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 When Tom arrived in the garden in high glee, what was Tom carrying?: a brood of young birds – 1 mark
• 1.2 What did Tom bring into the garden?: a brood of little nestlings – 1 mark
• 1.3 Who had Tom been with into the neighbouring plantation?: Tom's uncle – 1 mark
• 1.4 Whom was the narrator/speaker just bringing?: Mary Ann and Fanny – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 out, ran to admire his spoils, and to beg each a bird for themselves. “No, not one!” cried Tom. “They’re all mine; uncle Robson gave them to me—one, two, three, four, five—you shan’t touch one of them! no, not one, for your lives!” continued he, exultingly; laying the nest on the ground, and standing over it with his legs wide apart, his hands thrust into his breeches-pockets, his body

11 bent forward, and his face twisted into all manner of contortions in the ecstasy of his delight. “But you shall see me fettle ’em off. My word, but I will wallop ’em? See if I don’t now. By gum! but there’s rare sport for me in that nest.”

How does the writer use language here to present Tom’s attitude and behaviour towards the nestlings? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively analyse how exclamatives, repetition, and listing—No, not one!, They’re all mine, and one, two, three, four, five—construct Tom’s possessive, triumphantly cruel stance, with the adverb exultingly heightening his gloating delight. It would also explore how physical staging—legs wide apart, bent forward, twisted into all manner of contortions—creates swaggering dominance, while dialectal violence in fettle ’em off, the interjection By gum!, and the euphemistic rare sport frame cruelty as entertainment; the interrogative in I will wallop ’em? intensifies his taunting bravado.

The writer foregrounds Tom’s possessiveness through repetition and exclamatives. The epizeuxis in “No, not one!” and the possessive pronoun “mine” assert absolute ownership, while the parenthetical enumeration “—one, two, three, four, five—” reads like an audit of trophies, aligning with the militarised noun “spoils.” This mercenary lexis presents the nestlings as plunder rather than living creatures. The hyperbolic threat “for your lives!” intensifies his refusal, and the adverb “exultingly” signals his triumphant glee, suggesting a relish that borders on cruelty.

Furthermore, the detailed physical tableau constructs dominance and aggression. The non-finite participial construction “laying the nest on the ground, and standing over it” positions him literally superior to his victims. A syndetic list of dynamic verbs—“hands thrust,” “body bent,” “face twisted”—creates kinetic imagery of a boy coiled with violent energy. “Thrust” connotes force, while “twisted into all manner of contortions” carries grotesque overtones, implying a warped delight. The abstract noun phrase “the ecstasy of his delight” elevates his emotion to an almost intoxicated state, chillingly disproportionate to the situation.

Additionally, colloquial dialect and violent lexis codify his sadism as entertainment. The demotic “fettle ’em off” and “wallop ’em” form a semantic field of beating, while the interjection “By gum!” and the exclamatives display brash bravado. The modal certainty in “you shall see” and “I will wallop ’em” frames cruelty as performance to an audience, and the rhetorical interrogative “See if I don’t now” taunts the onlookers. Calling it “rare sport” euphemistically trivialises harm, presenting Tom’s attitude as gloating, domineering and callously amused, and his behaviour as performative cruelty.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Exclamatory repetition and listing in "No, not one!" and "one, two, three, four, five", plus the possessive "They’re all mine" and hyperbole "for your lives!", present Tom as greedy and boastful, with direct speech capturing his gloating, childish tone. Violent dialect verbs "fettle ’em" and "I will wallop ’em", the adverb "exultingly", and domineering body-language imagery ("legs wide apart", "hands thrust", "face twisted") show him relishing cruelty, treating the nestlings as "rare sport" rather than living creatures.

The writer uses exclamatives and repetition to present Tom’s possessive attitude. When he cries, “No, not one!”, the repeated negative and the possessive pronoun “mine” emphasise his jealousy over the nestlings. The asyndetic list “one, two, three, four, five” mimics counting trophies, suggesting he objectifies them. The modal “shan’t” and the hyperbolic threat “for your lives!” intensify his aggressive control.

Furthermore, vivid body-language imagery presents domineering behaviour. He is “laying the nest on the ground” and “standing over it with his legs wide apart,” a swaggering, guarding stance. The adverb “exultingly” and the noun phrase “ecstasy of his delight” show gloating pleasure, while his “face twisted… into all manner of contortions” implies a grotesque, almost sadistic excitement.

Moreover, the writer’s choice of dialectal, violent lexis reveals cruelty. Verbs like “fettle ’em off” and “wallop ’em” carry a thudding, onomatopoeic force, framing harm as play. The interjection “By gum!” and the colloquial phrase “rare sport” create a gleeful tone, and the rhetorical challenge “See if I don’t now” flaunts his intention. Overall, these choices present Tom as triumphantly cruel, treating the nestlings as entertainment rather than living creatures, and reveal both a possessive attitude and a boastful, brutal behaviour.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might identify exclamations and repetition like "No, not one!" and "one, two, three, four, five" to show Tom’s excited possessiveness, and notice colloquial/dialect phrases such as "By gum!" and "I will wallop 'em" to suggest bragging cruelty. It may also mention the physical description "legs wide apart" and the "ecstasy of his delight" to present his aggressive, childish behaviour towards the nestlings.

The writer uses repetition and exclamations to present Tom as possessive and aggressive. He shouts, “No, not one!” and “They’re all mine,” which shows his selfish attitude. The threat “for your lives!” suggests he will protect the nestlings only so he can control them. The adverb “exultingly” shows he enjoys the power.

Moreover, the detailed list of body language—“legs wide apart,” “hands thrust,” “body bent forward,” and “face twisted”—presents domineering behaviour, like a bully guarding his prize. Furthermore, the dialect and violent verbs, “fettle ’em” and “I will wallop ’em,” show his cruelty towards the birds. The phrase “ecstasy of his delight” and “rare sport” make his pleasure in hurting them clear. Additionally, the short exclamations and questions create excitement and energy, emphasising his boastful, cruel attitude to the nestlings.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses exclamations and repetition like "No, not one!" and "one, two, three, four, five" to show Tom is excited and possessive, while violent slang "wallop ’em" and body language "legs wide apart" and "face twisted" make him seem cruel and boastful.

The writer uses repetition and exclamations in “No, not one!” and “you shan’t touch one” to show Tom’s selfish and excited attitude. Furthermore, the violent verb “wallop ’em” and the dialect phrase “fettle ’em off” present his cruel behaviour towards the nestlings, treating them like “sport.” Moreover, the list “one, two, three, four, five” shows he is possessive, counting them proudly. Additionally, his body language, “legs wide apart” and his “face twisted… in the ecstasy of his delight,” suggests he is bragging and enjoying the idea of hurting them.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Repetition and exclamations intensify possessive refusal and childish defiance → he relishes denying others access (No, not one!)
• Possessive pronouns foreground ownership and entitlement → he treats the birds as property, not lives (They’re all mine)
• Numerical listing objectifies the birds as inventory → counting suggests relish in acquisition, not care (one, two, three, four, five)
• Threatening hyperbole escalates hostility toward rivals → coercive, menacing tone that brooks no challenge (for your lives!)
• Dominant stance in the physical description signals control → posture embodies swaggering possession of the nest (standing over it)
• Grotesque facial imagery with celebratory diction shows gloating cruelty → pleasure is tied to others’ suffering (ecstasy of his delight)
• Violent colloquialisms reveal intent and casual brutality → harm is framed as a boast, not a dilemma (I will wallop ’em)
• Rhetorical taunt and interrogative punctuation amplify bravado → he dares contradiction, flaunting certainty (See if I don’t)
• Interjection and sporting metaphor trivialise cruelty → turns hurting into entertainment (rare sport)
• Adverb of manner underlines triumphant glee → he revels in power while preparing the harm (exultingly)

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 chaos?

You could write about:

• how chaos 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 trace escalating disorder across the whole extract, showing how the opening burst of movement (came running in high glee), cumulative listing (one, two, three, four, five) and stage-like positioning (standing over it with his legs wide apart) build pace to a structural pivot at the decisive act (I dropped the stone), after which the scene fractures into confrontations signalled by rapid dialogue (You daren’t) and crowd-like noise (Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations), before a tonal drop to chilly aftermath (doubly dark and chilled, I judged it prudent to say no more). It would also note the shift from immediate scene to reported consequence (Tom next went to tell his mamma), explaining how the chaos evolves from physical mayhem into entrenched social and moral conflict.

One way the writer structures chaos is by a sudden volte-face from calm to a breathless melee. The fronted adverbial reassurance "Happily, however" is undercut by the pivot "but once", and the long, dashed, periodic opening already feels unstable. This spills into paratactic, exclamatory direct speech—"one, two, three, four, five"—and a syndetic list of gestures ("legs wide apart... hands... body... face...") that crowd the frame. Italics and exclamatives ("I will wallop 'em!") accelerate pace, while the switch to Tom’s bragging voice creates polyphony.

In addition, the writer controls pace via a stark pivot: after a protracted catalogue of "torments", the blunt clause "I dropped the stone" lands with shocking brevity. At once, inverted syntax—"Loud were the outcries, terrible the execrations"—foregrounds din and disorder. Focus then cuts, almost cinematically, to the uncle who "had been coming up the walk... pausing to kick his dog." That past-perfect insertion and intercutting broaden the field, turning a child’s misrule into a wider culture of sanctioned cruelty.

A further structural strategy is escalation of voices and jagged register-shifts that extend the chaos beyond the garden. The sequence widens from child to uncle to mother ("Tom next went to tell his mamma"), while the dialogic volley moves from dialectal bravado ("By gum!") to biblical citation ("Blessed are the merciful"), a tonal dissonance mirroring moral confusion. Yet the sustained first-person focalisation contains it, and the retrospective coda—"nearest approach to a quarrel"—acts as a cool denouement, releasing the accrued turbulence only at the end.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer structures rising chaos through escalation: Tom "came running in high glee" and counts "one, two, three, four, five", the pace quickens with exclamatory dialogue like "No, not one!" and dash-interrupted narration "So saying—urged by a sense of duty—", peaking when she "dropped the stone" so that "Loud were the outcries". Shifts in viewpoint and tone—uncle Robson "laughed excessively" before the measured close "I judged it prudent to say no more"—sustain then ease the disorder, showing how structure heightens and then resolves the sense of chaos.

One way the writer has structured the text to create a sense of chaos is by shifting from a general overview to a crowded, immediate scene. The long, cumulative opener (“during that spring… that once, Tom…”) narrows as Tom “came running,” then dialogue, exclamatives and counting (“one, two, three, four, five”) crowd in. Parenthetical description interrupts the speech (“legs wide apart… contortions”), which quickens pace and creates a noisy, disorderly effect.

In addition, the writer escalates disorder towards a clear climax. Competing voices overlap—“I shall not allow…”, “You daren’t”—until, mid-speech, the narrative cuts to action: “I dropped the stone.” This abrupt juxtaposition heightens shock, then a compressed summary (“Loud were the outcries…”) conveys uproar. A focus shift brings in Uncle Robson “with his gun… pausing to kick his dog,” adding another voice and intensifying confusion with coarse, exclamatory commentary.

A further structural choice is the tonal shift at the end. After the busy exchange, focus moves to Mrs Bloomfield; the pace slows into restrained dialogue and a reflective close (“This was the nearest approach to a quarrel…”). This contrast frames the commotion, tracing a progression from “glee” to violence to cold hostility, while the sustained first-person viewpoint channels each change and guides the reader through the rise and fall of chaos.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Chaos builds as the text moves from Tom came running in high glee and his quick count one, two, three, four, five to the sudden turning point I dropped the stone, which triggers Loud were the outcries. More speakers join—Mr. Robson laughed excessively, the mother is doubly dark and chilled—so the dialogue and shifting tone make the scene feel out of control.

One way the writer has structured the text to create chaos is at the beginning, starting in the middle of action. Tom “came running… in high glee” and the focus is on the nest. Immediate dialogue and quick exchanges speed up the pace and make the scene feel messy.

In addition, in the middle the focus keeps shifting between characters (Tom, the narrator, Uncle Robson). The long argument and the “list of torments” build tension, then there is a clear climax when “I dropped the stone.” The sudden act is followed by “Loud… outcries,” adding noise and disorder.

A further structural feature is the end: we move to reactions from others. The uncle laughs and praises Tom; then the mother’s cold talk slows the pace. This change in tone and focus makes the chaos feel wider, while the first-person perspective keeps us close to the trouble.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The chaos builds from Tom came running in high glee, to him shouting “No, not one!”, and then “Loud were the outcries”, so it feels noisy. When Mr. Robson leant upon his gun and laughed excessively, more people and exclamations make it even more chaotic.

One way the writer creates chaos is by starting calm and switching fast. It opens “Happily,” but Tom runs in and yells “No, not one!” The sudden change feels noisy.

In addition, lists and short sentences speed the pace. Tom counts “one, two, three, four, five,” and “Loud were the outcries.” This piling up makes the moment feel crowded and chaotic.

A further feature is the change of focus: from Tom, to his uncle, then to his mother. These quick shifts and busy dialogue build the chaos at the end.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening contrast from initial calm to Tom’s abrupt entrance creates instant disorder in the scene (in high glee).
• Rapid crowding of voices and possessive refusal turn a small moment into conflict, intensifying tension (you shan’t touch one).
• Piled physical detail in a long sentence makes the moment feel overfull and frenetic (all manner of contortions).
• Enumerating his “spoils” builds a chant-like rhythm that fuels manic energy (one, two, three, four, five).
• Volatile, exclamatory boasts in dialect prime expectations of violence and unruliness (fettle ’em off).
• A sudden pivot from talk to decisive action delivers a jolt that fractures any order (dropped the stone).
• The immediate aftermath multiplies noise and cruelty—outcries, arrival, and casual violence—into a chaotic chorus (kick his dog).
• Authority’s reaction escalates moral disorder by praising defiance rather than restoring control (nobler little scoundrel).
• The next scene’s cold disapproval shifts the mood without resolving conflict, sustaining instability (doubly dark and chilled).
• A calm retrospective close reframes the uproar as exceptional, making the prior tumult stand out by contrast (nearest approach to a quarrel).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, Mrs Bloomfield’s argument with the narrator appears calm and logical. The writer suggests that this cold calmness actually reveals her complete lack of kindness.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Mrs Bloomfield and her cold personality
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest her lack of kindness
• 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 that the writer constructs Mrs Bloomfield’s calm as evidence of unkindness, showing how her polite detachment—"After some casual remark about the weather,"; "calmly"—supports a utilitarian logic—"the creatures were all created for our convenience", where "a child's amusement" outweighs "the welfare of a soulless brute"—and is exposed by evaluative cues like "doubly dark and chilled" and a "short, bitter laugh".

I largely agree that Mrs Bloomfield’s argument appears calm and logical, and that the writer uses this cold composure to expose a profound lack of kindness. From the moment she enters the scene, her character is framed through a chilling semantic field: her “aspect and demeanour were doubly dark and chilled”. Even her “casual remark about the weather” functions as a veneer of civility, a polite ice-breaker that emphasises, rather than softens, the emotional frost beneath.

The dialogue is crafted to present a measured, genteel register. Reporting verbs and adverbs such as “she observed” and “said she, calmly” stage her as reasonable and self-possessed. Yet the content of that calm logic is morally arid. Her assertion that “the creatures were all created for our convenience” elevates convenience to doctrine; the impersonal, generalising lexis (“the creatures,” “created,” “convenience”) strips the birds of individuality and feeling. Similarly, the balanced, abstract phrasing in “a child’s amusement is scarcely to be weighed against the welfare of a soulless brute” mimics judicial objectivity through a weighing metaphor, but the effect is chilling: by labelling the animal a “soulless brute,” she pre-emptively cancels any claim to compassion.

The writer sharpens this cold reasonableness by juxtaposing it with the narrator’s ethical appeals. Miss Grey cites scripture—“Blessed are the merciful…” and “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast”—to anchor her case in a shared moral code. Mrs Bloomfield’s clipped dismissal, “Oh! of course; but…”, with its exclamative “Oh!” and pivoting conjunction, signals a tidy, legalistic narrowing of mercy to “our conduct towards each other.” Her calm is not open-mindedness; it is doctrinal gatekeeping.

When the mask slips, the paralinguistic detail is telling: a “short, bitter laugh” leaks scorn through the composure. She then recasts the narrator’s act as “killing the poor birds by wholesale,” a phrase whose commercial lexis (“wholesale”) chimes with “convenience,” implying a commodifying attitude to life. By calling Tom the “dear boy” and Miss Grey’s intervention a “mere whim,” she sentimentalises the child while belittling principled mercy—an evaluative strategy that feels emotionally ungenerous and morally inverted.

Structurally, the calm is also a tool of power. The narrator’s “I judged it prudent to say no more” reveals how the ice-cool register silences dissent; the closing reflection—“the nearest approach to a quarrel I ever had with Mrs Bloomfield”—suggests that her refusal to engage warmly is habitual. One might argue that “dear boy” hints at maternal concern, but the writer’s diction and contrasts steer us to see this “logic” as a polished indifference. Overall, Mrs Bloomfield’s composure is not kindness but a chilling restraint that legitimises cruelty; I agree to a great extent with the statement.

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 that Mrs Bloomfield’s calm logic masks unkindness, citing her “said she, calmly” delivery and “short, bitter laugh,” plus her claims that creatures were “created for our convenience” and merely “a soulless brute.” It would also note the contrast with the narrator’s moral appeals—“Blessed are the merciful” and “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast”—and her “doubly dark and chilled” demeanour, while acknowledging she condemns the “shocking manner” of the killing as limited counterpoint.

I largely agree that Mrs Bloomfield’s argument appears calm and logical, and that the writer uses this cold calmness to expose a lack of kindness. The narrator first notes that her “aspect and demeanour were doubly dark and chilled”; this semantic field of coldness prepares us to distrust her measured tone. Even her opening “casual remark about the weather” feels like phatic politeness, a surface courtesy masking hard-heartedness.

Her supposed logic relies on dehumanising diction. The adverb “calmly” frames the claim that “the creatures were all created for our convenience,” while the noun phrase “soulless brute” strips the birds of moral worth. The balanced construction “scarcely to be weighed” gives her reasoning a veneer of rationality, but the very calculus is chilling. By contrast, the narrator invokes a moral code through biblical allusion: “Blessed are the merciful” and “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast.” Mrs Bloomfield’s neat restriction—“of course; but that refers to our conduct towards each other”—is a logical narrowing that evades compassion. Her priorities emerge in the juxtaposition “killing the poor birds… and putting the dear boy to such misery”: the affectionate noun phrase “dear boy” sits beside indifference to the birds’ suffering. She further dismisses the narrator’s act as a “mere whim,” and the “short, bitter laugh” cracks the calm façade, revealing contempt.

Structurally, this restrained exchange follows Mr Robson’s coarse brutality, so her civility contrasts with his violence yet seems no kinder. The dialogue proceeds without raised voices, but ends with the narrator’s retreat—“I judged it prudent to say no more”—and the observation that this was the “nearest approach to a quarrel,” implying icy control rather than empathy.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer crafts a tone of cool logic precisely to reveal Mrs Bloomfield’s unkind, even inhumane, outlook, though she may justify it as protecting her child.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree with the writer’s viewpoint, noting through dialogue and description that Mrs Bloomfield seems calm — “said she, calmly” — but her “doubly dark and chilled” manner, a “short, bitter laugh”, and calling animals a “soulless brute” suggest a lack of kindness.

I agree to a large extent that Mrs Bloomfield’s argument seems calm and logical, but this calmness shows a lack of kindness. Before she speaks, the writer prepares us with description: her “aspect and demeanour were doubly dark and chilled.” This adjective “chilled” creates a cold tone. Even her opening is controlled, with a “casual remark about the weather,” which makes her politeness feel icy rather than warm.

In the argument itself, she sounds logical. She says, “the creatures were all created for our convenience,” and, “a child’s amusement is scarcely to be weighed against the welfare of a soulless brute.” The adverb “calmly” shows her steady delivery. However, this logic ignores suffering. The narrator answers with scripture, “‘Blessed are the merciful,’” and “‘The merciful man shows mercy to his beast,’” but Mrs Bloomfield brushes this off with “Oh! of course,” which sounds dismissive. The dialogue shows a rational surface, but a hard heart underneath.

Her true attitude slips out in the “short, bitter laugh.” Calling the birds a “soulless brute” and the boy “the dear boy” shows bias and no compassion for the weak. She even calls the narrator’s action “a mere whim,” which feels unfair and unkind. Finally, the narrator “judged it prudent to say no more,” suggesting Mrs Bloomfield’s cold control silences others rather than cares for them.

Overall, I mostly agree. Her measured tone and neat arguments appear reasonable, but the writer uses tone, word choice and contrast to suggest this calmness hides, and proves, her lack of kindness.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree that the writer presents Mrs Bloomfield as calm but unkind, pointing to "said she, calmly", her "short, bitter laugh", and claims that creatures are "created for our convenience" and "a soulless brute" to show coldness rather than kindness.

I mostly agree with the statement. Mrs Bloomfield speaks in a calm, logical way, but this calmness feels cold and unkind. The writer presents her as controlled and distant, showing almost no kindness.

At first, the narrator notes “it was not her way to say much,” and when she does speak she does so “calmly.” This adverb shows a cool tone. In the dialogue she uses what sounds like reason: “the creatures were all created for our convenience” and “a child’s amusement is scarcely to be weighed against the welfare of a soulless brute.” These points seem logical. However, the words “soulless brute” make her sound harsh. The description of her “aspect and demeanour” being “doubly dark and chilled” also makes her seem cold. The writer’s adjectives and the “short, bitter laugh” show a lack of warmth.

There is also a contrast with the narrator’s “meekly” spoken Bible quotes, like “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast.” This method makes Mrs Bloomfield’s calm replies look even less kind.

Overall, I agree that the calm and logical style hides a lack of kindness. The writer uses dialogue and description to show her cold personality and lack of mercy.

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:

• Controlled, measured tone presents composure that reads as emotional detachment, supporting the view of cold unkindness (said she, calmly).
• Chilling physical description signals moral frigidity beneath civility, undercutting any sense of warmth (doubly dark and chilled).
• Polite veneer masks a reprimand and redirects blame onto the governess rather than cruelty (I am sorry, Miss Grey).
• Euphemistic framing sanitises harm and trivialises suffering as harmless play (Master Bloomfield’s amusements).
• Doctrinal appeal supplies tidy logic that licenses domination and denies empathy (created for our convenience).
• Calculating register weighs pleasure over pain, revealing skewed priorities devoid of compassion (scarcely to be weighed).
• Dehumanising lexis strips the birds of moral status to excuse their torment (soulless brute).
• Derisive vocal reaction punctures the calm facade and exposes hard-hearted contempt (short, bitter laugh).
• Structural silencing shows her cool control suppressing moral challenge rather than encouraging kindness (nearest approach to a quarrel).
• Belittling phrase reduces a principled stance to petty fuss, reinforcing an unkind outlook (mere whim).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

After a sudden power cut halts a packed quiz night at your village hall, you decide to write a short creative piece about the moment.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a village hall during a power cut from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a message that arrives at the wrong time.

(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:

Without warning, the village hall exhales its light, and the room folds into velvet dusk. The electric hum that stitched the rafters is severed; the urn’s little red eye blinks out; the fluorescents give a last, frail stutter and surrender. Rain needles the glass; the air smells of floor polish and damp wool. Darkness gathers, patient and heavy, in the corners; it leans over stacked plastic chairs; it settles on the piano like a moth-eaten shawl.

For a breath nobody moves. Then: a rustle, a murmur, the polite chaos. Someone titters; someone tuts; somewhere, keys jangle like small bells. Mr Ellerby, the caretaker—sleeves rolled, torch uncertain—sweeps a milky beam across the noticeboard: Beetle Drive; a curling photograph of last year’s harvest. The beam stumbles on a biscuit tin, squat and promising; inside, tea-lights nestle like coins. The first match scratches, coughs sulphurous breath, and the wick accepts its bite.

One by one—then faster—little flames are persuaded into being; one by one they steady. Honeyed light pools along the ledge, creeps across varnish, climbs faces until cheekbones loom and eyes acquire bright pinheads. The bunting droops in garlands that now gleam; dust motes lift and drift. The piano sulks in the corner, sheen dulled; someone, unable to resist, plays a tentative chord that flutters and falls.

Outside, the wind frets at the eaves and the gutters glug. The hall remembers knees-up weddings, coffee mornings, fierce quizzes; the squeak of trainers on the badminton court. Now there is only this: a hush you can taste—unbrewed tea, candle smoke, rain. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Faces convene. Strangers shrink into neighbours, then into friends, drawn closer by necessity and by the little islands of fire. They speak more softly in the dark; stories unspool. The vicar recalls the snow of ’81; the Brownie leader counts heads, lips moving. There are biscuits—always biscuits—passed round in the glow; a chocolate one is taken. Warmth accrues not from radiators, but from proximity.

Meanwhile, Mr Ellerby consults the fuse box—behind the stage curtains—and mutters at its obstinacy. He flicks switches; nothing. He waits; listens; tries again. What else can he do but wait? The hall breathes with him, a slow, communal rhythm, as if the darkness has its own tide: in and out, in and out, in and out.

And then, without ceremony, the world returns. A thump beyond the car park; a rude blaze as strip lights flare; the officious hum stitches back into the bones. For a heartbeat nobody moves. The candles burn on, small and steadfast; their smoke threads into the sudden brightness, already fading. Someone groans, someone laughs; apologies ripple to nobody in particular. One by one, wicks are pinched, and the village hall—no longer extraordinary—gets on with its evening.

Option B:

Midwinter. The season of brittle light; frost-soldered pavements; breath that blossoms white and vanishes like a thought you meant to keep. The sun, a thin coin, clings to the horizon. Even the church bells seem to flinch at their own sound, an austere peal that makes the sparrows rise like ash and resettle in the yew.

Inside, the air is dense with polish and lilies and the clean chill of stone. Candles gutter and recompose themselves; dust is suspended, patient and luminous, turning the shafts of light into ladders no one will climb. The hymn slips away, a fading rope. When the vicar closes his book, the murmur of coats and creaking pews resettles into that peculiar silence reserved for after and never again.

Bea smooths the folded paper she has rewritten a dozen times, the words neat and loyal, as if fidelity could be inked. Her hands tremble, but rhythmically, like an engine warming. She has practised the opening line in her kitchen, in the mirror, in the supermarket queue; the sentences should unfurl, measured and exact—he would have liked that, would have told her to breathe from the diaphragm, not the throat. He had loved clocks, too, with their honest mechanics and ineluctable tick. Time, to him, was a craft.

Her phone, resolutely silenced and buried in her coat pocket like an apology, vibrates.

A small, insistent pulse against her hip; a second heartbeat that arrives at the wrong time. Bea freezes. The congregation watches the hem of her dress, the line of her back. Somewhere behind her, Aunt Carol coughs discreetly into a lace handkerchief. Bea considers ignoring it. She almost does.

It comes again—two quick shivers—and her resolve fractures. She slips a hand into the pocket, fingers finding cold glass, the familiar constellation of chips along the case. She doesn’t mean to look. Of course she doesn’t.

From: Dad.

The preview blooms on the screen she has sworn not to light. For a moment she thinks she has misread her own life; then she remembers she never changed the name (how could she?), that a number is not a person, that the world is full of echoes. The message shows only the first line: Take the tin from the shed roof—

She feels the words like a hand on her shoulder. The vicar nods. It’s time. Her name, “Beatrice,” floats over the pews, calm as a held bowl of water. People turn.

What sort of message arrives when the world is holding its breath? A cruel one, perhaps. Or a necessary one. Or both.

Bea moves to the lectern. The paper in her hand rustles (too loudly, she thinks) and the microphone breathes. Her voice, when it arrives, is smaller than the one she rehearsed but steadier than she fears. “My father,” she begins, “was a man who believed in punctuality.” A low smile flickers over the front row like a wind easing a field.

The phone is a weight, a metronome. Outside, a sliver of blue braves the grey. She speaks of pocket watches and sunrises he chased; of apologies he was never late to make. Between commas, between memories, another thought presses at her ribs: a tin on the shed roof—why the roof? what tin?—and the sudden sense that she is reading the wrong lines at the right podium.

The message waits, obdurate and bright in her pocket. She carries on anyway, because some ceremonies cannot be paused, because some sentences must be completed, because sometimes a message arrives at the wrong time and remakes time regardless.

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

Option A:

The lights give up with a small, domestic sigh, and the hall seems to inhale its own darkness. The strip lights blink their last; the emergency exit sign falters; the old clock arrests itself at seven-thirteen. For a second, there is a held breath—then whispers furl, chair legs scrape. A match rasps; an amber bead appears, tentative, then steadier; another follows, and another, until a row of little suns shivers along the trestle tables. Shadows lengthen, deepen, gather at the skirting; the room changes age, slipping into something older and gentler.

In this borrowed glow, the village hall reveals its ordinary treasures. The varnished floor—scuffed into a pale geography—glosses the candlelight in wavering tracks; stacked plastic chairs nod in tiers like a patient audience. The noticeboard blooms with curling posters: Bring & Buy, Pilates on Thursdays, a faded photo from the fete. Coats hang on pegs like dark flags. Without the fluorescent hum, there is a hush that has weight; the air smells of wax, old polish and damp wool; woodgrain stands out like fingerprints.

People soften. Faces tilt towards the firefly flames; cheekbones are carved and eyes are drowned in pools. The caretaker—broad, practical—moves like a slow metronome, testing sockets, offering reassurance he can’t yet guarantee. Teenagers hold up phones and find only unhelpful slabs of black glass; an infant whimpers; someone uncaps a thermos. There is a miscellany of small noises: the rain’s patient drumming; a sigh; laughter thinner than usual but warm; the rubber door-seal kissing the frame as the wind troubles it again.

The candlelight makes a chiaroscuro of everything; the rafters loom like ribs; bunting that seemed jaunty at six now shivers, subdued. Wax slides, translucent, to the necks of jars; a moth arrives and orbits, undecided. The old curtain breathes when the door opens. Time is measured differently: not by the second-hand’s neat loop, but by the drip in the bucket beneath yesterday’s leak—plink, pause, plink—over and over. Someone (Mrs Drew, of course) starts a story about the winter of ’77.

Outside, a generator coughs into life; nobody moves yet. They lean in, caught by the glow and each other; the village hall—purely functional by daylight—becomes, briefly, a hearth; ordinary people look almost ceremonial. For now, in this honest dark, the power cut is less a failure than a quiet permission: to listen, to wait, to be stitched a little closer together by shared light.

Option B:

Timing pretends to be tidy. Clocks tick with prim certainty; calendars grid our lives. But real time is unruly—elastic, sly. It stretches an hour into an afternoon then snaps a day in half without apology. It waits until the last possible moment, then sends a thing you cannot ignore.

The church smelled of lilies and polish, a sweet, heady glaze that sat on the back of my tongue. Sunlight, milky and angled, fused with dust to make the air visible, a slow-motion snowfall over rows of nervous hats. The organ droned like a patient bee. At the front, freckled marble saints watched us with stone patience.

I was busy with small bravery—pinning a veil that kept slithering, straightening a buttonhole, saying the kind of sentences people say on days like this. You look incandescent. He loves you. Of course it will be perfect. I had rehearsed my reading at breakfast, tracing each comma with the edge of my nail. Timing mattered. Pause at the lilt. Breathe after the semicolon.

"Please stand," the vicar called, and the collective rustle rose; the orchestra of silk and superstition. Phones off, the ushers had begged earlier (a forest of polite nods, the chorus of compliance). My phone was a smooth weight in my clutch—silent, obedient—because it was one thing we could control.

It happened as the bride reached the last three steps to the altar. A small, treacherous vibration travelled through the thin leather, through my palm, into the bones of my wrist. I tightened my grip. Not now! But the light blinked again, insistent. I glanced—because of course I did—and the screen unrolled its quiet catastrophe:

Unknown Number: Dan, don't let her say yes.

Those seven words, ordinary and explosive, sat there like a dropped match on dry grass.

For a heartbeat I wondered if I had misread it, if my eyes, dazzled by white and gold, had rearranged letters into drama. Dan wasn’t me. Dan was the groom, straight-backed at the rail, jaw set the way men set their jaws when they are determined to be brave. The message was wrong twice: wrong recipient, wrong time. And yet the rightness of its urgency pulled at me—at something I had buried under lists and ribbon.

Beside me, the bride’s hand trembled around pearled roses; a single petal skated to the aisle. The vicar’s rehearsed smile held. The first vow unfurled. The message burned a square into my palm. How could two sentences—two—rearrange a lifetime?

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

Option A:

The village hall exhales darkness as if it has been holding its breath all year. No hum from the strip bulbs; no electric purr from the heaters; no stern tick from the big clock above the stage: the sound of absence spreads, wide and slow. Outside, rain tests the windows, a shy tapping, then harder, as the wind finds a keyhole and whistles through it.

Someone produces candles—stubs saved from Christmas, tea-lights in cloudy jam jars. Soon thin flames bloom and bow, bloom and bow, and the room remembers its shape. The varnished boards catch a wash of honey; chairs throw long, spindly shadows that climb the old piano. Bunting, faded to gentler colours, sags; on the stage the curtain holds its pleats, and the EXIT sign is a blank leaf.

At first, voices murmur, overlapping—What happened? How long?—then settle. A child giggles, then tucks into silence. The caretaker shakes the torch; it coughs once and dies. Phones glow like small moons; messages sit unsent. There is the sugared smell of biscuits, the sharper scent of damp coats and wax; somewhere a kettle waits, its plug an idle tail.

In the dimness, the photographs along the far wall seem braver. Harvest suppers, a paper crown, a jumble of smiling faces—grandparents younger than those holding the candles now. Their frames catch the tremble of light, as if the past is leaning closer. The noticeboard lists quizzes, yoga, a lost scarf; dates that felt sure this morning seem uncertain. Even the piano lid, shut tight, looks as though it might lift if someone asked it kindly.

Meanwhile, wind threads under the doors; flames tilt; shadows sway and sway again. Without electricity, everything slows: conversation, breath, the impatient shuffling of feet. And yet, a kind of quiet warms the air. Strangers exchange names; someone offers a blanket; another strikes a match—flare, fail, try again. When the lights return (they always do), the hall will throw off its softened edges and the bright hum will take over; for now the village sits together, stitched by candlelight.

Option B:

June. The kind of heat that clung to the school hall, persistent as held breath. Desks in regimented rows; heads bowed; a forest of pens whispering. The varnished floor held strips of thin sky; the clock ticked in stubborn steps, and every tick felt personal. I wrote my candidate number—too carefully, as if neatness could bribe the questions into kindness.

I liked maths because it didn’t flinch. A line equals a line, even when your stomach is a fist. I drew a triangle and tried not to think about the message I was waiting for, the one that had made sleep thin and scratchy. Mum had said not to worry—she always said that—but worry had been sitting beside me all morning, tapping its foot.

The vibration came like a trapped bee against my thigh. Bzz. Small; insistent. I froze. Phones were contraband—a word that sounded too dramatic until this second. I had meant to put it in the clear plastic bag—I really had—but the bus had been late... the doors had stuck... the invigilator had frowned at my tie. I had run out of chances.

Bzz.

A second tremor, longer this time, briefly lit my blazer; a pale rectangle like a flare. My pen paused mid-air, a comma waiting for its clause. I didn’t look. The invigilator’s shoes made soft circuits on the floor. In my head, the message had already written itself: Dad: Come now. How could a rule feel heavier than this?

I raised my hand. It felt like a white flag, wavering. When the invigilator reached me, her face arranged itself into professional patience.

Toilet? she mouthed.

Please, I mouthed back.

As she nodded, the phone shuddered again; this time I saw it—just a flash, a preview through the cloth. Dad: She’s going in early. Call me.

Of course it had to be now. Of course.

I stood, though no one looked up, and the clock’s second hand leapt, greedy for minutes I no longer owned.

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

Option A:

The lights failed with a soft click, and the village hall seemed to inhale, then hold its breath. Then chairs scraped; someone said "Oh." The high windows became black mirrors, and the glossy floor turned into a shallow pool of shadow. Outside, the wind sniffed around the door like a curious dog, finding every gap and pushing in a thin draught.

A match rasped; sulphur stung the air. The caretaker cupped a tiny flame, sheltering it with his big hands. One by one he touched wicks: small orange pearls rose and trembled; shadows leapt up the walls. In the unsteady light the stage curtains hung like a dark sea. The old piano, lid closed, sat politely in the corner, as if waiting to be spoken to.

People lowered their voices without being told. Words became whispers and soft jokes, nervous and low. The raffle tickets on the table were pale ribbons; the tin for coins looked cold. Someone shook the kettle out of habit, though the socket was blank and useless. The big clock above the noticeboard ticked stubbornly, tick, tick — then stopped. We heard small things we usually miss: the squeak of a shoe, a cough, the fine patter of rain fingering the panes.

With the power gone, the hall felt older, nearer to its bones. The posters curled at the edges and the tape showed; the paint wore its scuffs like history. Candle wax slid in pale tears, slow and sticky. Faces gathered in little islands of glow, eyes bright, cheeks golden. It looked ordinary before, now it felt almost special: villagers gathered, listening for weather and news. We waited together, again and again, for that small returning hum — the click, the sudden bloom of light — and in the waiting the place seemed to grow warmer, quieter, more kind.

Option B:

Time became a drum that afternoon, steady and too loud. Sunlight leaked through stained glass in coloured strips, sliding over pews and polished floor. The air smelt of flowers and old hymn books; sweet and dusty at once. Somewhere, the organ coughed and found a note, low and patient. My veil tickled my neck, the lace rubbed my wrist, reminding me I had chosen this. The doors were closed. On the other side, a murmur rose and fell like a tide.

I held my bouquet too tightly. The stems were damp and cold; a drop of water slid between my fingers. Breathe, my mum whispered, smoothing a hair that wouldn’t stay put. I breathed, in and out, but my mouth was dry. The dress felt heavier than it had in the fitting room—heavier than the word forever. One step and the doors would open. One step. The organ swelled: the planned moment I had pictured for months.

That was when my phone vibrated, a small shiver in the pocket I had stubbornly kept. One buzz. Then silence. I glanced down. A rectangle of light against ivory. Message: Don’t marry him. The words sat there, black and simple. Don’t marry him—what kind of joke was that? Was it meant for someone else? Or were they outside? For a second, the room narrowed and even the organ sounded far away.

My thumb trembled and I almost dropped the bouquet. Mum didn’t see. I could have shown her the screen; I could have laughed and said spam. But that exact second before the doors opened made the message feel heavier than it should. Another buzz. A second text, shorter: Please. The handles turned, my name was about to float into the hush, and all I could hear was that one word: please.

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

Option A:

At first, the village hall falls silent when the fluorescent strip lights flicker, stutter, and die. The hum that always hangs over the rafters slips away; a sigh in the wooden ribs. Steam curls off cups left on trestle tables, a pale ribbon in the gloom, and the varnished floor becomes a dark lake. Someone laughs, too loud. Chairs scrape; a metal leg squeals. The smell of polish and damp coats presses in, thicker than before, and the fire door lets in a draught that tickles ankles.

After a moment the shuffling begins. Mrs Pell rummages in the cupboard, the scout leader finds tea lights, and a single match blooms like a small sun. Candlelight puddles across the tables; faces hover in amber circles. Shadows leap and bow up the beams, back and forth. The stage curtains hold their breath. Wax runs, thin and shiny, and the smell of it mixes with cake crumbs and polish.

Every sound is larger now: a cough like a snapped twig; the slow drip from the roof; a whisper sliding along the walls. Without the speakers and heaters the hall shows its bones—old floorboards creak. There’s five candles on the windowsill, flicker and waver, flicker and waver. People lift phones like little torches, then set them down again. We wait, the hall listens. In the low glow the photos on the far wall look nearer; dances, fairs, faces from years before. The place feels older but kinder. Someone starts a story, slow and warm, and the hall holds it.

Option B:

November, and the rain tapped like impatient fingers on the church windows. Black coats bunched along the pews; flowers drooped, their scent too sweet in the cold air. The organ hummed a low breath. Even the candles seemed to listen. Morning had started, but my bones felt like night. I held the order of service as if it might float away.

My tie was too tight. Mum's hand found my sleeve and squeezed, brief and brittle. I nodded, pretending that everything was manageable, that I could be still. In my pocket, my phone lay like a flat stone. I had definately meant to switch it off; I really had, only Aunt Jean had texted earlier and I thought I'd, well, it would be fine.

The vicar cleared his throat. Silence gathered, like dust. Then—PING. The sound bounced off wood. Heads lifted. Heat pulled up my neck. With fingers that didn't obey, I slid out the phone, trying to smother the screen with my palm. One line lit it up: Interview brought forward to 10am today. Please confirm asap.

Of all mornings, this morning. Too soon, too loud, too late. My name was next in the booklet; I was supposed to read. Words fought in my mouth while other words demanded me from across town. Behind it, the photo—his smile—stared too. What do you do when both call at once?

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

Option A:

When the lights clicked off, the village hall held its breath. Darkness sat on the long tables and stacked chairs. Someone struck a match; a thin flame wobbled, then another. Candles stood like little soldiers in jam jars, wax smelling sweet. The old clock was a round black eye. Rain tapped the windows; the floor shone in small islands.

Meanwhile, people shuffled closer. Mrs Ellis pulled her cardigan tight, and the vicar said it would be fine. A child giggled, then hid; faces glowed with phone torches like paper masks. The tea urn sat useless, a metal moon going cold. We spoke in whispers because the dark made us, and the hall felt careful.

At the far end the curtains moved a little, a draft sneaking through the side door. Chairs creaked again and again. The candles flicker and bow; shadows climbed the walls, growing tall, then small. My breath clouded in the chilly air - it tasted of dust and wax. After a while panic turned into waiting. Someone found biscuits, they went round like a slow parade. We watched for the familiar hum, that simple click that means normal. Until then, we share the glow and the quiet.

Option B:

The exam hall held its breath. Fluorescent lights hummed above like insects, and the smell of paper and polish swam around us. I squeezed my pencil so tight my fingers ached; the first question stared up, cold and blank. No whispering. No tapping. Just the clock, clicking forward, pushing me. I told myself to focus, to write something, anything, because time was a puddle getting smaller under a hot sun. Then my chest felt hollow, like a lift dropping.

Then a small vibration started — a twitch against my thigh. My phone. I meant to switch it off, to leave it in my bag, but nerves can scramble simple things. The invigilator’s shoes scraped, slow. The screen lit my pocket; I slid it out under the desk. A message: "Call me now. It's urgent."

My mouth went dry. Wrong time, completely the wrong time. The question swam away; the letters looked like insects. Whatever I did, there would be a consequence. If I rang, I’d fail; if I didn’t, something worse could grow. The clock clicked on, my stomach rolled. I lowered the phone, decided to wait a minute — just one — but it buzzed again.

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

Option A:

It is dark in the village hall. The lights have gone. Chairs sit in lines and look like people sitting still. A candle on the table wobbles and wax drips down and down, it smells like honey and smoke. The big brown curtains hang heavy, the windows are black like a pond.

we whisper because the dark feels thick.

Someone’s phone glows then dies, we say oh and we laugh, then nobody talks. The clock on the wall has stoped so time is slow. The old heater is off and cold air creeps along the floor, our breath is white, it curls.

Outside the wind bumps the door and the hall groans like a ship. I look at the roof and I wait for the lights to come back on, and on.

It is still dark in the village hall.

Option B:

Morning. Grey clouds sat low on our street. Toast in my mouth, bag on my back, I was late again. My phone buzzed in my pocket, little shocks, my fingers felt wet and slow.

I tied my lace wrong and it come undone. I ran anyway. Rain hit my face like pins. The bus coughs at the stop, doors open like a mouth.

Buzz. Buzz. New message.

I wanted to look but the driver stared, the doors was closing, people tutted and I was breathing hard, my hand slipped on the screen so I just climbed on and said sorry to no one

Then I seen it. Don’t get on that bus.

Too late, too late. The engine roared and the windows shook. My stomach dropped like a stone. I looked out for Mum but she was a blur.

The wrong time for a message. The wrong time for anything.

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

Option A:

The hall is dark and quiet. The lights go out and every one goes still, the old clock dont tick. I can smell wax and dust, the floor is cold on my shoes. Candles flicker on a table, flicker flicker, they make big shadows on the brown wall that looks wet. A chair scrapes and that sound is loud, louder then before! Wind taps the windows, doors creeks and someone laughs soft, then stops. I see coats on hooks like sleeping people. I look for my phone, its dead. I think about last summer fair in this place, bright bunting, now nothing, just dark.

Option B:

Morning. Rain on the window and the sky is grey. The bus is slow and my bag is heavy and I am late, late. In the hall it is quiet, we sit and look down at paper. Then my phone buzz, buzzes in my coat, I should not look but I do. A message: come now, its bad. My heart goes like a drum and my pen drops and the invigilater looks up. Wrong time. Why now. I think of mum and the dog and the key we forgot. The rain gets louder, the clock ticks, I ain't ready, everything is small and far away and I can't breath.