.’ This exaggeration makes his fear sound constant. There are real triggers too: the man with the wooden leg gives an imperative, ‘Show that badge conspicuous,’ in a ‘stupendous voice,’ which publicly shames him. But the boy’s mind turns it into ‘the servants… the butcher… the baker… everybody,’ a list that suggests paranoia.

As it goes on, his imagination gets more vivid. At the carved door, he ‘could not read a boy’s name, without inquiring in what tone’ each would mock him. The repeated verbs ‘conceived,’ ‘dreaded,’ and ‘fancied’ show a running fear. He even predicts Steerforth will ‘pull my hair,’ Traddles will ‘make game,’ and Demple will ‘sing it.’ The idiom ‘send me to Coventry’ and the number ‘five-and-forty’ increase his sense of isolation.

Finally, the structural repetition ‘It was the same…’ spreads the fear to desks, beds, and into sleep. His ‘dreaming night after night’ of wearing only a ‘little night-shirt, and that placard’ is humiliating imagery that shows the punishment following him everywhere.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: others humiliate him, but it is his imagination that makes it constant and therefore so cruel.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response typically shows simple agreement that the writer suggests the boy’s imagination makes the punishment cruel, using basic references like always fancied that somebody was reading it, I imagined somebody always to be, Take care of him. He bites!, and dreaming night after night to show his paranoia.

I mostly agree that the boy’s own imagination makes the punishment so cruel. The narrator says “I always fancied that somebody was reading it” and “wherever my back was, I imagined somebody always to be.” This repetition of “fancied” and “imagined” shows his paranoia.

The writer also uses a list: “the servants... the butcher... the baker... everybody.” The repeated word “read” makes it feel like everyone is looking at him, even if they are not. He even “began to have a dread of myself... a kind of wild boy who did bite,” showing he believes the sign.

At the old door of names, he pictures each boy’s reaction: “J. Steerforth… strong voice,” “Tommy Traddles… make game,” “George Demple… sing it.” This shows his vivid imagination.

However, the “cruel man with the wooden leg” also “aggravated my sufferings,” shouting, “Show that badge conspicuous.” In his dreams, people “scream and stare” at his “night-shirt, and that placard,” which shows his mind keeps it going.

Overall, I agree: the writer shows his fear mostly comes from his own thoughts and dreams, though others make it worse.

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:

• Childlike misreading sets up vulnerability and anxious imagination → we quickly sympathise and see fear beginning in his own head → Isn’t it a dog
• Bitter irony in describing the punishment as a “consolation” → sharpens the sense that his mind frames the burden as inescapable → the consolation of carrying it
• First-person fixation on being watched → strongly supports that imagination makes the punishment feel omnipresent and cruel → I always fancied
• Paradoxical spatial phrasing → intensifies paranoia that someone is always behind him, trapping him in his own thoughts → wherever my back was
• Authoritative intervention amplifies shame → shows external enforcement contributes, so cruelty isn’t solely internal, though imagination magnifies it → Show that badge conspicuous
• Accumulative listing of readers → conveys a felt universality that is largely imagined, heightening humiliation → the butcher read it
• Internalised label reshapes identity → the true damage is psychological, as he starts believing the stigma → a dread of myself
• Projected performances onto carved names → anticipatory dread before the boys return demonstrates cruelty driven by conjecture → would sing it
• Hyperbolic collective exclusion → the imagined chorus makes isolation feel total, reinforcing the claim → send me to Coventry
• Recurring dreams export shame into safe memories → powerfully shows his mind perpetuating the punishment beyond the playground → night after night

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local history project is collecting creative writing about workplaces that have now disappeared.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a video rental shop on a quiet evening from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a person's last day at work before their workplace closes forever.

(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 bell above the glass door gives a thin, apologetic ring, then hush returns. The neon OPEN sign stammers; evening gathers in the corners like spilled ink. Fluorescent strips drone a soft, officious hum; dust lifts and hangs in their honest glare. The air is a cocktail of warm plastic, cardboard glue, and a ghost of buttered popcorn—familiar, slightly stale, oddly comforting. The carpet is tired—lozenges faded to a patient hush—holding the day’s footprints as if it knows each one by name.

Here, shelves march in obedient aisles: lacquered cases stand shoulder to shoulder, spines squared, sleeves blooming with lurid artwork—explosions frozen mid-bloom, lovers mid-breath, monsters mid-scream. White dividers declare the territory in capitals—ACTION, COMEDY, ROMANCE, HORROR—an alphabetised map of other people’s evenings. Tilt a case and the cellophane winks; look straight on and the image becomes a small stained-glass window into a life you might borrow. Some spines bow; others lean, conspiratorial. A curling, sun-faded sign, earnest, says: Be kind, rewind.

By the counter, a glass case offers pick-and-mix no one quite believes in; jelly snakes sit under a fine sugar bloom. A biro is tethered by string to a clipboard of membership forms, ink-smudged from hesitant pens. High on a bracket, the old television mutters trailers in washed-out colour—faces haloed by tracking fuzz (a brief snowstorm of static)—and the VCR coughs, clicks, whirrs. Somewhere out of sight, a dedicated rewinder ticks on—steady, relentless, almost maternal. Notices blossom on the wall: No food near tapes; Late fees apply; Staff picks with cheery stars. Steam feathers from a chipped mug; the clerk, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbow, turns a case in his hands as if shelving a memory.

Meanwhile, the evening presses its forehead to the glass. Streetlight hangs in amber lozenges on the window; the world outside moves in muffled, manageable strokes. Inside, a couple confer in murmurs—something light, something comforting, something with a twist. A boy in a blazer trails a fingertip along the alphabet and pauses, tasting titles. The returns slot answers with a soft thud; the clerk raises two fingers in an understated salute, then scribbles a name onto a card. “Thanks,” someone says—not to him precisely, but to the ritual, to the certainty of choosing.

And yet the quiet carries a current. Each case is a promise; each aisle, a small road. Time seems to slow—no, to dilate—until even the dust has a schedule. The shop breathes: in with the door, out with the bell; in with the rewind, out with the click. It is a reliquary for Friday nights, for sleepovers and solitary bowls of cereal at midnight, for laughter that leaves shadows on the wall. Perhaps the carpet does exhale yesterday’s rain; perhaps the neon is a heartbeat. Soon the sign will flip, the key will turn, the hum will subside… but not yet. For now, light lies tenderly over plastic; the rewinder murmurs; a row of black spines waits—patient, hopeful, perfectly still.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour when screens remember they are only cloth; when carpets keep the imprint of last night’s footsteps; when a building forgets its bustle and simply breathes. The Rialto—Art Deco ribs, gilt smudged by decades of fingers—exhaled a faint sweetness of stale popcorn and floor polish. Dust drifted in the slanted light like confetti that never quite fell. Row upon row of velour seats yawned in a red, drowsy chorus; the curtain held itself very still, as if practising for silence. It was the last morning. The world, obtuse as ever, continued.

Iris pushed the key into the obstinate lock and lifted before she turned; the door acquiesced with its familiar sigh. She had learned that trick at sixteen—lift, turn, lean—long before the posters faded and the hairline cracks mapped the foyer ceiling. Fluorescents trembled, then steadied. She set out the A-board (farewell double bill) and balanced on the stepladder to dress the marquee: THANK YOU FOR WATCHING. The letters were a mismatched alphabet rescued from coffee tins, enamelled survivors with a patina of thumbprints. A gull cackled above the street; it sounded irreverent, which felt appropriate.

Inside, she counted the float, coins chirring lightly—ritual, redundant, reassuring. She lifted the glass lid of the popcorn drum and breathed in butter and ghosts. There was still a cola ring on the counter from the boy who’d tripped last Friday; she wiped it into a perfect shine. In the auditorium, she ran her palm along the pewter rail of the aisle; her skin came away with a silvery dust. Meanwhile, upstairs, the projector waited, a benign animal in hibernation. When she whispered, “Soon,” she wasn’t sure whether she meant to it or to herself.

The letter from Head Office lay under the till: with sincere regret, due to ongoing restructuring, legacy sites will close. Legacy sounded both flattering and funereal. A decade ago, Mr Patel had taught her to splice film with a blade and tape: the slick, satisfying kiss of two frames meeting; the way light stitched through celluloid and made pictures move. Now the server hummed—clean, efficient, merciless. The tins had gone. The smell of metal and vinegar had been replaced by a blue LED that simply said ready. Progress, she told customers with a smile she had not quite believed.

Back then, on her first day, she’d threaded the projector with trembling fingers and understood, with a surge that rushed ear to ankle, that stories could be fed like ribbon through a machine. She had sold tickets to couples who held hands as if love were biodegradable, use it while you can; to widows who came for the company of light; to teenagers who smuggled in laughter under their coats. The Rialto had gathered them all and made them silhouettes—equal, anonymous, tender.

By ten, the town would mosey in: Mr Lewin with his hearing aids turned up too far; Alma with her knitting, who always chose Seat H12; a boy with a tooth-gap grin asking, unreasonably early, “Will there be popcorn?” There would be speeches (brief), a commemorative photo (awkward), and a last show that felt more like a wake. Yet now, it was just the click of her shoes and the measured tick of the lobby clock.

She climbed to the booth, hand on the banister, every scuff a biography. The projector’s switch was cool, then warm beneath her thumb. Light would soon pour and inhabit the dust like a living thing. She stood very still, listening to the building hold its breath. How do you say goodbye to something that speaks in light? Perhaps you don’t. Perhaps you let it flicker, one last time, and pretend—just for the length of a film—that nothing ends.

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

Option A:

The sign above the door sputters to life, a faint neon whisper the colour of sherbet, announcing OPEN to a street that has already decided to be quiet. The window holds a mosaic of faded posters: action men frozen mid-leap; a cartoon dog mid-bark; a romance couple paused before the kiss. Evening settles like a shawl on the shopfront; the bell's jingle is small and obliging.

Inside, the light is unanimous and kind; fluorescent strips hum like a soft, persistent bee. The air smells of warm dust and plastic, with a faint ozone of old electronics. Shelves tessellate into narrow aisles; black spines compile a compressed cityscape, vertiginous and precise. Retaped labels bloom at the corners; categories are stencilled with optimism: New Releases, Classics, Family.

Cases sit shoulder to shoulder, clamshells scuffed to a matt patina, their windows spidered with fine scratches. Cover art shouts in primary colours; fonts proclaim INVINCIBLE, ENCHANTED, RETURNS—promises in gloss and grain. Between them, a ribbon of orphaned tape sleeps like a shed snakeskin. Behind the counter, a handwritten sign is politely stern: Be kind—please rewind. Rewind, rewind.

On the counter, a ledger lies open, ruled lines steady as a school exercise book; a pencil is set diagonally, wood bitten to a crescent. A bell, smudged to brass, waits; beside it, a jar of boiled sweets has fused into a pastel boulder, the toffee smell faint but persistent. Laminated membership cards fan in a drawer; next to them, a stamp declares LATE FEE in uncompromising red. Behind, the proprietor, cardiganed and patient, coaxes the tracking on a small TV; the film whispers while white snow scuds across faces like weather.

Somewhere in the aisles, a single customer drifts—reading the backs as if deciphering prophecies. Plastic clicks softly as cases are lifted and returned; the shelf murmurs, then is still. He pauses by a cardboard standee that leans like a tired guard; its smile has cracked at one corner. Outside, a bus sluices past, an aquarium of light across the ceiling; then the quiet folds back in.

Time moves differently here: elastic, rewound, paused. Old titles return season after season, loyally, as if the stories are regulars. Fingerprints flower on the counter and are wiped away; dust resettles; the hum does not stop. When the door opens, the night inhales; the bell gives its small, dutiful tremor; the sign continues to glow—modest, persistent—over a street that listens.

Option B:

Friday. The last morning the lights would stutter awake; the last time the glass door would sigh under my hand. The key was colder than it should have been, a thin silver bone between my fingers, and the street outside held its breath as if the whole town already knew. When the lock gave, a small echo ran ahead of me into the foyer—thin, tinny, brave. It smelled as it always had: coffee and toner and old carpet that had memorised our footsteps.

In the open-plan room of the Courier, chairs waited in obedient rows like pews; monitors slept, their blank screens reflecting a washed-out sky. The clock above Reception ticked on, indifferent as ever. Promotional banners drooped; the fern by the window had surrendered weeks ago. Dust made a faint constellation on my desk—tiny starlets caught in the early light.

I put the cardboard box down and started to pack, because endings prefer ritual. There were the ordinary relics: a mug with a hairline crack; a blue lanyard (my photograph a fraction too stern); a panda of a stapler; press passes fading at the edges; Post-its that curled like autumn leaves; a staff handbook freckled with coffee. The desk was a palimpsest of us—coffee rings, scribbles, an imprinted indentation where my elbow had leaned for years. I found a note from my first week—Don’t forget page numbers!—and heard again the gentle ribbing over a headline I’d mangled. We learned quickly here, or we laughed and tried again.

“Big day,” Tom said, arriving with rain still glittering on his jacket. He hovered by my chair; we had, between us, the script everyone had been reciting all week.

“We’ll keep in touch.”

“Definitely,” I said, and we both felt the word stretch and thin. He squeezed my shoulder. His eyes moved around the room, as if committing the precise shade of the carpet to memory, and then he went to his own desk to fold his life into a box.

Before nine I took the stairs to the presses. They sat like patient monsters in the concrete cavern; last night’s run had left a warm, metallic breath in the air. Buildings don’t die, I thought; they empty out slowly. What would I be without the daily clatter of deadlines? Work had been scaffolding around my ordinary life. At eight fifty-five I set the kettle to boil—one more time—and waited for the first knock on the glass.

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

Option A:

The neon OPEN sign stutters in the window, breathing a tired-blue glow into the evening. Outside, the street is rinsed with rain; puddles hold the sign’s reflection like coins not quite sunk. In the glass, faded posters lean while hand-written notices bruise the corners: New Releases; Two-for-One Tuesday. The door carries a bell on a loop of twine. When it rings, the sound is careful, unwilling to disturb the quiet.

Inside, the air is cool and faintly sweet-sour: dust, warm plastic, the ghost of popcorn. Fluorescent strips buzz; they make colours honest, almost too honest, on row after row of cases. The aisles are narrow streets. Sun-faded labels: Horror in jagged red, Comedy in polite yellow, Classics peeling at the edge. Cracked clamshells sit beside slick DVD sleeves; some spines lean, resigned. The linoleum is scuffed to a waxy sheen, the mat at the counter grips your step.

Behind the counter, a kettle sulks in its own steam and the clerk—middle-aged, or perhaps just tired—taps a biro on a pad. A monitor glows with a drifting screensaver; the scanner chirrups once when tested. By the till, a jar marked Late Fees is smudged with fingerprints; beside it, a bowl of toffees waits in clouded cellophane. Please rewind tapes, says a laminated sign. In the wall, the returns slot clunks.

Meanwhile a man in a fraying cardigan moves slowly, lips shaping titles he remembers; a teenager in a hoodie skims the Horror shelf, thumb skittering along plastic. High in a corner, a television murmurs a trailer through static, colours washing the ceiling. The bell gives a reflex shiver when the door opens; a damp draught noses in, smelling of wet pavement and distant chips. Outside, a bicycle leans under the window, rain ticking from its spokes.

Here, the night seems to settle and unspool at once. Each cover offers a promise—two hours away, a laugh, a chase, a kiss. The shop holds itself like a time capsule, guarding strangers’ evenings. The clerk stamps due dates and slides sleeves into a plastic bag, the sign flickers and steadies, the street breathes; everything feels almost paused. When the door swings to, the bell’s thin note hangs, then is swallowed by the ordinary dark.

Option B:

Morning crept in like an apology; pale light slid under the tired velvet curtains of the foyer. The neon COMET sign hummed above the doors; two letters had failed, so it read COME. Dust drifted in the strip of light, turning the ticket desk into a small altar to other people's Friday nights.

I turned the key, clicked on the lamps, and the wall of film cases blinked back like a retired army. On the noticeboard a printed sheet stared, stiff and final: Closing Forever — Thank You. I counted the lasts because I didn't know what else to do: last roll of tickets; last tub of kernels.

Lorna arrived with two paper cups and that brave smile she saves for customers and funerals. "Morning," she said, like the word might crack. We stood under a poster for a film no one came to see. Behind us, the carpet, patterned in faded stars, swallowed our footsteps.

By eight, Dave shuffled down from the projection room with a toolbox and a packet of mints. He tapped the machine as if it were a tired dog. "She'll do one more day," he murmured, though the projector sounded different—less whirr, more wheeze. We all did.

While Lorna balanced the float, I pulled down the old stills, sliding the pins out carefully; it felt like unhooking stubborn memories. A faded photo caught me: seventeen, a borrowed tie, mascara on my sleeve after a difficult customer. I learned to tear tickets straight; I learned to say 'enjoy the show' and to mean it.

By nine the town began to stir. An elderly couple waited in their best coats, early as always, their breath making small, polite clouds. I opened the doors; the bell gave its thin ring, brave as a bird in winter.

We set up for the matinée with deliberate care—scoops lined, syrup lids tightened, trailers queued as if precision could hold back the tide. I tore the first ticket of the last day; the sound was absurdly loud, an easy rip in a thin thing. The paper curled in my hand; the story began to end.

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

Option A:

The shop sits in a pool of yellow light, quiet as if underwater. The neon OPEN sign flickers; the bell above the glass door hasn’t rung in a while. Fluorescent tubes hum, tinting the aisles a pale winter colour. The air smells of dust and warm plastic, with a faint sugary popcorn note. Outside the street is slow; inside, everything feels paused.

Rows and rows of shelves make thin corridors; cases stand like book spines, glossy and scratched. Titles line up in uneven fonts, some bold, some almost rubbed away. Stickers try to guide you: New Releases, Classics, Family, Foreign. The posters on the wall peel at the corners, faces washed out; a superhero’s grin looks tired. When a case is pulled free it squeaks, and the space it leaves is a neat shadow. The carpet keeps the soft memory of shoes.

At the counter the clerk leans on an elbow, flicking through the returns; his keyboard clicks; a thin monitor shows names and dates that will be forgotten tomorrow. A glass jar on the desk holds old membership cards; the barcodes are frayed. The till sits half open, coins dull as old buttons. Above, a small television perches on a bracket; a black-and-white car chase buzzes, voices tinny and brave. The clock on the wall ticks—slow, steady—measuring the evening.

There are only a few customers: a man in a wool coat at the horror shelf, smiling at a title he once knew; a girl pressing her hands to Family while her mother reads a blurb. Plastic clicks; a box snaps shut. The door trembles and the bell rings, a soft chime. Outside the sky sinks to ink. The OPEN sign blinks once more—a weary wink—and the clerk flips the card to Closed, leaving the films to wait.

Option B:

Morning seeped through the old office like weak tea, pooling in corners the hoover never reached. The flourescent bars over our desks buzzed; a tired choir. Dust lifted when I drew up the blinds and the street showed itself in slices: buses, shoes. We taped a small sign to the window last week — Closing Friday — and it looked smaller, as if it wanted to hide.

I slid my key into the glass door and paused. For years the lock had stuck, and I could open it with a twist my hands knew by heart; today my fingers were clumsy. The familiar stew of smells wrapped me: coffee, printer ink, floor polish, a breath of last night’s rain. I set my bag down and began to pack what was mine — a chipped mug, a brave plant, a photograph of us in silly hats.

By nine, the others drifted in, shoulders hunched against a wind none of us could see. We made jokes — that is what you do — and ate supermarket cake at ten, the icing gritty. Mark cleared his throat and told us, again, thank you for your graft, thank you for staying, thank you for this place. His words fell like paperclips into the quiet. The phone rang twice; we answered — Sales, good morning — though there was nothing left to sell.

I walked the floor like a caretaker, touching what stayed: the dent in the carpet, the noticeboard frayed with pins, the window that never opened. I looked at the noticeboard, it was full of curling posters and a forgotten Christmas star. By four we turned off the lights; the room held its breath — then let it go. I locked the door, lifted my box, and watched the sign tremble.

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

Option A:

The neon sign sputters; a blue block of light bathing the glass door. Inside, the air is warm and still; smells of plastic and a little butter-salt drift from a popcorn machine that no longer works. The fluorescent tubes hum, then settle: a thin sound. Shelves press close, row after row of black tapes with paper jackets, their faces glossy and tired. On the carpet, a pattern of stars is rubbed to fog. A small bell above the door hangs crooked, waiting. Outside, the street is quiet—quieter than the shop, somehow—like the evening is holding its breath.

At the counter, the clerk doodles on a pad; chewing gum slowly. The old computer screen throws a pale square at his chin. Flyers are curled at the edges, a poster of an action film peels like old paint. The cases are cracked; stickers say NEW in faded marker. In the horror aisle a fake skull sits, dusty and amused. The air tastes of dust; and of tape. Names are arranged alphabetically but the alphabet slips, letters leaning, numbers stuck on backwards in places.

Then the bell decides to ring. A woman steps in with a boy, both murmuring. Their footsteps squeak, faint as mice. He runs a finger along the spines, stopping sometimes to pull one free, to turn it in his hands. The stories look back through little windows; promises, explosions, kisses. They whisper read the blurb, read the blurb. The clerk straightens; he says evening, it comes out gentle. For a moment, the shop feels full, like a small cinema waiting.

Option B:

Morning. The last morning; the last coffee; the last click of the clock that never kept time. The building seemed to hold its breath as I pushed through the glass doors. Fluorescent tubes hummed a tired song above empty desks, and dust floated in a strip of weak sunlight like pale snow. Boxes were stacked like coffins, taped and labelled. Posters peeled from the noticeboard, curling like leaves. It smelled of cardboard, cold tea, and warm metal of computers cooling.

I set my bag down at my station. My plant had gone yellow at the edges; it bowed to the end. The mug with the chipped rim waited for me. I wrapped it in newspaper, the paper crinkled in the stillness. I knew it would be quiet, I didn't expect it to feel this hollow. On my first day I wrote my name on a sticky note and stuck it to the monitor, like claiming a little corner. Today I peel it off; the glue clings to my fingertips and leaves a faint ghost of me behind.

By ten, others drifted in, lighter on their feet, not wanting to wake something. We passed biscuits in a box that used to hold paper; we laughed at small things, the laughter sounded thin. The manager would do a speech at noon—thank you for your service, keys in the tray. What do you take with you when a place closes; what do you leave? I ran my fingers over my nameplate and waited.

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

Option A:

Outside, the neon OPEN sign blinks slowly. The bell above the door gives a small, polite ring and then is quiet. Inside, the air feels cooler; even the dust seems to move slower. Fluorescent lights hum on the ceiling and make pale islands on the worn carpet.

Row after row of tapes and DVDs run along narrow aisles. Cases with cracked plastic and curled stickers stand shoulder to shoulder, genres written in fading marker: Action, Comedy, Family. The shelves lean a little and creak. Posters for old films hang, corners peeling, colours washed out. There is a faint smell of cardboard, plastic, and something sweet.

At the counter, a tired clerk taps on a keyboard. A little TV - muted - flickers with trailers that repeat again and again. A sign says Please Be Kind, Rewind, another warns about late fees. A boy with his mum whispers at Horror, then drifts to Family; a soft laugh escapes.

Further back, the rewinder whirs: a patient insect. Outside, cars slide past without stopping. As the clock ticks towards closing, the shop seems to fold into itself, calmer, still. The bell will ring again, maybe, or maybe not; the OPEN sign keeps blinking, blinking.

Option B:

Last day.

The poster on the glass door said Closing Friday, permanently. The letters looked too bold, like they were shouting, even though the corridor was empty. When I pushed inside the office, the fluorescent lights buzzed; the air smelled of dust and cold coffee. Cardboard boxes were stacked by the reception like little brown boats. My lanyard felt heavy and the old clock was louder; I heard it over the printer.

I tried to act normal. Boot up, log in, check the inbox. But each click had a tiny echo. Last coffee. Last login. Last sigh. I began to pack, carefully at first: pens, stapler, a cracked mug that said Best Team, the plant with one brave green leaf. The notice board was almost bare, only a curled photo of our Christmas party was left.

Colleagues drifted in quietly, like people entering a library. We signed a goodbye card; a strange ceremony in blue ink, jokes and sorrys squeezed together. Someone laughed, then stopped. How can a place that held nine years of my mornings just finish?

By lunchtime the sun crawled across the blinds and the office looked different - thinner, emptier. The building was closing: forever, and we still had work to do.

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

Option A:

The shop is small and quiet. The air is cool and it smell like dust and plastic. There is a buzzing from the fluorescent lights, a soft hum, like a fridge. Rows of tapes stand in tall shelves, like soldiers that never move. The carpet is thin and old and it has little stains.

The bell on the door clinks once. Then nothing.

The cases are glossy - they catch the light and send it back. Faces on the covers grin. My fingers slide along the edges, back and forward, the plastic is cold.

In the corner a fan turns, it pushes warm air then cold air. A poster hangs by one pin and the corners curl.

The man at the desk looks bored. He tap the counter with a pen, tap tap tap. Outside the street is quiet and the window shows my face like a pale ghost.

Option B:

Morning. The shop smells of dust and old coffee. Last day. The paper sign in the window says Closing Down Today. The lights buzz and the shelves look tired. I stand by the door and listen to the quiet, it is a heavy kind. I try to smile at the empty row.

Mr Lane nods and says, make it neat. I pack cups in a box. The tape screams and sticks to my fingers. I run my hand along the counter, it has scratches like little rivers. Only three customers come, two say sorry and one just shrugs. We was here for years and now its almost done. I turn off the music and it stops quick. I look at the till, it shows 0.00, I feel small. Finaly I pocket the key beacuse no one else will. I lock the door.

Forever.

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

Option A:

The shop is quiet on the evening, like it is holding it's breath. Rows of tapes stand up, the same faces, same colour, row after row, row after row. The light buzzes and flickers, you can hear it, the air smells like dust and old plastic. A poster curls on the wall, a shark with big teeth, I look then I look at the door bell. Nobody comes, the man at the desk yawns and he don't look up. Outside the street is orange and wet, I think about chips for tea. I touch a box, the plastic is smooth; I put it back, I dont know wich one.

Option B:

Morning. Last day at work. The shop smells like dust and old bread. There is boxes on the floor and tape on the desk and the lights buzz. I sweep the counter slow, dust goes up like smoke. The window sign says we are closing forever! red letters, big and loud. My boss says thanks and he look tired. I think about my first day, I was scared and the till beeped and the bell rang and now it is quiet, too quiet. I put the keys in my pocket, the door feels heavy like a stone. We will shut it's doors at six.