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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 What does the banker claim about his finances when addressing Monte Cristo?: That nobody has ever doubted the scale of his financial resources – 1 mark
• 1.2 What is said to have not been questioned?: the extent of the banker's resources – 1 mark
• 1.3 In the sentence containing "It seems, then, reserved for me," which adverb is used to describe how the words are said?: coldly – 1 mark
• 1.4 What punctuation mark ends the final sentence?: with a full stop – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 16 to 40 of the source:

16 demanded, which certainly must have some motive.” Once more Danglars bit his lips. It was the second time he had been worsted, and this time on his own ground. His forced politeness sat

21 awkwardly upon him, and approached almost to impertinence. Monte Cristo on the contrary, preserved a graceful suavity of demeanor, aided by a certain degree of simplicity he

26 could assume at pleasure, and thus possessed the advantage. “Well, sir,” resumed Danglars, after a brief silence, “I will endeavor to make myself understood, by requesting you to inform me for what sum

31 you propose to draw upon me?” “Why, truly,” replied Monte Cristo, determined not to lose an inch of the

36 ground he had gained, “my reason for desiring an ‘unlimited’ credit was precisely because I did not know how much money I might need.” The banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand. So

How does the writer use language here to show Danglars’s discomfort and Monte Cristo’s calm assurance? 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: Level 4 responses perceptively analyse contrast and metaphor to track power: Danglars’s discomfort is conveyed through martial lexis and personification — he is "worsted" on "his own ground", his "forced politeness sat awkwardly upon him" after a "brief silence" — while Monte Cristo’s calm assurance appears in the antithesis "on the contrary", his "graceful suavity of demeanor" and control in "possessed the advantage"/"determined not to lose an inch of the ground he had gained". They also evaluate sentence form and register, contrasting Danglars’s circumlocutory deference ("I will endeavor to make myself understood", "requesting you to inform me") with Monte Cristo’s poised declarative rationale ("my reason for desiring an 'unlimited' credit"), to explain how diction and syntax construct unease versus composure.

The writer foregrounds Danglars’s discomfort through visceral detail and personification. The iterative "Once more Danglars bit his lips" hints at habitual, suppressed anxiety. The metaphor "His forced politeness sat awkwardly upon him" imagines courtesy as an ill‑fitting garment; "awkwardly" and "almost to impertinence" imply strain that edges toward rudeness. By antithesis, "Monte Cristo on the contrary" introduces poise: "graceful suavity of demeanor" conveys effortless elegance, while "simplicity he could assume at pleasure" implies a controlled performance, a mask he can don at will.

Moreover, a sustained semantic field of contest frames their talk. Danglars has been "worsted" "on his own ground", intensifying humiliation; Monte Cristo "possessed the advantage" and is "determined not to lose an inch of the ground he had gained". This territorial metaphor presents conversation as measured advance. "The banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand" uses the tentative reporting verb "thought" to undercut his confidence, the irony hinting he only believes he controls events.

Furthermore, sentence form and register crystallise the contrast. Danglars’s utterance is circumlocutory and hedged: "I will endeavor to make myself understood, by requesting you to inform me…" The polysyllabic periphrasis and the "brief silence" betray unease. By contrast, Monte Cristo’s reply is balanced and calmly reasoned: the measured interjection "Why, truly" and the adverb "precisely" project composure, while the causal clause "because I did not know how much money I might need" makes an audacious demand sound plausible. Thus, even "unlimited" credit sounds measured.

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 explain that Danglars’ discomfort is shown by the anxious action “bit his lips”, the strained metaphor “his forced politeness sat awkwardly upon him, and approached almost to impertinence”, and hesitant phrasing where, “after a brief silence,” he will “endeavor to make myself understood.” By contrast, Monte Cristo’s calm assurance is conveyed through the positive word choice “graceful suavity of demeanor” and “simplicity he could assume at pleasure,” reinforced by the control metaphor “not to lose an inch of the ground he had gained” and his confident clarity about “‘unlimited’ credit.”

The writer presents Danglars’s discomfort through physical detail and metaphor. The verb phrase “bit his lips” suggests suppressed anxiety, while “the second time he had been worsted… on his own ground” emphasizes humiliation. The metaphor “His forced politeness sat awkwardly upon him” likens courtesy to an ill-fitting garment, implying his manners are unnatural and “approached almost to impertinence” as his control slips.

Furthermore, Monte Cristo’s calm assurance is constructed through contrast and premodification. The connective “on the contrary” introduces his “graceful suavity of demeanor”, and the noun phrase “a certain degree of simplicity he could assume at pleasure” shows calculated ease, so he “possessed the advantage.” In dialogue, his measured opener “Why, truly,” and the justification for an “‘unlimited’ credit” create a composed, reasonable tone; the hyperbolic “unlimited” underlines confidence.

Moreover, sentence forms and conflict imagery reinforce the power balance. Danglars’s formal, lengthy request—“I will endeavor to make myself understood”—feels strained, and the pause “after a brief silence” signals hesitation. By contrast, the narrator’s military metaphor “not to lose an inch of the ground he had gained” and the idiom “upper hand” frame Monte Cristo as strategically in control. Therefore, language choices highlight Danglars’s unease against Monte Cristo’s poised authority.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies negative verbs/adjectives like "bit his lips", "forced politeness", and "sat awkwardly upon him" to show Danglars is uneasy, contrasted with Monte Cristo’s calm through "graceful suavity" and "could assume at pleasure". Notes simple contrasts and techniques such as the power metaphor "not to lose an inch of the ground he had gained", Danglars’s tentative question "for what sum", and Monte’s assured talk of "‘unlimited’ credit" to show Monte is in control.

The writer uses verbs and description to show Danglars’s discomfort. The verb “bit his lips” suggests nerves and frustration, and “His forced politeness sat awkwardly upon him” personifies his manners to show they don’t fit, almost “impertinence.” The phrase “worsted…on his own ground” also makes him seem beaten where he should feel safe.

Furthermore, the writer presents Monte Cristo with positive adjectives: he “preserved a graceful suavity of demeanor.” These words make him seem calm. The phrase “simplicity he could assume at pleasure” suggests control, so he “possessed the advantage.”

Additionally, sentence forms highlight the contrast. After “a brief silence,” Danglars asks a long, careful question, “I will endeavor to make myself understood,” which sounds unsure. By contrast, Monte Cristo begins, “Why, truly,” and the metaphor “not to lose an inch of the ground” shows confident control. Overall, this contrast shows Danglars’s discomfort and Monte Cristo’s calm assurance.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 response might spot words showing Danglars’s discomfort like bit his lips, forced politeness, and awkwardly, and simple contrasts showing Monte Cristo’s calm such as graceful suavity, simplicity, and determined not to lose an inch. It might also notice the direct question for what sum and the confident phrase ‘unlimited’ credit, suggesting Monte Cristo is in control.

The writer uses the verb "bit" and the adjective "forced" to show Danglars's discomfort. "Bit his lips" suggests he is tense, and "his forced politeness sat awkwardly upon him" is a metaphor that makes his politeness seem unnatural.

Moreover, the writer uses noun phrases for Monte Cristo: "graceful suavity of demeanor" and "simplicity he could assume at pleasure." These words make him sound calm and in control; he "possessed the advantage."

Furthermore, Danglars asks a question, "for what sum...?", showing uncertainty, while the metaphor "not to lose an inch of the ground" shows Monte Cristo's confidence.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Repetition and gesture: recurring self-restraint signals mounting discomfort and suppressed irritation (bit his lips)
• Diction of defeat on home turf: humiliation intensified by losing where he should be strongest (on his own ground)
• Ill-fitting facade: strained civility feels unnatural, edging toward loss of control (sat awkwardly)
• Structural juxtaposition: the pivot to contrast highlights Monte Cristo’s poised composure (on the contrary)
• Controlled persona: calm presented as a deliberate, effortless choice, implying mastery (assume at pleasure)
• Over-formal circumlocution: anxious, deferential phrasing reveals uncertainty and lack of confidence (endeavor to make myself understood)
• Measured politeness: gentle discourse marker conveys ease and unruffled authority (Why, truly)
• Strategic conflict metaphor: frames the exchange as a contest he controls, reinforcing assurance (ground he had gained)
• Semantic precision with irony: reframing the request shows cool logic and control of terms ('unlimited' credit)
• Power idiom undercut: his hoped-for dominance feels tentative, the abrupt continuation building tension (take the upper hand)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how drama intensifies by the end of 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 perceptively track the escalating power struggle and tonal shifts, contrasting Danglars “drawing himself up with a haughty air” with Monte Cristo’s “graceful suavity of demeanor” and refusal to yield the “ground he had gained,” and noting how Danglars’ attempted “upper hand” is punctured by the interruption “I beg your pardon.” It would identify the structural pivot from talk to action as the count “drew forth two orders” “payable at sight,” provoking visceral fallout (“trembled,” “dilated horribly”) and, by the end, a dramatic reversal—Danglars “entirely vanquished,” awed by “three letters of unlimited credit,” conceding “I am at your orders.”

One way the writer structures drama is through a tightly controlled dialogic exchange that engineers shifting power dynamics. The turn-taking accelerates into paratactic, stichomythic ripostes—“I said a million.” “But could I do with a million?”—so the pace quickens and the banker’s authority is repeatedly undercut by interruption (“I beg your pardon”). Even punctuation works dramatically: the suspended “million——” signals overreach, immediately punctured by Monte Cristo. This verbal fencing is mirrored by physical staging: Danglars “drawing himself up” and “throwing himself back” contrasts with Monte Cristo’s “graceful suavity,” a structural juxtaposition that primes the reader for a reversal. Signposts like “once more” and “second time” chart a cumulative pattern of defeats, intensifying the contest.

In addition, the writer delays a key revelation to create a volta. Monte’s request for “unlimited” credit withholds specifics until the midpoint, when the coup de théâtre arrives: he “took from his pocket” two orders for 500,000 francs, then escalates via accumulation—a triadic list of houses (“Arstein & Eskeles… Rothschild… Baring… Lafitte”). This progressive disclosure raises the stakes each beat. The pace then deliberately slows into a zoom-in on reaction—“he trembled… the pupils of his eyes… dilated”—so the moment lands viscerally. Authorial intrusion (“A man like Danglars… The blow had struck home”) frames the scene as a strategic rout, guiding the reader’s judgement.

A further structural choice is the arc from confrontation to capitulation, which concentrates drama towards the end. Gesture choreographs status: Monte “held [the letters] carelessly,” while Danglars “scrutinize[s]” them minutely, before he is “entirely vanquished.” The tonal register flips to submission—“I am at your orders,” “bowed assentingly”—a clear denouement that confirms Monte’s dominance and resolves the tension the scene has meticulously built.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response clearly explains the structural arc and power shift across the dialogue: from Danglars 'drawing himself up with a haughty air' and pausing 'after a brief silence' to Monte Cristo’s controlling interruptions and escalation ('I beg your pardon', 'I said a million', 'could I do with a million?'), with a decisive turning point when he 'drew forth two orders on the treasury'. It then comments on the climax and resolution—narrative signposting ('The blow had struck home'), physical reaction ('he trembled'), defeat ('entirely vanquished') and final submission ('I am at your orders')—to show how the drama intensifies by the end.

One way the writer structures the extract to create drama is through fast, adversarial dialogue that sets a power struggle at the opening. Danglars’ boast that “the extent of my resources has never yet been questioned” is met by Monte Cristo’s cold challenge, which quickens the pace. The narration contrasts his “forced politeness” with the count’s “graceful suavity”, sharpening the conflict and framing a contest for control.

In addition, the drama rises through interruptions and staged revelations that create a clear turning point. Monte Cristo cuts in—“I beg your pardon”—and flips “I said a million” with “But could I do with a million?”, undermining Danglars’ “upper hand”. The focus then shifts to proof as he “drew forth two orders… for 500,000 francs”, a climactic reveal followed by “he trembled” and “dilated” pupils.

A further structural choice is the controlled resolution after the climax, marked by a shift in tone and status. The arrogant banker becomes deferential, “rising as if to salute” and admitting “I can be no longer mistrustful,” before yielding, “I am at your orders.” Closing with “Danglars bowed assentingly” completes the arc from challenge to submission, delivering decisive dramatic closure.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses back-and-forth dialogue to build tension, contrasting Danglars "drawing himself up with a haughty air" with Monte Cristo speaking "coldly" and even interrupting with "I beg your pardon". The drama intensifies when he reveals "two orders", so Danglars "trembled" and is "entirely vanquished", ending with the power shift of "I am at your orders."

One way the writer creates drama is by starting with tense dialogue and questions. Even though this is from the middle, the extract opens in a dispute, which grabs us. At the start, they argue about ‘resources’ and ‘by what right’, so conflict is clear. The question-and-answer pattern keeps the pace quick.

In addition, the drama builds through escalation in the middle. Danglars boasts about ‘a million’, and Monte Cristo interrupts, ‘I beg your pardon’. These short exchanges and interruptions increase the pace and show a power struggle. This creates suspense about who has the upper hand.

A further structural feature is the shift at the end. When Monte Cristo shows ‘two orders’ and letters, the focus moves to reaction: Danglars ‘trembled’ and is ‘entirely vanquished’. This feels like a climax, then a resolution with ‘I am at your orders’, so the drama peaks and then settles.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer uses a back-and-forth conversation to build drama, starting with Danglars confident (drawing himself up, taking the upper hand) and then a reveal when Monte Cristo took from his pocket the letters. This makes the ending more dramatic as Danglars is entirely vanquished.

One way the writer structures the text to create drama is through dialogue and questions at the start. The quick back-and-forth and lines like “By what right, sir?” build tension.

In addition, the tension rises in the middle when Monte Cristo rejects “a million” and interrupts, “I beg your pardon.” The short sentences and interruptions increase pace and make the moment feel dramatic.

A further structural feature is the climax and ending. The focus shifts to Danglars’ reaction (“trembled”), and by the end he submits, “I am at your orders.” This change in tone shows the drama intensifies then settles.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• In medias res confrontation through sharp dialogue → instant tension and a clear contest of authority (By what right, sir?)
• Repetition of Danglars’ small defeats → rising pressure as he visibly struggles to maintain control (bit his lips)
• Juxtaposition of manners (Danglars’ stiffness vs Monte Cristo’s ease) → heightens the power imbalance fueling drama (forced politeness)
• Strategic pause before negotiation → momentary reset that primes the next escalation (after a brief silence)
• Physical assertion to seize control → suggests a swing in dominance before it is undercut (throwing himself back)
• Interruption of boastful offer → accelerates pace and exposes Danglars’ misjudgment of the stakes (I said a million)
• Sudden concrete proof produces the climax → the stakes leap from talk to irrefutable evidence (500,000 francs each)
• Descriptive reaction after the reveal → dramatizes the blow’s impact through physical shock (dilated horribly)
• Further accumulation (multiple letters to other firms) → compounds the triumph and crushes resistance (three letters of unlimited credit)
• Final shift to compliance → tension subsides into a clear new hierarchy and mutual terms (I am at your orders)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 36 to the end.

In this part of the source, Danglars's reaction where he trembles and almost collapses is very dramatic. The writer suggests his earlier arrogance was just an act and he is not as powerful as he pretends to be.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Danglars's reaction to Monte Cristo's power
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray Danglars's defeat
• 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 perceptively argue, to a great extent, that the writer exposes Danglars’s bravado as performance by juxtaposing his earlier “arrogant and purse- proud air” and “confidence of ignorance” with his collapse—“he trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy”, “entirely vanquished”—and through narratorial judgement like “A man like Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any gentler method of correction”. It would analyse methods such as gesture and imagery to show his defeat, noting Monte Cristo’s contemptuous control (“held them carelessly between finger and thumb”), the deifying metaphor “the power of gold personified”, and the humiliating surplus of authority in “three letters of unlimited credit!”.

I largely agree that Danglars’s collapse is staged as highly dramatic and that his earlier bravado is exposed as performative rather than proof of real power. Throughout the passage, the writer orchestrates a clear reversal: from a deliberately assumed superiority to a humiliating, bodily loss of control, which reveals that Danglars’s authority is brittle and contingent.

At the outset, the banker “thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand,” and he literally performs dominance, “throwing himself back in his armchair” with an “arrogant and purse-proud air.” That noun “air” signals a façade, while “purse-proud” roots his confidence in money rather than substance. The narrator’s ironic aside, describing his “confidence of ignorance,” further punctures the authenticity of his swagger; it is bluster unbacked by knowledge. Structurally, Monte Cristo’s smooth interruption—“I beg your pardon”—cuts across Danglars’s inflated offer of “a million——”; the dash registers a rhetorical deflation mid-sentence, as the Count seizes control of the dialogue and, by extension, the power dynamic.

The spectacle then becomes explicitly theatrical. Monte Cristo deploys props—“a small case containing his visiting-cards” from which he draws two treasury orders—turning the banker’s boast into something laughably small: “A million? … a sum I am in the habit of carrying in my pocket-book.” This hyperbolic understatement (“a trifle like that”) diminishes Danglars’s supposed largesse. The narrator’s judgment that “a man like Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any gentler method of correction” frames what follows as a necessary shock. The physiological imagery—he “trembled,” was “on the verge of apoplexy,” his pupils “dilated horribly”—renders his collapse viscerally dramatic, translating a social defeat into bodily panic.

The humiliation escalates as Monte Cristo produces further “letters of unlimited credit.” The violent semantic field—“The blow had struck home,” “entirely vanquished”—casts the scene as a rout, while the micro-gesture of status reversal is exquisite: Danglars, “with a trembling hand,” scrutinizes the documents; the Count holds them “carelessly between finger and thumb.” The metaphor “the power of gold personified in the man before him” makes Monte Cristo the embodiment of capital itself, before which Danglars can only rise “as if to salute.” By the end, the register flips from command to capitulation: “Whatever you say, my dear count; I am at your orders.” Even Monte Cristo’s “most gentlemanly air” underscores his effortless control contrasted with Danglars’s theatrical earlier pose.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The writer’s contrast, narrative intrusion, and vivid physiological detail make Danglars’s collapse strikingly dramatic and expose his arrogance as a performance. Yet it is not that he has no power at all; rather, his status is shown to be performative and limited, crumbling when confronted with a superior, globalised financial authority that he cannot match.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the writer exposes Danglars’s bluff by contrasting his earlier “arrogant and purse-proud air” with his collapse—he “trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy”, is labelled “entirely vanquished”, and even rises to the “power of gold personified” while Monte Cristo holds proof “carelessly between finger and thumb”—though his deferential “I am at your orders” suggests a token attempt to save face.

I agree to a great extent that Danglars’s collapse is highly dramatic and that his earlier arrogance is revealed as largely performative. At first, the narrator signals a power shift when “the banker thought the time had come for him to take the upper hand,” and the physical stage-direction-like detail of him “throwing himself back in his armchair” with an “arrogant and purse-proud air” presents a deliberate performance of authority. The phrase “with the confidence of ignorance” is an ironic characterization: the writer undercuts Danglars’s swagger even as he boasts of “a million,” suggesting his assurance is a bluff rather than solid power. Monte Cristo’s interruption—“I beg your pardon”—uses dialogue to seize conversational control, structurally reversing the roles.

The drama peaks when Monte Cristo produces the orders. The narrative voice comments that “a man like Danglars was wholly inaccessible to any gentler method of correction,” preparing us for a spectacular humbling. Sensory and physiological imagery makes the moment vivid: he is “stunned,” “trembled,” “on the verge of apoplexy,” and his pupils “dilated horribly.” Such hyperbolic description emphasises a near-collapse, making the reaction theatrically intense and exposing the fragility beneath his earlier bravado.

After the “blow had struck home”—a war metaphor—the writer extends the defeat through contrast in body language. Danglars’s “trembling hand” fumbles for the letters that Monte Cristo holds “carelessly between finger and thumb,” a visual juxtaposition that reinforces who truly holds power. Personification intensifies Danglars’s capitulation when he rises “as if to salute the power of gold personified,” and his diction shifts from boastful to submissive: “I am at your orders,” followed by a bow. Even Monte Cristo’s tone—“with the most gentlemanly air” and calling the sums “trifling”—suggests effortless superiority.

Overall, I largely agree: the writer’s use of irony, contrast, and vivid physical detail makes Danglars’s reaction very dramatic and reveals his arrogance as a bluff. While he has status, he is not as powerful as he pretends—especially when measured against Monte Cristo’s overwhelming resources.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Typically, a Level 2 response would mostly agree, noticing that Danglars’s earlier arrogant and purse- proud pose crumbles when he trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy and is entirely vanquished, showing he is not as powerful as he pretends. It would give basic examples of the writer’s methods, such as contrast with Monte Cristo calmly producing two orders on the treasury for 500,000 francs each, holding the proofs carelessly, and being backed by three letters of unlimited credit.

I agree to a large extent that Danglars’s reaction is very dramatic and that his earlier arrogance was more of an act. At first, he tries to “take the upper hand,” “throwing himself back” with an “arrogant and purse-proud air.” He boasts he could meet “a million,” showing overconfidence, and the phrase “confidence of ignorance” suggests he doesn’t really understand Monte Cristo’s wealth. These adjectives and his body language present a performance of power.

When Monte Cristo calmly produces the orders and extra letters, the writer makes the fall dramatic. The description “the effect… was stunning; he trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy” uses exaggeration and physical detail to show shock. His “pupils… dilated horribly” is vivid imagery that makes the moment feel intense. The metaphor “the blow had struck home” and the line “Danglars was entirely vanquished” emphasise defeat. There is strong contrast in the handling of documents: Monte Cristo holds them “carelessly between finger and thumb,” while Danglars has a “trembling hand,” which shows who really has control.

Even though he tries to keep control by “scrutiniz[ing] the signatures,” this seems like a last attempt. He ends up “rising as if to salute the power of gold personified,” which suggests, through simile and personification, that he submits to Monte Cristo’s superior wealth. By the end, his dialogue turns to obedience: “Whatever you say… I am at your orders,” and he “bowed.” Overall, I agree that the scene is very dramatic and reveals his earlier arrogance as a show. He is not as powerful as he pretends, and the contrast and strong imagery make his defeat clear.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because Danglars is first shown as "arrogant and purse- proud", but then he "trembled" and is "entirely vanquished", which makes his reaction very dramatic and shows he isn’t as powerful as he pretends.

I mostly agree with the statement. Danglars’s reaction is very dramatic, and it makes his earlier confidence look like an act. At first he tries to take control, ‘throwing himself back in his armchair’ with an ‘arrogant and purse-proud air’. The adjective ‘arrogant’ and the bragging words ‘were you even to require a million’ show he is just showing off. The phrase ‘confidence of ignorance’ suggests he does not really understand Monte Cristo’s wealth.

When Monte Cristo shows ‘two orders’ and then ‘three letters of unlimited credit’, the list of big banks shows real power. He ‘trembled and was on the verge of apoplexy’ and his pupils ‘dilated horribly’. These strong verbs and description make the scene dramatic. The metaphor ‘the blow had struck home’ and the personification ‘the power of gold’ show his defeat. He is ‘entirely vanquished’.

Danglars rises ‘as if to salute’ Monte Cristo and says ‘I am at your orders’. This change from boasting to bowing shows his arrogance was just a show, and he is not as powerful as he pretends. Overall, I agree.

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:

• Contrast in demeanour (Monte’s composed poise versus Danglars’s clumsy approach) establishes a power imbalance, implying his swagger is performative and fragile (graceful suavity)
• Stagey body language (throwing himself back) frames his dominance as a show, supporting the view his arrogance is an act rather than substance (throwing himself back)
• Authorial irony labels his stance as hollow; the phrase exposes bluster over expertise, undermining his supposed power (confidence of ignorance)
• Dramatic proof of wealth (producing treasury orders) turns his boast about “a million” into a miscalculation, decisively stripping his authority (orders on the treasury)
• Physiological collapse amplifies drama; his near-faint shows the mask slipping to fear and weakness, inviting strong agreement with the statement (on the verge of apoplexy)
• Visceral eye detail intensifies shock, making his vulnerability undeniable and his earlier confidence seem flimsy (dilated horribly)
• Nonchalant handling of documents contrasts with Danglars’s fussy scrutiny, highlighting effortless dominance versus anxious puffery (carelessly between finger and thumb)
• Allusions to elite banking houses dwarf him, revealing he is outclassed and not as powerful as he pretended (Baron Rothschild)
• Narrative judgement confirms total defeat, guiding the reader to see his pose as routed by real capital (entirely vanquished)
• Final submissive diction reverses roles; his servility seals the impression that the earlier arrogance was hollow (at your orders)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A weekend travel blog is inviting sixth-form writers to submit short creative pieces about setting off and arriving.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a motorway service area at night from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a last-minute change of destination.

(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 service area hunkers beside the motorway, a low-slung congregation of glass and strip-light, humming to itself under a bruise-coloured sky. Rain has lacquered the car park into an oil-slick mirror; sodium lamps puddle their amber coins on the tarmac while moths fuss at the light like unpunctual thoughts. The sign—star-bright and faintly desperate—advertises coffee at all hours; one letter trembles, as if unsure. Past the hedge, the carriageway continues its tireless whisper, red and white beads sliding away, returning, sliding away.

The doors part with a soft, automatic sigh—then close, then open again, obedient as gills. Heat breathes out: the layered smell of diesel and disinfectant; sugared dough and vinegar; tired wool and rain. A coffee machine coughs into a paper cup; steam ghosts up in curls. A cleaner’s trolley advances with monastic patience; its wheels squeak, squeak, squeak (a refrain).

A man in a fluorescent jacket cradles a mug as if it were a small hearth; a teenager leans into a corner of signal, lit aquarium-blue by his phone. A woman shepherds a child in pyjamas past the lottery stand; his slippers scuff, his eyelids bounce. On plastic chairs, a couple confer over a map they do not need: the motorway instructs. The television in the corner narrates distant events to nobody in particular; captions march along the bottom like ants.

Behind the counter, fries hiss and spit; their smell is shameless. Burgers are stacked in their cardboard coffins—cheerful, gleaming, anodyne. Above, a speaker croons an old song; its sibilants snag on the vents. The staff move with a practiced economy, sleeves rolled, smiles that press and release like lift buttons.

Down the corridor, tiles glisten—too clean, almost blue. A hand dryer detonates, then relents. In the mirrors, faces become versions of themselves they will abandon at the next junction: pallid with fluorescence, set with the concentration of long distances. Someone has left a wet footprint shaped like a leaf. The air is astringent, and oddly hopeful.

Beyond the glass, the lorry park is a field of sleeping animals. Cabs tilt like dozing heads; engines tick while they cool, that small heart-sound of metal remembering heat. Between the bays, a fox floats, narrow, its eyes two quick commas catching the light. Bins thud; lids clap. A crisp packet cartwheels and then kneels in a puddle, surrendering.

And still the road murmurs. It does not ask, it does not argue; it simply draws. Drivers come in worn, leave wired, return to the ribbon that insists on onward, onward, onward. The service area remains—a pause; a breath; a comma in the long sentence of the road—holding, for a moment, the soft ordinary of people in transit, before releasing them back into the dark.

Option B:

Summer. The season of departures; sunlight pooled on the station’s marble like spilled honey, and the flipboard chattered its mechanical applause overhead. The air was a cocktail of espresso, hot metal and the citric tang of a peeled orange someone had abandoned on a bench. Trains inhaled and exhaled at the platforms, the sibilant hush of doors sliding shut like conspirators—then gone.

Mara’s plan was immaculate, almost smug. Manchester by noon; taxi straight to Deansgate; interview at two; celebratory curry with Jess at six. Itinerary written in careful ink on an index card and tucked, ceremonially, into the front pocket of her tangerine case. She had practised answers until the words felt lacquered and unassailable. What could be more straightforward than Platform 8 to Manchester, seat 42A, coffee acquired en route? She moved with the purposeful tilt of a chess piece that knows its square.

Concurrently, the world refused to observe her choreography. A gull, absurdly, wheeled under the high glass as if auditioning for the sea; a child sobbed because a balloon had escaped to the rafters; a busker sawed at a violin until the notes ran wet. Still, Mara breathed, counted, checked her watch. Compelling; composed. She could almost hear Jess’s voice—You’ve got this—cascading through the din.

Her phone vibrated like a small trapped sparrow. One message. Aunt Sal: Your gran’s had a fall. They’re taking her to Truro. Can you come?

There are moments that arrive with the clean incision of a paper cut. Barely a mark—then the sting. Truro, not Manchester. A different compass. A different self. The index card in her pocket suddenly felt parochial and insolent, a postcard from a life that assumed it could not be interrupted. The flipboard clacked obligingly: Manchester Piccadilly on time. Penzance delayed. Plymouth, St Austell, Truro—another line, another story, another her.

She read the message again, absurdly hoping for a second clause—Gran is fine, don’t worry; go to your life. There was nothing but white space.

Mara let the air out in a measured skein. In the reflection of the timetable she looked fiercely competent, the sort of person who kept plants alive and never mislaid her keys; meanwhile, inside, a tide began to turn. The announcement rippled across the concourse: The 10:07 service to Manchester Piccadilly will depart from Platform 8. The 10:12 service to Penzance will depart from Platform 2.

She pivoted.

A small thing—two syllables, five degrees of heel—yet seismic. Her suitcase protested, humming over terrazzo. “You sure?” she whispered to nobody, to everybody; the station answered with the staccato of suitcase wheels and a distant, confident whistle. She could call the company, reschedule, apologise in crisp, contrite sentences; she could sit by Gran’s bed and watch the drip’s metronome. Both were true; both were necessary. Today, only one was possible.

At the ticket machine, her fingers moved before doubt could impose its bureaucratic delay. Destination: Truro. Card: inserted. Receipt: taken and folded, a new talisman. She messaged Jess—Change of plan; will explain—and typed, with careful honesty, to the HR address she had memorised. A last-minute change, she wrote, all consonants and composure, as if this detour were a professional skill.

By Platform 2, the train idled, heavy and patient. Its windows promised hedgerows feathering past, salt-licked fields, the articulate blue of the sea. Mara stepped on; the doors sighed shut with the resigned mercy of a compromise accepted. As the city blurred, her index card was still in her pocket—inked with yesterday’s certainty—yet another card had slid, invisible, on top of it.

Sometimes the destination chooses you; sometimes you choose the courage to go where you are needed. Today, she chose both.

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

Option A:

The service area floats like an island of light in a sea of bitumen, a neon shoal between black lanes that never sleep. Sodium lamps cast coins onto rain-slick tarmac; puddles hold inverted petrol logos, fractured constellations trembling when a lorry sighs past. Under the canopy, the air is cold, perfumed with diesel and frying oil—metallic, oddly sweet. HGVs squat with engines ticking down, cabs curtained, refrigeration units thrumming like patient hearts. A crisp packet skitters, rests, lifts; the wind is a question. Bone-white arrows direct nothing at this hour. Beyond the hedge, the motorway murmurs—distant, tireless, tidal.

Inside, the doors exhale warm air and a syrupy brightness; fluorescent panels flatten shadows into obedience. Coffee machines hiss and clatter; cups stack in paper towers; steam curls over the counter like a thought. Menu boards glow with promises (two pastries before 6 a.m.—as if time were a coupon); sandwiches wear their condensation like jewellery. The floor smells of lemon disinfectant; tables form an army of glossy rectangles. On one wall, brochures advertise castles and aquariums no one will visit tonight: blues too bright, dolphins too clean. Every socket is busy; cables snake under chairs; phones bloom in gardens of charging; the loudspeaker crackles, then settles.

People drift through this neutral haven as if rehearsing: a driver in a salt-flecked coat reads the same line three times, lips moving; a woman in a uniform polishes a noticeboard that already shines. A child slides in and out of sleep, cheek to the window, leaving a milky crescent. Two teenagers share chips with nonchalance; their laughter, brittle and brave, skates across the tiles. A couple argue over a map, then soften further, hands finding each other between trays. Security watches with professional boredom. The till bleeps; the microwave pings; a clock is five minutes fast, but only to be helpful.

Step outside and the night presses its forehead to the glass. Headlights sweep the car park; tail-lights draw red lines that fade like embers. Moths batter the strip-lights; a gull perches on the highest lamp—a pale sentinel above the bins—waiting for tomorrow’s chips. The pumps click and reset; the card reader chirps; somewhere a turbo whines then stills. The litter feels itinerant, always ready to go, half-gone. Nothing is still; everything is paused, angled forward. Cars slip to the carriageway, swallowed. The signs keep glowing. The rhythm resumes: coming and going, coming and going.

Option B:

August. A month of departures: pavements shimmering, engines purring, gulls taking their own holidays over the river. The station breathed out warm air each time its doors yawned; sunlight pooled on the tiles, and the departure board stuttered through destinations like a magician dealing cards. Cases hummed on their tiny wheels. A violinist’s bow skated across strings—high, hopeful, a lilting soundtrack to other people’s adventures.

I stood beneath the glassy roof with my tomato-red rucksack and a ticket to Paris in my pocket—folded exactly, like a promise. Suncream ghosted my fingers. My phone glowed with a boarding QR code; my scarf (lemon-bright) tried to persuade me I was already somewhere warmer. I patted my back pocket, then my coat, then the rucksack’s smallest zip. Nothing. The cold absence of my passport was a mouth opening. I checked again—ridiculous, superstitious—as if paper might grow bones and walk home.

“Passport?” the security officer asked, polite but implacable.

“It’s—” The word fell into the echoing hall. At home. On the kitchen table, beside a water glass beaded with condensation. I could see it too clearly. He gave the sort of smile that apologises without changing anything.

No passport, no platform. The words clicked shut like a turnstile. A river of travellers streamed past, obedient to arrows and announcements. I stepped aside, ticket suddenly as weightless as tissue. The plan—my plan—was neat, laminated in my head: croissants, a cheap hostel, the afternoon light turning limestone honey-soft. Instead, I stood in a daze while the board coughed up my abandoned train in bright capitals.

Some choices are thrust upon you; others stretch out like a hand you might take. I looked up at the domestic departures—amber squares shifting, flickering—as if the station were thinking in public. Whitby, Scarborough, St Ives, Penzance. Names with salt in them. A poster beside the ticket office showed a snarl of surf and a gull mid-cackle: Sea air cures self-pity. Maybe it was only advertising, but the timing felt personal.

“Next to the coast?” I heard myself ask the clerk. It sounded reckless and very calm.

He peered at his screen. “Scarborough in ten. Platform one. You’ll catch it if you don’t dawdle.”

I ran. My rucksack thumped a lopsided rhythm against my spine; the announcement chased me down the concourse—this service calls at York, Malton, Seamer—each name a rung on a ladder I hadn’t known I wanted to climb. The train yawned. Doors blinked. A guard’s whistle knifed the air.

Inside, I slid into a seat and pressed my palm to the window. London unstitched itself—brick and graffiti giving way to allotments, then fields. The map in my head redrew its own lines. Not Paris, no—but a horizon the colour of pewter, chips in paper, a wind that would lift and salt my hair. I let the disappointment drain away slowly, like a tide; what remained was a fizz of something else, not certainty exactly, but appetite. What if the destination was less a place and more a permission? Outside, the country unfurled, and the train kept choosing forward.

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

Option A:

The service area sits like an island of glare in a sea of black fields. Sodium lights pour down in sheets; rain beads on the forecourt and turns it into a cracked mirror. The motorway drifts past in two ribbons—white ghosts arriving, red embers slipping away—and the air vibrates with a steady, low hum. Plastic cones squat under the canopy, the pumps blinking their green numerals with tired patience. Above, cloud presses close, reflecting the station’s glow back onto itself.

Outside the entrance, a driver stands rubbing grit from his eyes; his breath lifts like steam. Diesel, coffee, and a strangely sweet antiseptic smell fold together, not pleasant, not exactly horrible, just artificial. A fox lopes between bins, its tail a streak of rust; foil wrappers whisper and skitter. The sliding doors exhale, inhale, exhale again. Tyres hiss over wet tarmac, and a stray trolley wobbles, insisting on its squeaky song.

Inside, the light is flatter, more clinical. A heater pushes out tired warmth that never quite reaches your fingers; the coffee machine sighs and spits out a bitter, chocolatey fog. People drift around in soft-focus fatigue—truckers with reflective stripes; a woman in trainers shepherding a sleepy boy; a student tracing the menu with a chewed thumb. The till pings, the microwave beeps, a slot machine chirps optimistically; noises stack up like plastic trays. A poster on the wall promises "freshness 24/7"—comforting, if doubtful.

Between travel pillows and maps no one buys, the place has its own weather: lukewarm air, fluorescent day, a kind of limbo. It is not home, and yet, it holds you for a minute. You look out through your reflection to the rain beyond, and time slows. Who would choose to linger here? Still, strangers do, rubbing life into their hands; watching phones; waiting for the road to call them on.

Outside again, the drizzle steadies; the road never does. Headlights thread and unthread, and the service area continues its small duties—buzzing, breathing, bright. Another car noses in; another pulls away. The doors repeat their careful rhythm, in and out, as night leans closer.

Option B:

Autumn had slipped in early; the air tasted of tin and bruised apples. The station's glass roof collected a milky light that shivered over the tiles. Destination boards scrolled, hesitated, then scrolled again as if they, too, were thinking twice. People dragged cases that stuttered; a coffee machine hissed like a cat. Leah stood under Platform 4 with a sunflower scarf knotting her throat.

She had planned this crossing for weeks—carefully: a notebook of timings; a route traced in biro; St Ives circled three times. It wasn't just a seaside day; it was the place her mother had loved to stand and watch the tide gnaw at the harbour wall; the place Leah had promised herself she would finally carry the letter to. She could feel the folded envelope against her stomach, safe inside the zipped pocket beneath the rucksack straps.

The announcement came like a cough through bad speakers: Due to flooding on the coastal line, the 09:12 to Penzance will now terminate at Bristol Temple Meads. A collective groan rose, then fell. Leah's throat tightened—not because of Bristol, but because her phone vibrated at the exact same moment. A message glowed: Change of plan. Don't go to the cottage. Nan's been taken in. Come to the Royal instead. Call me.

She had imagined blue water, not blue curtains. For a second everything lifted off its hooks. The ticket, the timetable, the small bright plan she had stitched together—suddenly loose thread. She tried to think logically; she could change somewhere; or there was the next train; but the word hospital pushed all the others aside. The wind fussed at posters. Leah turned, already asking the nearest guard which way to the Royal.

Leah nodded because it felt like the correct shape of a reply. Her legs carried her towards the open carriage—towards whatever Royal meant, towards a ward with strip lights and antiseptic air. The carriage smelled of damp wool and biscuits; windows filmed with fine mist. She slid into a seat, pressed the letter flat beneath her palm as if it might lift, and watched the platform loosen and slide away.

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

Option A:

The service area floats in the dark like an island, neon edging its corners while puddles hold the light. A cold wind combs the empty car park; it pushes wrappers along the white lines and tugs at the signs while the motorway hums beyond, steady and distant. Under the harsh canopy the pumps hum, numbers blinking; the smell is a muddle—diesel, damp tarmac, doughnuts. A lorry glides in, tyres hissing, then settles with a sigh.

The automatic doors part with a polite whoosh. Warmth presses my face, carrying coffee and chips, both comforting and slightly stale. Overhead, strip lights buzz; the floor gleams with a thin glaze from earlier rain. A child sleeps on a parent’s shoulder, heavy with midnight. Drivers queue at the counter, eyes red-rimmed, fingers tight around paper cups. On the shelves sit travel pillows, maps that still promise routes, little tree air fresheners—bright, plastic, ready to grab.

In the toilets the hand dryer roars like a small engine. Mirrors throw back pale faces under the fluorescent glare while a cleaner steers a rattling trolley and wipes the same patch again and again, and a tap drips, counting minutes no one wants to count.

Back outside the night has thickened. Lorries park nose to tail, their cabs curtained like eyelids; engines tick as they cool. A motorbike leans, rain beading on its seat. The sky is a low ceiling, neon writing a cold alphabet across the puddles. I blow on my drink and taste bitterness and sugar—comfort, of a sort. The doors whisper behind another stranger, the motorway breathes, and this bright harbour waits for the next tired arrival.

Option B:

The departures board clattered like cutlery in a drawer. Steam from coffee carts drifted under the glass roof. I stood beneath the glowing timetable clutching my orange ticket—Edinburgh, 09:20—while my suitcase wobbled at my heel. I had a plan: an itinerary printed and folded, times ringed in careful yellow. I could already see cobbled streets, a castle on a hill, gulls slicing a pale sky. The station hummed, impatient and alive; I felt ready, even if my hands trembled.

My phone shivered. A message blinked up from Erin: Don't come. The flat's flooded. Burst pipe. Everything's soaked. An alert followed from the rail app: Service suspended north of York due to severe weather. People washed around me, coats and cases and umbrellas; I stayed still, as if nailed to the tiles. The bright word Edinburgh on the board blurred for a moment, then steadied. The plan I had fussed over in my kitchen didn't fit this new, slippery morning.

Another voice cut through the station's buzz: "The 09:24 service to Brighton is now boarding at Platform 3." Brighton. The name flashed like a coin in sunlight. I tasted salt I hadn't tasted for months and pictured a long, flat horizon. I hadn't planned the sea. What if the wrong train was the right one? What if a detour was the point?

I turned and my suitcase squeaked its protest, a stubborn animal. My feet found a new path. A guard took my ticket and nodded; my careful itinerary seemed to curl at the edges and drift away. This felt impulsive, but not reckless. As the doors sighed shut, rain stitched lines across the window and the station slid backward. I texted Erin: Change of destination. Heading south—call you later. The train leaned into its new route, and so did I.

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

Option A:

The neon sign hums over the forecourt, a cold square moon that never sets. Wet tarmac gleams; a skin of black glass copying every light. Pumps stand in straight rows like pale ribs, shivering in the breeze. Lorries idle, great dark animals breathing a slow diesel breath. From the motorway there is a steady whisper, a ribbon that never stops, going and going and going.

The smell is mixed and strange—petrol, chips, coffee, tired clothes. A moth bangs the glass again and again. Doors thud; a boot slams. The roof rattles, the wind fusses at the flag.

Inside, the heat is instant and almost fake. Flourescent strips buzz above. Bright packets line the shelves, colours shouting. The coffee machine sighs; paper cups stack like tiny towers. Fridges hum, their blue lights making the sandwiches look neat and cold. A radio murmurs something cheerful; a child rubs her eyes. The sliding doors keep opening, then closing, then opening.

Behind the counter a cashier blinks and smiles because that is her job. Her bracelets clink as she taps the till. A cleaner pushes a mop, leaving long wet stripes; lemon tries to fight the chips. A couple argue in whispers. A man with red eyes stares at a map he doesn’t need. Who buys a hot dog at 2 a.m.?

Outside again the air bites. Trucks crouch in a neat herd, windows glowing like little fires. The road beyond pulls like a river; signs flash out destinations, distances, promises. The service area holds its pool of light, a small island in the wide, patient dark.

Option B:

Morning pinned the station under a low grey sky. The departure board clicked and buzzed; names crawled in orange pixels. I hugged my rucksack so it wouldn’t slide off my shoulder and swallowed the stale taste of coffee. Manchester, 09:05, Platform 4. Interview at twelve: the one I’d practised for all week. Keep it simple, I told myself, just get on, sit down, arrive.

Then the speaker crackled like a bee in a jar. “Due to a signal failure, all services to the north are cancelled.” People were everywhere, they surged and bumped and said sorry without looking. My phone vibrated; Mum’s name filled the screen. Her message: “Don’t come north. Nan’s road is flooded. Aunt Sal’s alone in Brighton — can you go? She slipped in the café last night.”

My plan folded like a paper map in the rain; thin and tearing at the creases. I had a plan; one message changed it. “Can I swap this?” I asked the man in the glass booth, shoving over my ticket with hands that weren’t steady. He blinked, stamped, scribbled — Brighton, Platform 1, leaving in two minutes if you hurry.

The board flicked; the word Destination shivered and Brighton replaced Manchester. I ran. My bag thumped my leg; rain began to stitch the air. Even the clock hesitated... 09:04. The platform smelled of metal and wet clothes and something like nerves.

I stepped over the gap into a different morning, a different city, a different me, maybe. I wasn’t ready, not really, but the doors hissed and closed and the train began to move.

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

Option A:

The neon sign hums above the forecourt, coloured tubes flicker and stain the wet tarmac. Rain has been and gone; the ground glitters like spilled sugar. Air tastes of petrol and chips, a strange mix that goes on and on. Doors swish, open and shut, letting out a soft breath of warmth into the thin night.

Inside, the light is hard and white, almost fluorescent, like a small town trapped under glass. Coffee machines grumble; tired drivers queue, staring at paper cups. A child laughs too loudly, then cries, then laughs again, while a radio plays a cheerful song that sounds old. Staff in bright jackets wipe tables in slow circles. It is ordinary, but also a bit unusual at this hour. It feels too awake.

Meanwhile, the lorries wait outside like big animals, engines ticking, metal gently cooling. A plastic bag skitters along the kerb, chasing nothing. Far off, the motorway is a river of red and white, etching itself into the dark. The signboard glows with offers: midnight meal deal, hot pies – open all night. Wind presses at the glass and rattles a loose poster.

Then, a car door slams. Another arrives, another leaves. The service area keeps breathing.

Option B:

The clock over platform 9 blinked 8:59. I planned to go to Brighton, bag packed with a towel and cheap sunglasses. The ticket was damp from my hand. The station smelled of burnt coffee and rain rolling off coats. People pushed past like a tide; my suitcase bumped along; my head was full of sand and sea and silence. I told myself I needed a break, a fresh start, even if it was only for a day.

Then my phone buzzed: one text, three words — Don't come yet. The screen glowed pale. Delays. Clouds. Excuses. The announcement crackled and my train changed to platform 3; it felt like the whole plan slid sideways. I stared at the boards and felt a small, stubborn spark. What if I just went somewhere else? Somewhere I never pick. One ticket could take me away; it didn't have to be the coast.

I looked up: Leeds, Norwich, Penzance. Names shone like signs in a fair. My heart knocked against my ribs. Not Brighton. Not today. My feet turned—without asking—and I walked to platform 5. The carriage doors hissed. I climbed in with a breath I half held, and the train pulled me north.

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

Option A:

The service station sits under a black sky. The neon sign glows hard blue and it buzzes like a fly. Puddles on the tarmac hold the lights and they shake when a truck rolls in. The automatic doors breathe cold air every time they open, and it smells of coffee and chips. A cleaner moves slow and the mop squeaks. The floor shines like wet glass.

Inside there is a humming sound, it never stops.

Outside, lorry engines mumble like old dogs. A man stands by the door and smokes, the smoke twists and hangs. There is few people, one woman yawns and drags a suitcase. The road hisses far away, hiss, hiss, hiss, like a snake. The plastic chairs feel cold, the window shows my face and the bright strip lights wash me out. The motorway signs blink and blink. It feels empty but also awake.

Option B:

Morning. Cold and grey. The bus station smelt like petrol and wet newspapers. I hugged my bag. The board flashed, Brighton, 10:20. I was going there for sure.

Mum had said it would be fine. The sky didnt agree, the clouds were heavy like bags. People shuffled and stamped. I felt like a leaf, shaking.

Then my phone blinked. Don't come, it said. Last minute. My heart sort of dropped, like it missed a step, and the words ran about in my head. I looked at the other stand, another bus was there, NORTH. A different place. A diffrent plan.

I walked. Not slow, not fast. The driver stared and asked, you sure? I nodded because I wasnt but I said yes anyway.

The first bus sighed and left without me. I watched it go, I breathed, I changed. Rain started, thin and mean, tapping my hood.

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

Option A:

The service station is bright even when it is night. The neon sign buzz and hums. The car park is shiny with rain, and it's lights make puddles look like small moons. A door slides and it whoosh, people in coats go in and they look tired. I smell chips and coffee, it is warm air that comes out. A lorry engine is rumbling all the time, like it never sleeps. There is a bin overflowing, wrappers blow round and round, then stop. In the shop the shelves are full and empty. You hear a baby cry, then motorway noise.

Option B:

Spring was cold and sunny. I pack my blue bag for the beach. Socks after socks, shirts, the little camera, the ticket to Brighton. I can see it already, yellow sand, ice cream, the bus to the sea is late. Then mum shouts from the hall stop, dont go there, we cant, the train is cancelled, the storm is coming. We are not going south, now we go to the city, last minute, get your coat. My stomach drops like a stone. I look at the map and my phone, then I think of my cat for no reason, tick tick, I go to change the ticket.