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 did Robert say?: good-night – 1 mark
• 1.2 What was heard approaching?: The voices of the bathers – 1 mark
• 1.3 What was thought about the person who did not answer?: That the person was asleep – 1 mark
• 1.4 What did the person watch pass in and out of the strips of moonlight?: Robert's figure – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 10 of the source:

6 walked away. “What are you doing out here, Edna? I thought I should find you in bed,” said her husband, when he discovered her lying there. He had

How does the writer use language here to present Edna’s encounter with her husband? 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 typically identify how the juxtaposed interrogative and declarative — “What are you doing out here, Edna?” and “I thought I should find you in bed,” — use direct address, the modal “should,” and spatial contrast (“out here”/“in bed”) to assert the husband’s expectations and control, while the distancing tag “said her husband” and the evaluative phrase “discovered her lying there” cast Edna as passive and scrutinised, making the encounter feel like surveillance rather than intimacy.

The writer uses direct speech and interrogatives to foreground the power dynamic in Edna’s encounter. The question “What are you doing out here, Edna?” employs a vocative to assert control, as the husband names her to fix her attention. The modal verb in “I thought I should find you in bed” conveys deontic expectation rather than mere prediction, implying an obligation about where she “should” be. Moreover, the antithesis between the deictic “out here” and the enclosed “in bed” establishes a spatial binary that polices her movement and reinforces domestic boundaries, presenting his tone as admonitory.

Furthermore, the reporting clause “said her husband” defines him through a relational noun phrase, anchoring the narration to Edna’s perspective and framing the encounter by marital roles. The dynamic verb “discovered” carries investigative connotations, casting him as the agent who uncovers a transgression, while the present participle in “her lying there” renders Edna passive and exposed. The shift from the second-person “you” in his speech to the third-person “her” in narration subtly objectifies her, emphasising the imbalance of agency.

Additionally, sentence form intensifies the moment. The clipped minor clause “walked away.” creates a pause that sharpens the abruptness of his intrusion. Inside the quotation, the movement from an interrogative to a declarative tightens his control, moving from inquiry to judgement. Finally, the unfinished clause “He had” operates as a sentence fragment, suspending the action and implying an interruption or unspoken assumption, which heightens tension. Thus, through interrogatives, modal language, and controlled syntax, the writer presents Edna’s encounter with her husband as intrusive, regulatory and unsettling.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Using direct speech, direct address, and varied sentence forms, the interrogative "What are you doing out here, Edna?" and the assertive "I thought I should find you in bed" present the husband as questioning and expecting compliance, creating a concerned but authoritative tone. The verb choice "discovered her lying there" portrays Edna as passive and vulnerable, making the encounter feel uneasy.

The writer uses direct speech and an interrogative to present the encounter as intrusive. The question, “What are you doing out here, Edna?” contains the vocative “Edna” and the second-person “you”, placing her under scrutiny. The phrase “out here” contrasts with “in bed”, suggesting she has crossed a boundary. This creates a chastising tone that asserts his authority.

Moreover, the declarative “I thought I should find you in bed” uses the modal verb “should” to imply obligation. The phrase “I thought” foregrounds his viewpoint, while the repeated bedroom image frames Edna within domestic space. This choice of sentence form and diction makes the encounter feel unequal, with Edna positioned as failing to meet expectations.

Additionally, the tag “said her husband, when he discovered her lying there” uses the dynamic verb “discovered” and the present participle “lying” to render Edna passive and observed. The pronouns “he” and “her” reinforce the power imbalance. The short sentence “walked away” before the dialogue, and the clause breaking off after “He had”, create a pause and anticipation that intensify the tension.

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 would notice the rhetorical question in the direct speech, 'What are you doing out here, Edna?', to show the husband’s surprise and authority. It might also pick out words like 'discovered' and the expectation 'in bed' to suggest she’s been caught out by 'her husband' and that the tone is a bit controlling.

The writer uses direct speech to present Edna's encounter as immediate and tense. The interrogative "What are you doing out here, Edna?" directly addresses her by name, which makes the husband sound demanding and puts pressure on her. Furthermore, the modal verb "should" in "I thought I should find you in bed" shows his expectations about where Edna ought to be, suggesting control and routine. Additionally, the verb choice "discovered her" makes him active while Edna is passive, and the phrase "lying there" presents her as still and vulnerable. Also, the contrast between "out here" and "in bed" highlights how he polices her space, which makes the encounter feel one-sided. Overall, these choices show the husband's authority and Edna's discomfort in the moment.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses a question in direct speech — “What are you doing out here, Edna?” — to show the husband’s surprise and that he is checking on her. The simple statement “I thought I should find you in bed” and the description “lying there” suggest his expectations and make Edna seem passive.

The writer uses direct speech to show the encounter. The line “What are you doing out here, Edna?” is a question with her name. This shows the husband is surprised and talking to her directly.

Moreover, the phrase “I thought I should find you in bed” shows his expectation. The word “thought” suggests he assumes things, and this makes the reader see tension.

Additionally, the verb “discovered” in “he discovered her lying there” sounds formal. It makes Edna seem passive, “lying there,” and the husband active. This presents the encounter as tense.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Abrupt fragment opens with immediate movement, jolting the reader into the encounter and implying a sudden shift in focus (walked away).
• Interrogative direct speech asserts authority and demands an explanation, making the tone probing and intrusive (What are you doing).
• Spatial contrast frames Edna as out of place versus expected domesticity, reinforcing norms he assumes she should follow (in bed).
• Modal verb conveys obligation and presumption about her proper location, signalling control and expectation (should find you).
• Relational label foregrounds the role over individuality, casting the scene in marital terms and power relations (said her husband).
• Detective-like verb implies surveillance and judgment as he comes upon her, intensifying scrutiny (discovered her).
• Present participle suggests passivity or vulnerability, positioning Edna as acted upon within the moment (lying there).
• Past-tense cognition sets an expectation that clashes with the present reality, adding a note of disappointment or reprimand (I thought).
• Incomplete sentence ending withholds information and builds suspense, implying interruption or an unspoken continuation (He had).

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 tranquility?

You could write about:

• how tranquility emerges 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 trace a whole-text shift from tension to stillness, explaining how the writer slows pace via cyclical repetition of Mr. Pontellier’s rituals (smoked two cigars, opened a bottle of wine, smoked some more cigars), moves from clipped dialogue to expansive description, and uses time to structure serenity (from past one o’clock to the stillest hour... when the world seems to hold its breath). It would analyse how sound and light are quieted—no longer hooted, had ceased to moan, silver to copper—so that Edna’s arc from blazed up resistance to yielding produces a cumulative sense of tranquility.

One way the writer structures tranquility is by steadily slowing the narrative and quieting the soundscape. The extract opens with approaching “voices”, clipped exchanges (“Are you asleep?”—“No.”) and irritation, which keep the tempo brisk. As it progresses, sentences lengthen and the focus shifts outward: “The stillest hour of the night had come… the world seems to hold its breath.” This move from dispute to setting, and from “voices” to the owl that “no longer hooted”, settles the reader into hush.

In addition, temporal references regulate the rhythm so tranquility accrues gradually. Markers like “past one o’clock”, “after a few moments”, and “after a reasonable interval” chart measured duration, while iterative sequencing—he “smoked two cigars… drank another glass… smoked some more”—creates a soothing routine. Even the brief retrospective (“Another time she would have gone in… she remembered that she had”) relocates conflict into habit; once contextualised, the present eases into the “hour before dawn”, a natural lull that calms both character and reader.

A further structural feature is the sustained third-person focalisation on Edna, which arcs from agitation to repose. Midway, her will “blazed up”, but this crest is followed by a gentle falling action: she “began to feel… gradually”, the “exuberance” ebbs, and she becomes “helpless and yielding”. The spatial trajectory mirrors the calm—from hammock, to steps, to inside. The final balanced exchange and “misty puff of smoke” function as a quiet coda, sealing the scene in equilibrium.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify how the structure moves from tense dialogue to calm description: early 'impatience and irritation' and Edna’s refusals slow into repeated, routine actions ('smoked two cigars', 'drank another glass of wine', 'after a reasonable interval of time'). By the end, the focus widens to the hushed setting—'the stillest hour of the night', 'the world seems to hold its breath', 'the old owl no longer hooted'—so the pace and tone soften to create tranquility.

One way the writer has structured the text to create tranquility is by slowing the pace through temporal references and repetition. Time is stretched with “past one o’clock” and “after a reasonable interval,” while Léonce’s routine—drawing up the rocker, raising his feet, smoking, then smoking again—creates a steady rhythm. This measured sequence calms the narrative and mirrors Edna settling more securely in the hammock.

In addition, there is a clear shift in focus from tense dialogue to calm description of the setting, which softens the tone. Early impatience gives way as the focus moves to “the stillest hour of the night,” when “the world seems to hold its breath.” The owl and the oaks stop making noise, so silence replaces conflict and a tranquil mood develops.

A further structural feature is the sustained close perspective on Edna that charts an inner change. Her will first “blazed up,” but she “awakens gradually” and “the physical need for sleep” overtakes her. Placing this softening just before the final image of Léonce finishing his cigar—a “misty puff of smoke”—creates a quiet ending, leaving the scene peaceful by the close.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would typically identify that the structure moves from tense dialogue at the start (Mr. Pontellier’s “You must come in the house instantly,” said “irritably”) to slower, repeated actions (“he smoked two cigars,” “after a reasonable interval of time”) and ends with calm description (“the stillest hour of the night,” when the “world seems to hold its breath”), which creates a tranquil mood by the end.

One way the writer structures the text to create tranquility is by moving from tension at the start to calm at the end. At first there is quick dialogue with short exchanges, but later the “stillest hour of the night” slows the pace. This shift in mood makes the reader feel settled.

In addition, repetition and routine actions in the middle create a steady rhythm. The husband “smoked two cigars,” then “smoked some more cigars.” This repeated structure and chronological order make the pace slower and more tranquil.

A further structural feature is the shift in focus from character to setting. Early on the focus is their conflict, but later the writer zooms out to nature: “the moon hung low… the owl no longer hooted.” This change in focus and tone soothes the reader.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer moves from early sound and movement (voices of the bathers, walked away) to calm description as time goes from past one o’clock to The stillest hour of the night, with repeated actions like smoked two cigars making it feel slower and more peaceful. Calm details such as the world seems to hold its breath, no longer hooted and ceased to moan make the ending tranquil.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create tranquility is by moving from busy dialogue to quiet description. At the start, Edna and her husband argue, but later the focus shifts to still, calm night.

In addition, repetition of routine actions, like “smoked two cigars” and drinking wine, slows the pace. This slow pace makes it feel calm for the reader.

A further structural feature is the time shift to “the stillest hour of the night.” Ending here, with Edna finally going inside, closes the scene and leaves a quiet, tranquil mood.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate withdrawal from social noise as Robert leaves and Edna watches in silence initiates calm (good-night).
• Visual tracking across light and dark slows the moment, encouraging quiet contemplation (strips of moonlight).
• Tonal shift in dialogue from irritation to gentleness de-escalates tension and soothes the scene (note of entreaty).
• Repetitive routine of small actions creates a lulling rhythm that steadies the pace (smoked two cigars).
• Time markers move us toward a serene climax of stillness in the night (the stillest hour).
• Soundscape diminishes to near silence, deepening the sense of peace (hold its breath).
• Shift from terse exchanges to expansive description broadens focus and calms the narrative (The moon hung low).
• Edna’s arc from resistance to acceptance settles emotional turbulence into repose (helpless and yielding).
• Gentle, unhurried motions and hazy visuals soften the close of the scene (misty puff of smoke).
• Ending leaves routine, unpressured continuity, sealing a tranquil resolution (finished my cigar).

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, Mr Pontellier's changing ways of trying to get Edna inside make him seem weak, not strong. The writer suggests he is not used to being challenged and does not know how to handle it.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Mr Pontellier's behaviour during the confrontation
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray his ultimate weakness
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue to a great extent that the writer constructs Mr Pontellier’s weakness through his oscillating tactics—dialogue tags shifting from “irritably” to “fondly, with a note of entreaty”, the loss of control in “blurted out” and the hollow fiat “I can’t permit you”—before he retreats into performative comforts (“slippered feet”, “smoked two cigars”, “offered a glass”), while the counterpoint of Edna’s “will had blazed up” and “Another time she would have gone in” exposes that he is unused to resistance and can only wait her out.

I largely agree that Mr Pontellier’s changing tactics make him appear weak and unused to challenge. From the outset, his approach feels scattershot: he begins with practical pretexts—“You will take cold… The mosquitoes will devour you”—delivered “irritably.” The piling up of everyday warnings functions like a rhetorical grab-bag, implying he lacks a clear strategy. The adverb “irritably” immediately signals frayed control, and the auditory detail—“every sound indicating impatience and irritation”—builds a soundscape of fretful fidgeting rather than calm authority.

When this fails, he shifts register. The vocative “Edna, dear,” uttered “fondly, with a note of entreaty,” marks a retreat from command to supplication. This tonal softening, from the clipped imperative “Come on” to begging, exposes uncertainty. His sudden lurch back to authoritarianism—“This is more than folly… I can’t permit… You must”—is undone by the verb “blurted,” which connotes an ungainly spill of feeling; even the modal verbs that signal power (“can’t,” “must”) feel performative when framed by emotional loss of control. Crucially, the narrator’s intrusion—“Another time she would have gone in… through habit”—confirms that his prior “authority” rested on unthinking routine. Faced with Edna’s inner shift—her will “blazed up, stubborn and resistant”—he is simply unprepared.

Thereafter, his tactics become self-soothing and symbolic rather than effective. He “opened a bottle of wine” from his “small and select supply” and “offered a glass”: a genteel bribe that betrays reliance on comforts and props. The domestic imagery of his “slippered feet” “elevated” on the rail enacts a performance of relaxed mastery, but the iterative structure—“He smoked two cigars… drank another glass… smoked some more”—creates a rhythm of stasis and delay. Repetition slows the narrative pace, implying he is waiting for time, not persuasion, to do the work. By contrast, Edna’s crisp anaphora—“I don’t wish… I don’t intend”—projects firm agency, highlighting his floundering.

Significantly, it is not Léonce who resolves the stand-off. The atmospheric imagery—“the stillest hour… the moon… turned from silver to copper… the water-oaks had ceased to moan”—ushers in a natural lull, and Edna yields only to “the physical need for sleep” and the “conditions which crowded her in.” His final attempt to salvage dignity—“Yes, dear… Just as soon as I have finished my cigar”—is undercut by the image of a “misty puff of smoke,” a neat symbol for authority that looks substantial but disperses.

Overall, the writer’s manipulation of tone, adverbial commentary, modal verbs, narrative intrusion, repetition and symbolic imagery creates a persuasive portrait of a man unused to resistance and unsure how to handle it. I strongly agree that his changing approaches make him seem weak rather than strong.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree, explaining that the writer presents Mr Pontellier as weak by showing his tone shift from command to entreaty—he speaks "irritably" and insists "I can’t permit you", then pleads "Edna, dear" with "a note of entreaty", before resorting to ineffectual gestures like "offered a glass" and passively "smoked two cigars". It would also note he isn’t used to being challenged—“Another time she would have gone in”—while Edna’s will is “stubborn and resistant,” showing his usual authority fails.

I largely agree that Mr Pontellier appears weak as his tactics shift; the writer presents a man unused to resistance who flounders when Edna refuses. At first he relies on authority-lite reasons and routine: “Do you know it is past one o’clock? … You will take cold … The mosquitoes will devour you.” These appeals to propriety and danger are undercut by Edna’s calm rebuttals, and the adverb “irritably” signals his loss of composure. The narrator’s comment that “every sound” shows “impatience and irritation” further exposes his fraying control. His tone then lurches—“Edna, dear … with a note of entreaty”—to pleading, before he “blurted out” the imperatives “I can’t permit… You must come in.” That verb “blurted” implies impulse rather than authority. Structurally, his command is immediately juxtaposed with Edna’s resistance: she “settled herself more securely,” the dynamic verb reinforcing her resolve and his ineffectiveness. The aside that “Another time she would have gone in … through habit” confirms he is not used to being challenged.

When direct control fails, he switches strategy again to coaxing and display. He “opened a bottle of wine … offered a glass,” then performs nonchalance: “elevated feet,” “smoked two cigars,” drank “another glass,” and “after a reasonable interval… smoked some more cigars.” The repetition and listing slow the pace and emphasise stasis; the cigars and wine function as masculine props, suggesting posture rather than power. The extended nocturnal imagery—“the stillest hour of the night,” the moon turning “from silver to copper”—marks time passing until “the physical need for sleep” makes Edna go in. Crucially, she yields to nature, not to him.

Even his final, casual “Just as soon as I have finished my cigar” reads as a hollow attempt to save face. Overall, I agree to a great extent: his shifting methods, tonal swings (irritation, entreaty, imperatives), and reliance on waiting reveal a man unaccustomed to defiance who does not know how to handle it.

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, noticing Mr Pontellier’s shifting tactics—from speaking irritably to with a note of entreaty, then ordering You must come in the house instantly, before he just smoked two cigars and offered a glass—as simple evidence that he doesn’t know how to handle Edna’s refusal. It would also point out he isn’t used to being challenged by contrasting her past through habit... have yielded with her firm I don’t intend to, and by the loss of control suggested by blurted out.

I mostly agree that Mr Pontellier’s changing tactics make him seem weak and unused to challenge. First he tries authority: “You will take cold … What folly is this?” The adverb “irritably” and the repeated questions show impatience rather than control, and Edna calmly counters him (“There are no mosquitoes”). We also learn she had “submitted” before, which suggests he expects obedience and is unsettled when it doesn’t come.

Next, the tone shifts. He softens to pleading: “Edna, dear … with a note of entreaty.” This switch from irritation to fondness suggests uncertainty about what works. Then he snaps back to command: “I can’t permit you … You must come in,” using modal verbs to sound powerful. However, the verb “blurted out” makes him seem uncontrolled, weakening his authority. In contrast, Edna’s will “blazed up, stubborn and resistant” – a metaphor that makes her strong – and her imperative “Don’t speak to me like that again” shows she now sets the rules.

After failing, he tries bribery and avoidance: he “opened a bottle of wine” and “offered a glass” twice, but she refuses. The image of his “slippered feet” and smoking “two cigars” feels domestic, not commanding. The still night marks time passing while he does nothing. Edna finally goes in from “physical need for sleep,” not his command. His last “Just as soon as I have finished my cigar” seems face-saving, so overall I agree he appears weak and not used to being challenged.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a typical response would simply agree that Mr Pontellier seems weak because he keeps changing how he speaks—from irritably to fondly, with a note of entreaty, then blurted out You must come in the house instantly. It might also note that he just waits and smoked two cigars and drank another glass of wine, showing he doesn’t know what to do when challenged.

I agree with the statement because Mr Pontellier keeps changing how he tries to get Edna inside and nothing works.

First he sounds practical and annoyed: “You will take cold… What folly is this?” The adverb “irritably” shows frustration. Then he turns gentle: “Edna, dear,” spoken “fondly, with a note of entreaty.” This change of tone makes him seem unsure. Next he tries to be forceful: “I can’t permit… You must come in instantly,” using commands, but it fails as she settles “more securely” in the hammock.

After that he avoids arguing and tries other tactics. He “opened a bottle of wine” and “offered a glass,” but she “did not wish any.” He offers again. He smokes “two cigars” with “slippered feet” on the rail, which seems passive, like he is just waiting. Also, she “would, through habit, have yielded,” so he is used to getting his way, and now he does not know how to handle it.

Overall, I agree that his changing behaviour makes him look weak, not strong. In the end, she goes in only

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:

• Tonal shift from brusque command to pleading signals uncertainty and eroding authority (this time fondly)
• Speech tag and adverbial irritation suggest loss of control, making him appear weak under pressure (he blurted out)
• Authorial comment on past compliance shows he expects obedience and isn’t used to resistance (Another time she would)
• Permission/imperative language asserts hollow power; its failure to move her makes him look ineffective (I can't permit you)
• Pivot to placation—offering wine—reads as a clumsy bribe, revealing he lacks a better strategy (offered a glass)
• Self-soothing patience—wine and repeated cigars—suggests avoidance, waiting for time to do what he cannot (smoked two cigars)
• Comfort imagery undercuts dominance; the relaxed, homey posture feels complacent, not commanding (slippered feet)
• Free indirect focus on Edna’s ignited resolve exposes a power inversion he cannot meet (will had blazed up)
• Structural slowing and nocturnal stillness imply time/nature, not him, ends the standoff, sidelining his influence (the stillest hour)
• Anticlimax: she leads the return indoors while he stalls behind a trivial pretext, confirming failed control (finished my cigar)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local radio station is asking listeners to submit short creative pieces about objects that hold special memories.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a much-loved old armchair from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about an unexpected reminder of the past.

(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 old armchair squats by the sunlit window, shoulders slouched, a veteran at ease. In the late afternoon, dust motes wheel in amber shafts and settle upon its threadbare crown as if knighting it, ceremoniously. Its fabric—once a bold, bottle-green chenille—has paled to the colour of washed herbs; the pattern is a ghost of leaves and vines, a cartography of gentle defeats. Tap the arm and it thuds softly; press the cushion and it sighs. It has learned the language of backs and elbows and unhurried evenings.

Along the arms, the nap is polished to a tender gloss by decades of hands. The piping frays into delicate whiskers here and there; a coffee ring, almost perfect, haunts the right-hand arm like a lunar halo. There is even a tiny scorch mark near the seam where a careless spark once landed, a dark comma in a long sentence. Bury your face and the chair gives back a mutter of smells—beeswax, old linen, black tea, the faintest ghost of pipe tobacco—warm, domestic, forgiving. The springs murmur when you lean in; somewhere low inside a discreet creak answers, companionable.

The seat has a settled hollow, a familiar harbour for tired hips. Slide into it and you are cupped, not trapped; welcomed, not swallowed. The cushion yields with a practised generosity, and the fabric offers up its secret history in lint and pilling, in the way a seam tugs slightly where countless novels have rested. In the crease where seat meets back there is an archaeology of afternoons: a penny turned dull with pocket-sweat; a stray button; a brittle cinema stub; the sugared crumb of a biscuit (digestive, almost certainly). These small, almost-silly relics form a pocket museum of ordinary time.

Behind, the backrest rises like a softened cliff, tufted buttons holding fast, though one has long since gone rogue and left a shy crater. A crocheted throw—cream, now ecru, now something indefinable—slouches over one shoulder in woollen fatigue. It is slightly moth-nibbled, slightly skewed, but it settles like a hand on the chair’s tired frame. Cat scratches ladder the lower corner in pale hieroglyphs; a few silver hairs cling, insistent as cobwebs. The chair wears these indignities with aplomb; it is past caring, or perhaps beyond it.

Meanwhile, the wooden feet—stout, turned, benevolently scuffed—hold their ground with effortless patience. One castor is a degree out; the chair lists imperceptibly, an old sailor with an enviable balance. When you rock (very gently), the whole thing utters a low, ecclesiastical creak—confessional, not theatrical.

It holds more than bodies; it houses pauses. Father's evening paper, folded and refolded. Grandmother’s needles click, pause, continue. A child’s feverish cheek pressed into the arm, soothed by the coolness of worn fabric. Conversations begin here, and end here; quarrels soften at its borders. Time returns to this place again and again and again.

By dusk, the sun moves on and the chair relaxes further into its own accumulated shadow. It appears to listen. Who will it cradle next? The answer seems certain and strangely consoling: whoever arrives, and stays long enough to be still.

Option B:

Rain. The kind that lifts the city’s stored-up scents; gutters gargled last night’s leaves, buses sighed, and neon bled down glass. Pavements quivered under a lacework of ripples; strangers folded into themselves, heads bowed like penitents. The day emptied of colour and filled, instead, with that clean, metallic smell of beginnings that always feels, perversely, like an ending.

As the sky wrung itself out, Mara slipped into the charity shop and the bell above the door gave its tired tin rattle. A smell of lavender and old paper—the perfume of somebody else’s yesterdays—rose to meet her. She shook rain from her sleeves, stippling the lino with commas of water, and reached, almost absentmindedly, for the nearest rack; she was browsing not for treasure but for time.

It was there, on a headless mannequin by the window: the navy peacoat, collar permanently askew, a cigarette scar blooming just beneath the right pocket. It was his. They had given it away after the funeral (they couldn’t keep everything, her mother had said). Yet here it stood, improbable as a visitor at the wrong door.

She would have known it even blindfolded; the wool, coarse and consoling, had once grazed her cheek whenever he hoisted her to see fireworks that never quite bloomed. The lining still bore the same crooked stitches—her stitches—where, at ten, she had tried to be useful. The coat was a palimpsest of winters: salt, tobacco, rain. Someone had added a brass button at the cuff; it flashed like a small constellation.

She reached out; the cloth drank her dampness. From the inside pocket, something rasped and slipped. A cream envelope fell, tilting in slow motion, and came to rest against her shoe as delicately as a moth. Her name was there in that unmistakable, upright handwriting, the M too tall, the final a braver flourish than the first. How could an envelope survive a decade of moving house and arrive here, of all places, on a Tuesday at 2.07 p.m., between a rack of sequinned dresses and a chipped willow-pattern vase?

Outside, a bus exhaled; a busker worked a tune that had scored their kitchen on Sunday mornings, and the sound stitched a bright scar through the rain. Time, usually obedient to her calendar, did what it so rarely does: it stuttered. She should have been on a train in six minutes—interview at two-thirty—but her priorities felt suddenly provisional. She held the envelope as if it might take flight.

She slid a finger beneath the flap—hesitating, as if paper could bruise—and lifted it anyway. The sheet inside was thin, feathered at the edges; the smell of it released a room: tea left to over-brewed, the lemon cleaner he favoured, the afternoon when the light refused to leave. Two lines were visible above the fold.

If you’re reading this, it means the coat has done its job.

She blinked; for a second the letters liquefied. It was ridiculous to think a garment could courier the past across years—and yet there it was, tangible, ineluctable. She stood, absurdly anchored between then and now, rain pricking the window, the bell above the door poised. Beyond the fold, a darker stroke of ink waited: a word she had not said in years. Her thumb hovered; the past, patient and implacable, exhaled.

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

Option A:

Afternoon slides through the window and pools on the old armchair, making the threadbare fabric glow as if it remembers being new. Once burgundy, now thinned to the colour of old tea and russet leaves, it sits with quiet authority: a time-softened throne that prefers slippers to crowns. The nap has been stroked smooth along the arms until a silk gloss has replaced the pile, and on the left arm a faint oval sheen, the shape of a palm, records hours of reading and the pause between pages. Dust motes wheel in the warm square of light; the chair does not mind—its patience is the room's anchor.

It smells faintly of lavender polish and something warmer: the private weather of a home that has been cooked in and cried in. When you sink into it, the springs answer with a courteous sigh; the cushion yields and gathers you, harbouring the exact hollow of your frame. The chenille has been rubbed to a suede-softness in patches; frayed piping loosens into fringe. On the right-hand seam, tiny laddered stitches (not perfectly straight) cross a tear like careful handwriting—a practical mercy, not meant to impress, only to hold.

The fabric holds a quiet archive: stains with provenance, marks with stories. On the seat lies a pale crescent where a mug once rested; along the skirt runs a dark comma of ink; near the front leg sits a small starburst of jam, ruddy and stubborn. One arm is lighter, sun-faded by years of morning; the other keeps its deeper tone, as if guarding the past. This chair has cupped drowsy children and steadied tremulous hands; it has received confessions, hosted birthdays, absorbed the slow breathing of naps. It knows the full weight of grief and the weightlessness of laughter, and it has not betrayed either.

No fashionable piece would suffer such closeness, yet this armchair invites it; it wants you to live on it. Lean back and the world loosens. Your hand finds the smooth dip at the end of the arm and settles, guided without thought—like a well-used word returning to the tongue. It is not pretty; it is beautiful. It is not fashionable; it is faithful. In the amber light, the stitching glints, the cushion sighs, and the chair waits, sun-warmed and steadfast, keeping the room steady while the day thins to evening.

Option B:

Saturday. The time of domestic archaeology; lists blu-tacked to the fridge, the neat commandments of a life in process. Lemon cleaner stings the air; rain has just brushed the street, and its soft mineral breath — petrichor — slips through the open window to settle on the tiles. Sunlight crosshatches the floor; the flat looks brighter than it is.

Maya prises open the junk drawer that everyone pretends not to see. It yawns, reluctant; she tips its contents into a shallow tide on the table. Rubber bands; stray screws; a solemn foreign coin with an unfamiliar monarch; a loyalty card punched to a near-circle; a key that opens nothing she owns. At the very bottom, pressed flat as a preserved leaf, rests a cream envelope. The corner is fretted; the flap is sealed with a sticker of a star. Her name sits on the front in looping, confident script she hasn’t used in years.

She smiles for a second, then stops. The handwriting is hers. Not now — then: a version of her that wrote bubble letters on files and believed pens were talismans. Her pulse catches, ridiculous and real, as she slides a fingernail beneath the seal. The paper sighs as though it has been holding its breath.

“Dear Future Me,” the first line declares, underlined twice like a dare. “This will find you when you’ve forgotten.” The voice on the page is earnest, a little bossy, not yet cautious. It lists: the white lilac by the science block; the taste of metal from braces; the way Mum warms her hands on mugs; the promise made at the bus stop on Brook Lane (don’t act like you don’t know which one). It tells her to keep certain records — the fold-up map from the seaside trip, the ticket from that concert they snuck into — and to call Ellie before it’s too late.

Ellie. A name she keeps like a pebble in her coat pocket: smoothed by time, always there at the edge of reach. The last time they spoke, words tumbled and then refused; the friendship jammed like a cassette at the chorus. Maya had learned a professional neatness since, the kind that files ache into folders and shuts drawers with the heel of a hand. She had not expected the past to arrive in her kitchen with its elbows out.

She reads the letter again; the room shrinks to paper and ink and the small tremor in her thumb. The present loosens — dishes waiting, a pot of basil on the sill — and the old school corridor unfurls: plangent bell; scuffed lino; a poster curling at the edges; Ellie’s plait flicking her cheek as they ran. Memory is not generous, not always; it gives back in flashes. Yet this feels deliberate, like a key pressed into her palm.

On the final line, in a tilt she recognises even now, younger-Maya has written: “If you haven’t done it yet, go now.” It should be silly; it feels like a command. She looks at her phone, at the blank where a number used to live. Outside, the rain begins again — light, insistent — and the envelope lies open on the table like a small, white door. She stands there too long, the floor beneath her and the years above her, and chooses to breathe. Then she reaches for the drawer she thought she had already emptied.

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

Option A:

In the rectangle of afternoon sun by the window, the armchair basks like an animal warming its old bones. Its tweed, once forest-green, has thinned and softened until the nap lies in two directions: smoothed to a sheen where hands have rested; rough as lichen in the corners no one touches. The wooden arms hold a soft patina; varnish worn by years of rings. Thread pulls rise like tiny comets; a neat patch—plum against moss—holds one corner. The room smells faintly of beeswax, with a shy hint of lavender. Dust dances in the light; the chair glows.

Sink down and the chair answers. Springs murmur; the cushion gives with a tired, generous sigh, finding your shape as if it remembers you. The indentation is there already—an oval, reliable hollow—and beside it a small scatter of cat hair that never quite disappears. There are stories stored in the seams: a faint ring on the right arm from a cup set down in a hurry; a scorch no larger than a freckle; a stitched ladder where a curious child picked at the fabric again and again. If you slide your fingers between cushion and back, you’ll find a coin, a button, perhaps a crumb of biscuit; ordinary relics, a pocket museum.

It is not a fashionable chair, not the sort that gets photographed. The pattern is outdated and the fabric has seen better days—soft as clouds in places, scratchy at the edges. And yet there’s a steadiness to it. On winter evenings it gathers the heat from the radiator and returns it slowly; in summer, the window’s breeze catches the loose threads and makes them whisper. A spring cracks sometimes, startling, then settling; you laugh.

Here is where novels are finished and naps begin. Here is where the day loosens. The chair is faithful, attentive, almost patient. It waits by the window, taking light and letting it go, keeping the shape of whoever needs holding next. It does not move, but it welcomes; it does not speak, but it tells. And in the late sun, it seems—just for a moment—to breathe.

Option B:

Rain stitched silver threads down the window; the afternoon had folded itself like a jumper left on the back of a chair. In the kitchen, the boiler muttered and the clock clicked—small, insistent sounds that made the flat feel occupied. Some things you plan to forget; others wait quietly, patient as dust, until you open the wrong drawer.

Leah knelt on the laminate in a shallow ring of boxes. She had promised to be ruthless: keep, maybe, give away. Brown tape squealed; cardboard flaps breathed out; a drift of tissue slid across the floor like shy snow. To make it easier, she narrated each pile to herself—plates, bills, ornaments—as if naming things could shrink them.

Behind a stack of unused canvas bags in the hall cupboard, she found a shoebox bound with a tired ribbon. Across the lid someone—her past self—had written Misc in hurried black marker, the dot on the i pressed until the ink bled. She eased off the ribbon and lifted the lid; the box exhaled dust and offered a jumble of small lives: ticket stubs, a plastic wristband, a paper star folded from a bus receipt. At the bottom, snug against the cardboard, lay a cassette tape. Its case was cloudy, the spools slack; the label read, in thick blue letters she could have traced blindfolded, Roof, Summer. Her stomach tightened. The loop of the R hooked her breath.

Tar warm on her knees; washing lines lifting; his laugh ricocheting between chimneys. She tasted flat lemonade, metal, apology. How long had she carried this—flat to flat, year to year—without knowing? She’d left that summer in a careful box somewhere inside herself, taped and labelled; she had been sure. As if to underline it, the radio—always on for company—slid into a chorus she knew by heart, the one they had tried to catch that night. Somewhere under the stairs, an old player waited.

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

Option A:

By the sunlit window, the armchair waits. Its corduroy is ribbed like old bark; once a proud burgundy, it has softened into a dusty rose, gentled by years of hands and afternoons. The arms are polished smooth where palms have landed, small crescents of shine without any polish at all. Threadbare patches have bloomed at the elbows, pale fluff peeking through like frost. The seat dips, a hollowness shaped by stories and naps, and the wooden feet squat and scuff the floor. Dust motes dance above it, caught in the light, and there is a faint smell of lavender and yesterday’s toast.

Every mark on it seems to know a name. On the right arm, a faint tea ring stains the fabric like a small map; along the side, the cat once made a ladder of scratches that have silvered over time. There is a pin-head burn, a tiny moon, near the front edge. Someone stitched the back seam with thread that doesn’t match—pale, earnest stitches marching down the curve—and one button is gone, replaced by a firm little knot. The headrest is shiny from leaning; it glows in the late light, as if remembering warm weight, the whisper of hair and perfume and worry.

When I sit, the cushion gives a soft, tired sigh, and I sink. Springs ping somewhere inside, not unkindly; the chair gathers me and keeps me still. Sun warms the ridges on my knees and makes the dust glitter as if the room is snowed with gold. Outside, traffic mumbles; inside, time loosens. My fingers find the frays and the fringe at the hem and a tiny hard crumb lodged last winter (I should clean it, I will), and I feel oddly safe. Not fashionable, not fragile: simply faithful. A small harbour. I arrive, I rest, I leave—and it waits.

Option B:

Rain. It stitched the morning together, tapping at the windows, threading tiny rivers along the glass. The street looked washed back to the beginning: bins shining, railings slick, the sky a flat grey sheet that pressed low over the rooftops. There was a clean smell in the air—wet tarmac and cold metal—and it made the new flat feel strangely old, like a place I had already lived.

I had promised myself I would finish unpacking today. Cardboard boxes towered like awkward towers in the hall—bulging, damp at the corners. My kettle was somewhere under a heap of tea towels, my patience somewhere under that. I wiped rain from my sleeves and reached for the last suitcase, the one with the stiff zip, the one I almost didn’t bring. It smelt faintly of attic dust and lavender sachets my mother insisted on. I could hear the lift groaning downstairs—indifferent, slow—so I waited, and I opened the case.

Inside, under a sweater I hadn’t worn since college, lay a small tin with a faded robin on the lid. I knew it immediately and yet didn’t want to. My fingers hesitated. When I clicked it open, the hinge squeaked; inside was a concert ticket folded twice: a thin rectangle of card with our names scribbled on the back in blue. The date was ten years ago. I felt the room tilt, just a delicate shiver you feel more than see. Rain went on drumming the glass. I was not in the flat anymore—I was at the back of a hall full of light and noise, his hand in mine, his laugh too loud and then gone. We had promised to keep in touch. Life gets in the way, but the ticket knew better. The ink smudged my thumb like a small bruise I had forgotten.

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

Option A:

Sunlight presses through the window and lies across the old armchair like warm honey. Once it was bold, maybe red, now the colour has gone gentle, a washed-out rose that looks soft even before you touch it. The arms are polished by years of elbows; the wooden feet are scuffed like old shoes. Dust motes drift above it, lazy, as if the chair has its own weather. Sit down and it sighs, a low creak that sounds friendly, and a smell of polish and tea rises.

Look closer and more is revealed. The left arm has a frayed seam, white stuffing peeping like a grin; a loose thread loops down, inviting a finger. The cushion dips in the middle, a small nest, where books, blankets, naps have settled. A cat once scratched tiny ladders on the back. Along the right arm there is a pale ring where a mug rested too long. It isn’t shabby, not really: it is softened by use, and the fabric shows a map of evenings, mornings, birthdays.

Sometimes it feels like the chair remembers. It keeps small secrets of lullabies and quiet arguments, of letters opened with shaking fingers; it holds them in its hollow. It’s wooden legs—four short and stubborn—are nicked and scraped, but steady. You sink, your shoulders drop, breaths slow. The sun walks across the floor, climbing the front leg, touching the threadbare seat and slipping away. It is old; it is loved; it waits, patient, for whoever needs it next.

Option B:

Autumn had come without asking. Rain scribbled on the charity shop window; inside, the air was musty and lemon-bright. The bell pinged, a thin sound like a coin down a drain. Racks of second-hand coats leaned as if they were tired friends. Old radios sat like black beetles. A wobbling tower of jigsaw boxes promised missing pieces. Dust lifted and spun in the light. It was an ordinary refuge, a small square of warmth from the street.

Maya came in just to get dry. She wasn't even sure why she drifted towards the books, she hadn’t planned it; her fingers just went, brushing spines that were frayed, sticky, hopeful. She paused at a blue paperback. When she opened it, something slid out and touched the floor, soft as a moth. A railway ticket. The print was faded but clear enough to pinch her: 12 JUN 2012, PLATFORM 3 – Scarborough. On the back, in fast, tilting writing, was a name she knew too well. Hers. The ink had bled at the edges, like it had been crying.

Her heart knocked once, then twice. She hadn't written like that for years; at college she taught herself neat, calm letters. The past wasn’t polite. It did not just knock—it walked in. For a second she heard gulls, not buses, and smelt salt, not wet tarmac. Then the shop came back: the hum, the coats, the lemon polish. She turned the ticket over, as if more words might appear. Soon, it said. Soon. Maya stood very still, as if the floor might move if she did.

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

Option A:

The armchair waits by the sunlit window, squat and friendly, like a tired old dog. Its fabric used to be green, maybe, but now it is a soft mix of olive and dust. Along the arms the cloth has become shiny from years of elbows; the seat shows a thin, threadbare patch where the pattern has almost rubbed away. A faint smell of furniture polish lives here, mixed with tea and old paper.

Now, tiny details tell its story. The seams are neat in places and stretched in others, a stubborn thread peeping out; the fabric is a little scratchy along the edge. It carries small signs: a loose button under the cushion, a crease where a head rested. When you sit, the springs reply with a soft creak, not angry, more like a sigh. A knitted blanket hangs over the back—lumpy but comforting.

Afternoons slow down here. The sun slides across the worn arms and draws pale stripes on the floor; the window hums, the room grows quiet. Outside, traffic murmurs; the chair stays still, patient. It is not grand or new, yet it welcomes you, it gathers you in. You sink, you breathe, you forget. Still, it waits by the window.

Option B:

Rain tapped the window while I fought with the hall cupboard. Coats slid forward, scarves tugged at my wrist, and something hard knocked my knuckle. I reached deeper until my fingers found a metal tin; cold, a bit rusty. I hadn't seen it for years.

Then I pulled it out. The lid was stiff; it scraped my thumb. Inside were old coins, a key with no home, and a small, yellow ticket. Its corners were bent like tired wings. The paper smelled of dust and rain. The print was pale but the date was clear: 14 March 2012. The stop—Riverside.

My chest tightened. Riverside. A word that opened a door I kept shut. The bus that day, the wet seats, your red scarf, came back fast. I could hear the driver's bored voice, the grey water, slow and heavy. The smell of wet wool rose up, as if the cupboard itself breathed.

I had forgotten. At least, I said I had. Why now? It was just paper, it shouldn't matter, but my hand shook. I should of throw it away, but the past, stubborn as a stain, had found me again.

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

Option A:

By the window, the armchair sits and waits. Old, but I like it.

its fabric is worn and soft. The colour is faded, a pale green now. One arm is shiny where hands go, the other has threads sticking out. The sun falls on the seat and the dust dances. When I sit it gives a creak and a sigh like it is breathing. I push back and I sink, deeper and deeper. The cushion has a dip.

The legs are scratched and the feet wobble a bit. It smells of dust and soap and toast. Mum sewed a rough patch with big stitches, like a wonky star.

Grandad sat here, stories mumbled, TV too loud, I laughed anyway. I wrap the blanket and the chair hugs me like a tired teddy. It dont look fancy. It is just a chair, but it is home.

Option B:

It was raining a bit. The bus stop was cold and the pavement shone. I held my bag tight, the wind pushed a plastic bag and it danced like a ghost. Then the song came from the shop doorway, sudden, loud. I havent heard it for years, I thought, and my chest went tight - like when you run too fast.

The bus hissed.

It was my dad's song. He used to put it on in the kitchen and whistle, he didn't always hit the notes but he smiled alot. I can see the blue radio and the toast. I tried to forget after he left, I tried to be tough, but the tune came back like a wave.

People walked past and no one look. In the window I saw me, smaller, in a school jumper. I wanted to go home...

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

Option A:

The chair is old and soft, it sits by the window where the sun comes in. The fabric is faded, kind of brown and some bits gone thin. There is rips on the arm, and the cushion sinks down when you sit, it sighs a little like a tired dog. It smells of dust and soap, not bad, just like home. It is heavy you can’t move it easy. My grandad used to sit there and he reads the paper, sometimes I do too. The cat scratched one side, we don’t mind. The light goes across it, back and forwards, back and forwards.

Option B:

Spring was here. The air was wet and the sky looked pale. I sat on the bus with my bag on my lap, my hands cold and my phone dead, I was thinking about chips for tea. The driver said next stop I put my hand in the small pocket and felt paper and I pulled it out. I seen a old photo of me and Gran at the fair, the lights were bright. It hit me hard, like a stone in water. We was so small. I didnt even know I kept it, it just waited there. Rain ran on the window and I forgot where I was going.