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 How many men waited in silence?: three men – 1 mark
• 1.2 How many men waited in silence while the water was mopped up?: Three – 1 mark
• 1.3 What did the manager rub while speaking?: his brow – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which simile is used to describe the fall?: clean as a whistle – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 wasn't--yet it scarce bruised him." He looked down at the dead man, lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust. "''Sphyxiated,' the doctor said. It is the most terrible job I've ever known. Seems as if it was done o' purpose. Clean over him, an' shut 'im in, like a mouse-trap"--he made a sharp, descending gesture with his hand. The colliers standing by jerked aside their

11 heads in hopeless comment. The horror of the thing bristled upon them all. Then they heard the girl's voice upstairs calling shrilly: "Mother, mother-- who is it? Mother, who is it?" Elizabeth hurried to the foot of the stairs and opened the door:

How does the writer use language here to convey the horror of what has happened and the shock in the house? 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 perceptively analyses how visceral description and figurative detail convey horror: the asyndetic listing "lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust" dehumanises the body, the simile "like a mouse-trap" with the "sharp, descending gesture" enacts deliberate entrapment, and personification "The horror of the thing bristled upon them all" plus the involuntary "jerked aside their heads" signal communal dread. It also links sentence-level and sound effects—the blunt jargon "Sphyxiated" and short declaratives create clinical shock, while the adverb "shrilly" and repeated, broken appeal "Mother, mother-- who is it?" capture panic rippling through the house.

The writer initially shocks the reader through stark visual imagery and an asyndetic list: the corpse is “lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust.” The triplet compounds indignity and vulnerability; “prone” suggests helpless exposure, while “coal-dust” connotes suffocation and the pit’s blackness clinging to him even in death. Moreover, the doctor’s clipped, clinical “‘Sphyxiated’” and the superlative “the most terrible job I’ve ever known” lend authoritative weight to the horror. The euphemistic noun “job” chillingly normalises catastrophe, implying such deaths are part of a grim routine.

Furthermore, the simile “shut ’im in, like a mouse-trap” conveys a mechanical, inescapable violence; a “mouse” is small and defenceless, intensifying the victim’s powerlessness. The accompanying kinesic detail—“a sharp, descending gesture”—mimes the trap’s snap, so the reader feels the sudden, lethal closure. The dialectal “o’ purpose” hints at deliberation, deepening dread with the suggestion of malice.

Additionally, communal shock is rendered through dynamic verb choice: the colliers “jerked aside their heads,” a spasmodic, involuntary recoil. The metonymy of “heads” reduces them to instinctive reaction, while “in hopeless comment” implies speech fails before the scale of the disaster. Personification crystallises the atmosphere: “The horror of the thing bristled upon them all.” “Bristled” evokes hair standing on end, making terror visceral and contagious across the house.

Finally, upstairs panic is dramatised by the adverb “shrilly” and urgent interrogatives: “Mother, mother—who is it? Mother, who is it?” The anaphora and dash convey breathless insistence. Short, brisk declaratives—“Then they heard… Elizabeth hurried…”—accelerate pace, and the colon after “opened the door:” suspends us on the threshold. Thus, precise choices in lexis, imagery, and sentence form powerfully convey horror and shock saturating the household.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer conveys horror through vivid imagery of the body—lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust—and the brutal simile shut 'im in, like a mouse-trap, while the verb choice jerked aside their heads and the personification The horror of the thing bristled upon them all show the men’s dread. Shock in the house is shown by the adverb shrilly, the urgent repetition and questions Mother, mother-- who is it? Mother, who is it?, and the rushed action Elizabeth hurried, suggesting panic and confusion.

The writer uses vivid descriptive language to present the horror of the scene. The dead body is “lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust”: this listing and the adjective “prone” emphasise vulnerability and dehumanisation, while the grime suggests a harsh, suffocating environment. The blunt, clinical term “‘Sphyxiated,’ the doctor said” removes hope, and the declarative “the most terrible job I’ve ever known” heightens dread, and the dialect “o’ purpose” hints intent. Moreover, the simile “shut ’im in, like a mouse-trap” implies deliberate entrapment and cruelty; the “sharp, descending gesture” provides imagery of the trap snapping shut.

Furthermore, the collective reaction conveys shock. The colliers “jerked aside their heads,” where the verb “jerked” shows recoil, and “hopeless comment” suggests words fail them. The personification “The horror of the thing bristled upon them all” makes fear physical; “bristled” hints at hairs standing on end.

Additionally, the shock inside the house is heard through sound, direct speech, and sentence form. The adverb “shrilly” captures panic, while repetition and interrogatives in “Mother, mother—who is it? Mother, who is it?” show breathless desperation; the dash signals interruption. Thus, imagery, simile and dialogue convey horror and shock in the house.

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 spot descriptive words and a simile—lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust and like a mouse-trap—to show a horrible, trapped death, and then briefly note how verbs and repetition/sound (the colliers jerked, the horror bristled, the girl calling shrilly, "Mother, mother—who is it?") suggest panic and shock in the house.

The writer uses vivid description to show the horror. The list “lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust” gives a grim image of the body, making the scene feel brutal, and the colliers “jerked aside their heads” in “hopeless” reaction. Furthermore, the simile “shut ’im in, like a mouse-trap” suggests the man was trapped with no escape, which adds to the sense of cruelty. The “sharp, descending gesture” also mirrors something being slammed down, increasing the shock. Moreover, personification in “The horror of the thing bristled upon them all” shows the feeling spreading through the colliers; the verb “bristled” suggests their hair standing up in fear. Additionally, the shock in the house is clear in the girl’s voice “calling shrilly” and the repetition and interrogatives: “Mother, mother… who is it?” The questions and high-pitched tone create panic and alarm.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses words like "dead man", "half naked", "all grimed with coal-dust" and the simile "like a mouse-trap" to make it seem horrible and show he was trapped. The repetition of the question "Mother, mother-- who is it? Mother, who is it?" and the adverb "shrilly" show the shock and panic in the house.

The writer uses adjectives to show horror: “dead man, lying prone, half naked, all grimed with coal-dust.” This sounds grim and frightening. Moreover, the simile “like a mouse-trap” shows he was shut in, which feels cruel and terrible. The strong verb “jerked” and the word “hopeless” suggest the men’s shock and helplessness. Also, the personification “The horror of the thing bristled upon them all” shows the fear spreading to everyone. Furthermore, the adverb “shrilly” and the repetition and questions, “Mother, mother—who is it? … who is it?” show panic and shock in the house.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Cumulative visual detail of the body creates a stark, dehumanised image that heightens horror and vulnerability; lying prone
• Understated paradox minimises visible injury to emphasise the unseen, suffocating cause of death; scarce bruised him
• Clinical, dialect-clipped diagnosis is brutally matter-of-fact, stripping away comfort; 'Sphyxiated
• Superlative hyperbole from the speaker amplifies the extremity of the event; most terrible job
• Entrapment simile (echoed by the downward hand motion) suggests sudden, inescapable killing; like a mouse-trap
• Kinetic reaction of the onlookers functions as wordless commentary, conveying stunned helplessness; jerked aside
• Personification makes terror feel physical and collective, as if it touches everyone; bristled upon them
• Harsh auditory detail and repeated address convey rising panic in the household; Mother, mother
• Iterative interrogative keeps fear unresolved, spotlighting dread of the unknown; who is it?
• Urgent movement shifts the pace, spreading the shock through the domestic space; Elizabeth hurried

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how calm deepens 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 track the structural shift from communal shock to intimate ritual, showing how the soundscape progressively hushes—Elizabeth’s command Go to sleep, the men tiptoed out of the house, and None of them spoke—as the focus narrows and the pace slows into tactile, extended actions that culminate in still images like remained still, naïve dignity of death, and the final embraced the body, deepening calm by the close.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create calm is through the progressive attenuation of sound. The opening swells with overlapping voices—the manager’s breathless commentary and the child’s “shrilly” calling. The structure then inserts acts of hushing: Elizabeth’s imperative “Go to sleep!” and the manager’s “Sh—sh!!” curtail the noise. As the scene transitions, the men “tiptoed out” and “None of them spoke,” while the mother answers “Ten o’clock,” then “must have bent down and kissed the children.” This quietening shifts the mood from alarm to lull, instilling calm.

In addition, the writer manipulates narrative pace through procedural sequencing and a narrowing of focus to domestic ritual. After the onlookers exit, actions are itemised—“She put on the kettle, then returning knelt… At last she got off the heavy boots… Together they stripped the man.” The temporal connectives (“then”, “At last”) and step-by-step staging slow time, creating a soothing rhythm. Structurally, the cast contracts from “the three men” to two women, and the locus shifts from public scrutiny to the private parlour, deepening the calm.

A further structural feature is the final zoom into stillness and interiority. Dialogue falls away—“for a few moments they remained still”—and focalisation settles on Elizabeth’s perception: “She saw him… how utterly inviolable he lay in himself.” The mother’s tears “not weeping, merely… flowed” provide a muted coda, before the closing image of Elizabeth’s embrace. This static tableau, with action suspended and perspective sustained, offers a quiet, contemplative ending in which calm is felt.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures a gradual quietening, moving from early anxiety—“the horror of the thing bristled”, the child’s “Mother, who is it?”—to hush and slow pace as Elizabeth says “Go to sleep!”, the men tiptoed away and None of them spoke. Finally, the focus narrows to calm, methodical actions—put on the kettle, began to unfasten the knotted leather laces—ending on a still image (“naïve dignity of death”, “utterly inviolable”, tears like “drops from wet leaves”) to show the calm deepens by the close.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create calm is through a gradual shift in focus and sound from the crowded, public scene to whispered domestic space. We move from the manager’s agitated talk and the child calling ‘shrilly’ to Elizabeth speaking ‘more softly’; the outsiders ‘tiptoed’ out and ‘None of them spoke’. The hush is reinforced by the imperative ‘Go to sleep’, which lowers the pace and settles the mood.

In addition, sequencing small, practical actions slows the narrative pace into a measured rhythm. Temporal markers (‘Then… At last…’) and a step-by-step focus—‘unfasten the knotted leather laces’, ‘bent her face almost to the floor’—operate like a zoom-in. This methodical ordering feels ritualistic, so the reader experiences a gentle ending rather than shock.

A further structural choice is to end with a still image and a sustained perspective on Elizabeth, which deepens the calm. After the men leave, the focus narrows to the women who ‘stood arrested in fear and respect’, and finally to Elizabeth as she recognises the body’s ‘naïve dignity’ and ‘how utterly inviolable he lay’. Even earlier the euphemism ‘he’s asleep’ foreshadows this acceptance; the last embrace leaves the reader in quiet repose.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies a gradual move from noise to quiet in the ending: the men "waited in silence," "tiptoed out of the house," and "None of them spoke." Notes a shift to calmer domestic actions—"put on the kettle," she "whispered," and "for a few moments they remained still"—to make the ending feel peaceful.

One way the writer structures the end to build calm is moving from noise to quiet. At the start the manager talks a lot and there is “horror” and voices upstairs. Then Elizabeth tells the child “Go to sleep”, and we hear “sh-sh”. This change of tone and shift in focus slows the pace and settles the scene.

In addition, the writer uses silence and small movements to deepen calm. The men “tiptoed out”, “None of them spoke”, and the dialogue fades to whispers. This creates a pause in the middle and reduces tension, helping the reader feel the house going still.

A further structural feature is the way the ending zooms in on the body. After the men leave, the focus narrows to the two women, then to the body: “remained still”, “naïve dignity of death”. This ending feels finished and accepted, so the calm is strongest.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: By the end the text calms down, using quiet actions and silence like "waited in silence", "Go to sleep!", "tiptoed out of the house", and "None of them spoke" so the ending feels peaceful.

One way the writer structures the text to create calm is by slowing the pace at the end. Later we get quiet actions like "tiptoed out" and "None of them spoke."

In addition, the focus shifts from noisy men and a frightened child to the mother and Elizabeth downstairs. This change of focus and softer dialogue ("more softly", a kiss) makes the mood gentler.

A further structural feature is the ending image. The story finishes with stillness ("for a few moments they remained still") and the final embrace, leaving a calm ending.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Structural contrast: early communal horror shifts towards hush, setting a calming trajectory; "The horror of the thing bristled"
• Spatial shift upstairs creates distance and muffled quiet, reinforced by repeated auditory framing; "They could hear her"
• Imperatives and explicit hushing regulate noise, structuring the scene into quiet; "Sh-- sh!!"
• Dialogue tone softens as control returns, signalling calm settling; "more softly"
• The child’s progression back to sleep marks the mood subsiding in stages; "sinking back unhappily"
• The men’s careful exit reduces voices and movement, narrowing focus to a quieter space; "tiptoed out of the house"
• Pauses and stated quietness punctuate the action, embedding stillness; "There was silence"
• Step-by-step domestic actions slow pace into a calm ritual; "began to unfasten"
• The still, dignified presentation of the body shifts the scene into reverent quiet; "naïve dignity of death"
• Final intimate close focuses on a single, tender gesture, ending in calm acceptance; "embraced the body of her husband"

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, where the child asks if her father is drunk again, it shows what life was normally like. The writer suggests this makes the quiet horror of his death feel even more shocking.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the child and what her question reveals
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the horror of the father's death
• 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, arguing that the child’s habituated assumption—“Is he drunk?” asked “timidly, faintly”—normalises prior disorder so that euphemism/understatement (“he’s asleep”, “put on the kettle”) and hushed staging (“Stepping over the body”, “tiptoed out”, the grandmother “moaning”) juxtapose with the body’s “naïve dignity of death” and “utterly inviolable” presence to heighten the quiet shock. It may also note how the mother’s protective tenderness (“he’s asleep”, “bent down and kissed the children”) keeps the horror deliberately muted.

I largely agree with the statement. The child’s timid question, “Is he drunk?”, normalises a pattern of domestic anxiety and sets a baseline of “what life was normally like”; the writer then exploits this expectation so that the father’s stillness acquires a quiet, devastating shock.

At first, the household’s habitual script around the father is made explicit through dialogue and tone. The “plaintive” voice and the adverbs “timidly, faintly” characterise the child as conditioned to fear disturbance, while the mother’s “unreal gentleness” is a strained performance masking panic. Her stammered denial—“He—he’s asleep”—is an evasive euphemism, and the recurring imperative “Go to sleep” establishes a motif of sleep that slips ominously between ordinary rest and its final, euphemistic counterpart. This is reinforced by the sibilant hush of “Sh—sh!!” and “don’t make a noise,” auditory methods that craft an atmosphere of suppression. In this context, the child’s question reads as routine: she expects drunkenness more than death. That normalisation primes the reader for the reversal.

The writer intensifies the “quiet horror” through structural contrast and understated staging. The men “tiptoed out of the house,” “stepping over the body”: a chillingly practical movement that treats death as an obstacle in a cramped parlour. Even the child’s last, weary query—“What time is it?”—domesticates the scene with banal timekeeping, making the subsequent ritual feel more shocking by juxtaposition. The grandmother’s “moaning,” then being hushed, layers a muffled soundscape with restraint, not wailing spectacle.

In the laying-out sequence, sensory imagery and elevated diction deepen the shock into solemn awe. The room is “clammy and dim with only one candle,” a tactile and visual palette that feels sepulchral. When the women “saw him lying in the naïve dignity of death,” the oxymoronic phrase combines simplicity (“naïve”) with grave decorum (“dignity”), transforming a frequently drunken man into something “utterly inviolable.” Elizabeth’s response—she “felt countermanded”—uses striking lexis to suggest she has been overruled by death’s authority. Her attempt to reclaim him—“Stooping, she laid her hand on him, in claim”—and the grim irony of “He was still warm, for the mine was hot” create a visceral, understated horror. Even grief is rendered with restraint: the simile “old tears fell in succession as drops from wet leaves” makes the mother’s sorrow automatic, not theatrical, while Elizabeth “embraced the body” in intimate silence.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The child’s expectation of drunkenness crystallises the family’s normal life, so that the father’s “asleep” becomes death with devastating quiet. Yet it is the cumulative restraint—euphemism, sibilance, dim sensory detail, and the solemn ritual—that makes the shock feel all the more profound.

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 mostly agree: the girl’s timid “Is he drunk?” suggests this is routine, and the writer’s understatement and euphemism—“he’s asleep”, the men “stepping over the body”, and the still “naïve dignity of death”—make the quietness heighten the shock. It would also note details like the mother’s “unreal gentleness” and the hush of “Sh-- sh!!” as methods that create a subdued yet disturbing tone.

I agree to a large extent. The child’s timid question, “Is he drunk?” clearly suggests that the father’s drinking is the usual pattern at home, and this expectation of the ordinary makes the reality of his death land more quietly but more shockingly. The writer uses dialogue and adverbial detail to reveal this: the girl asks “timidly, faintly,” which implies a learned fear and routine. The mother’s “unreal gentleness” and the euphemism “he—he’s asleep” show her protective lie, creating dramatic irony because we already know “they’ve brought him.”

This domestic familiarity is set against a carefully hushed scene that intensifies the horror. There is a semantic field of quietness: “Sh—sh!!,” “don’t make a noise,” “silence,” and the men who “tiptoed” and “stepp[ed] over the body.” The juxtaposition of bedtime whispers with the presence of a corpse is unsettling; the normal bedtime question, “What time is it?” sits beside the grandmother’s low “moaning,” which acts as auditory imagery of grief. Even the manager’s “Sh—sh!!” controls the sound, so the horror feels restrained rather than sensational, which paradoxically makes it more striking for the reader.

When the women “lay him out,” the writer’s sensory imagery deepens the shock. The room is “clammy and dim” with “only one candle,” and the slow, practical actions—unfastening “knotted leather laces,” removing “heavy boots”—emphasise routine domesticity touching death. Then the tone shifts to reverence: the body lies in the “naïve dignity of death,” and he is “utterly inviolable.” This contrast from the child’s casual assumption of drunkenness heightens the emotional impact. The simile “tears fell…as drops from wet leaves” suggests steady, unshowy grief, and the detail “He was still warm” is a quiet, devastating reminder of how near life was. Elizabeth “laid her hand on him, in claim,” yet “felt countermanded,” the lexical choice signalling her loss of agency before death.

Overall, I agree that the child’s question reveals the normality of the father’s drinking, and the writer’s understated, hushed methods make the horror of his death feel more shocking through contrast and quiet intensity.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would agree to some extent, saying the child’s 'Is he drunk?' shows this was normal at home, so the mother’s 'he--he’s asleep' with 'unreal gentleness' makes the truth quietly shocking. They would use basic examples such as the grandmother 'moaning' and the body’s 'naïve dignity of death' to show the writer creates a calm horror.

I mostly agree with the statement. The child’s question, “Is he drunk?” makes it seem like this has happened before, so it shows what life was normally like in the house. The writer uses dialogue and adverbs to show this: the girl speaks “timidly, faintly,” which suggests fear and routine. The mother’s voice is “agitated, with an unreal gentleness,” and she even says “he’s asleep,” which feels like a soft lie. The repeated questions (“What’s the matter now?” and “What time is it?”) and the child “sinking back unhappily into sleep” also suggest a sad, familiar pattern.

This everyday expectation makes the father’s death feel more shocking because it is presented so quietly. Structurally, the scene moves from the children’s bedroom to the parlour, and the mood drops into silence. The men “tiptoed” and “none of them spoke,” which creates a hushed tone. The imagery of the room being “clammy and dim” with only “one candle” adds to the quiet horror. Small details, like unfastening the “knotted leather laces” and taking off the “heavy boots,” slow the pace and make the moment feel real. The body has the “naïve dignity of death” and is “utterly inviolable,” showing finality. Even the grief is soft: the grandmother’s tears fall “as drops from wet leaves,” a gentle simile.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The child’s expectation of drunkenness shows their normal life, and this contrast makes the calm, careful laying-out of the body feel even more shocking in its stillness.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because the child’s question "Is he drunk?" shows this was normal for her, and the mother saying "he's asleep" hides what’s really happened. This everyday feeling makes the death quietly shocking, as the men "Stepping over the body" "tiptoed out of the house" and the room is "clammy and dim".

I mostly agree with the statement. When the child asks, “Is he drunk?” it shows this is normal in their house. The girl speaks “timidly, faintly,” which makes her seem used to it but still scared. The mother’s “unreal gentleness” and the repeated commands like “Go to sleep” and “there’s nothing” show a bedtime routine. The writer uses dialogue here to show everyday life. The child even asks, “What time is it?” and the mother says “Ten o’clock,” which sounds ordinary.

This makes the death feel quietly horrible. The men “tiptoed out of the house” and “none of them spoke,” so everything is silent. The grandmother only “moaning” is a soft sound, and the manager says “Sh—sh!!” to keep it quiet. The room is “clammy and dim” with “one candle,” which makes a still, sad mood. Simple actions like “put on the kettle” and “unfasten the knotted leather laces” feel everyday, but now they happen beside the body. The writer also uses a simile: “the old tears fell… as drops from wet leaves,” which shows quiet crying.

Overall, I agree that the child’s normal question about drink makes the quiet horror of the father’s death more shocking, because the writer shows normal calm turning into a silent tragedy.

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:

• The child’s routine suspicion of drunkenness normalises past behaviour, so the revelation of death lands more shockingly for the reader (Is he drunk?)
• The mother’s protective euphemism and denial create quiet horror, reframing death as sleep to shield the child (he's asleep)
• Suppressed soundscape—grief hushed by authority—builds tense restraint that intensifies the scene’s contained shock (Sh-- sh!!)
• The men’s reverent, practical movements make mortality feel disturbingly ordinary, deepening the subdued impact (tiptoed out)
• Intimate domestic ritual details render death close and real, amplifying its shock within the everyday (heavy boots)
• Paradoxical dignity confers solemn respect, making the stillness more unsettling than any outcry (naïve dignity of death)
• Elizabeth’s powerless recognition of his untouchable finality turns grief into stunned awe, heightening the emotional jolt (utterly inviolable)
• Residual heat implies proximity to life, a chilling immediacy that sharpens the shock (still warm)
• Naturalistic tear imagery shows grief flowing quietly, sustaining the subdued, “quiet horror” rather than spectacle (drops from wet leaves)
• The child’s sleepy return to routine highlights ordinary life persisting around the corpse, sharpening contrast and shock (What time is it?)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A science journal for young people is seeking creative writing for a special deep-sea edition.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of an underwater research station from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

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

(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:

It waits. Anchored to the lip of a trench, the station crouches like a lantern buried in midnight. Outside, water is a velvet weight that presses and releases; the hull answers with a low, contented hum, a pulse almost mammal. Through the dome, our floodlights stitch pale corridors into the gloom—threads of domesticated day unspooled into ink. Silt lifts and settles; copepods bloom, a scatter of cold stars. The ocean, imperturbable, leans in. Inside, the smell is part-sterile, part-sea: iodine, warm electrics, a tang of brine that leaves the tongue tasting of coins.

Inside, the air is a tempered compromise; pressure holds steady; numbers glow with an eerie domesticity. A liturgy of machines whispers under hearing—compressors, scrubbers, air recyclers—their consonants a soft susurration. Screens curve like a half-drawn curtain; on them, a lime-green sweep rotates—ping—marking invisible life as blips that rise and vanish. The bench bristles with clipped labels and jars; kelp curls like ribboned calligraphy; the dilated eye of an amphipod is preserved in amber gel. Condensation beads on the dome, mapping archipelagos that redraw themselves each minute. Beneath a juddering panel sits a biscuit tin, and above it a sticky note declares, 'Quiet, please'.

Beyond the glass, the sea performs its slow parade. First, needles of silver—smelt etching cursive over darkness—then the theatre unfurls: comb jellies with ribs that coruscate; an anglerfish trailing its absurd lantern; a juvenile octopus that unfurls and recoils, parchment pale, considering us. From the silt, a giant isopod trundles with the calm of an armoured bus. A ribbon eel sashays past, blue and gold as a frayed standard. Cables lie draped like patient umbilicals, tethering us to the invisible ship far above. When the floodlights dip—power saving—everything is suggestion, a palimpsest of movement: soft, then gone. Then back again.

Meanwhile, the station speaks in rhythms. Pumps keep time; filters inhale and exhale; the frame releases admonitory creaks that run along the struts like whale-song translated into steel. It is oddly domestic, this abyssal home: a ticking kettle; a chart with a doodled starfish. Nevertheless, the thought of miles of water pressing with ancient, unarguable hands is always there. We are a bubble with equations and a kettle in it; we are borrowing space (not them—perfectly adapted, impervious, uninterested—but us).

What compels us to nail light to the sea floor and listen for answers? Perhaps the same itch that made sailors chase horizons—slower now, quieter, more precise. The current combs cables—out and over—and the sonar ticks its patient metronome. In the corner, the log grows line by line; beyond the dome, a translucent shrimp lifts and lowers, as if agreeing. The station endures—small, steadfast, human—while the ocean presses and releases, presses and releases. For now, we hold.

Option B:

Autumn. A season that loosens things: leaves unclasping from branches, light thinning at the edges, secrets turning strangely buoyant. On the afternoon we began to empty Gran’s cottage, the air smelled faintly of apples and old polish; the sky had the pale patience of someone waiting to be told a story.

I had not planned to find anything beyond cobwebs and dislocated hangers. Mum called it practical grieving; my uncle called it finally getting some order. The aluminium ladder clicked out like a reluctant sentry, and when I climbed, the attic took my weight with a shocked, woody sigh. Dust rose in a quiet commotion; motes floated—tiny planets.

It was hotter up there than reason allowed. My torch licked along rafters and found familiar relics: suitcases with cracked handles, biscuit tins hoarding buttons, jam jars bristling with screws. I told myself to be methodical—stack, sort, discard—yet my hands moved in hesitant archaeology.

It was the draught that found me. Not a breeze, just a thin braid of colder air, threading through a seam of pine beyond an old trunk. The board did not sit quite flush; the skirting made a shy, tell-tale grin. I pressed it; it gave. Somewhere below, a nail complained. For a moment I considered being sensible (call Mum, fetch tools), but sense felt ponderous and afternoon light was already thinning; curiosity moved quicker.

The screwdriver—rusted, obliging—came from a jar that had been waiting for precisely this. Two careful levers, a small judder, and the panel loosened, releasing the attic’s stored breath. Inside was a box no bigger than my palm: enamel flaked to a crescent, a filigree border, initials that did not belong to us—E.W.—etched with a hand both delicate and decisive. It looked like nothing; it weighed more than it should.

I sat cross-legged on the boards (granules of grit indenting my knees) and lifted the lid. The hinges whispered. Lavender, foxed paper, the faintest exhalation of old perfume; inside lay a watch with a starburst face, a photograph of a girl on a bicycle, and an envelope sealed with brittle red wax. On its front, in looping ink: Lena—save for when you are ready.

My name. Not the polite Helena classrooms insisted on; mine. How could a box I had never seen be waiting for me? I wanted, absurdly, to put it back—to pretend I had not been chosen. But the attic had gone very still, as if the beams were listening. The wax puckered under my thumbnail; it cracked like thin ice.

Dear Lena, it began, as if the years between us had been nothing at all. When you find this, the house will be quiet, and you will think you know who you are. You don’t—not yet. Before the first tear sinks into the paper, I need to tell you why there is another key beneath the clock, and why, once you turn it, everything you have been told will shift.

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

Option A:

The station hunkers on the seabed like a lantern secured in velvet; light pours from its windows in steady rectangles, a domestic geometry against the slack, immense dark. Water pushes and strokes the hull with patient hands, patient weight, more patient than any storm. From within, everything hums — a low, mineral song. The air tastes of tin and salt; the palms feel it too, a fine grit of condensation and metal that makes fingerprints slick. Even the clocks seem softened here, rounding their ticks into a measured breath.

Inside, it breathes. Corridors are narrow gills, taking in and letting out people and warm air; valves click; doors sigh. Fluorescent strips give a pale dawn that never changes, so mugs of tea and data printouts do the work of time instead. On the lab benches: vials with water that holds its own midnight, petri dishes laced with drifting hair-thin creatures, a microscope like a small planet with rings of glass. The smell is complicated — iodine, rubber seals, algae, hot circuits. When a pump starts up, the floor trembles and then steadies; when it cuts out, the quiet feels fuller, not emptier.

At the observation window, the sea leans close. A parade of lights passes as if the night has invented stars for itself, then let them swim: lanternfish sewing the dark with tiny needles; comb jellies unspooling their prismatic ribs; a slow, deliberate squid that inks itself and drifts away. The glass is thick, convex, a cold eye; our faces float in faint doubles, human constellations inside the room, marine constellations outside. Someone taps a pencil and writes: temperature, salinity, currents — the words sit squarely on the page while beyond them everything flows. We speak in a low register, the way people lower their voices in a cathedral; it is not superstition, exactly, but a courtesy to pressure and abyss.

Straps tether mugs; nets tame the floating drift of paper; labels refuse to peel even when damp. In the sleeping berth, bunks climb like shelves; in hydroponics, lettuce leaves are tender, domestic, improbably green. Outside, the darkness is not empty but crowded — plankton dust, whispering currents, shapes you name late and sometimes wrong. The pressure speaks in creaks and little knocks; the station answers with valves, with numbers, with cautious light. It is not a fortress, not a prison. It is a held breath, a pale promise, held and held, before ascent.

Option B:

Autumn is the season of letting go: leaves loosening their grip, light thinning, drawers emptied of paperclips you swear you'll need. I stood on the path to Aunt Elsie’s cottage while the wind worried the hedge and the sea combed smooth after the storm. The paint on the sills had scabbed pale and the key swallowed grit before it turned. I told myself I was here to be practical. Bin bags. Labels. Nothing more than the ritual of closure.

Upstairs, the attic hatch rasped and a smell of paraffin and damp cloth slid into the hall. Dust rose in motes and drifted; the beam of my torch felt material. The rafters were a map of old leaks; boxes sagged. I told myself I would be quick – in and out. Yet my fingers lingered on envelopes thick with the grit of years.

It was the sound that stopped me: a hollow note beneath my boot, not the tight thud of timber but something expectant. I crouched; the board lifted with a pew's sigh. In the seam, a tin waited, lid embossed with a swallow and a faded orange label. It shouldn’t have been heavy, but it was; it tugged at my hands as if it belonged to the floor.

I wasn’t expecting anything—how could I be? Old receipts, perhaps; a coil of string. Instead, I found a tea-coloured envelope, sealed with red wax crazed into tiny rivers. Inside lay a narrow key shaped like a bone and a sheet of paper folded so often the creases were almost translucent. When I eased it open, the attic air shivered with the rain on the roof.

It was a map. Not of the village or the bay, but of this cottage: a rectangle for the kitchen, a black square for the stove, the hawthorn scrawled in familiar loops. In the back corner, where nettles defeat us every summer, a circle had been etched and labelled simply, ‘Well’. Beside it, in Aunt Elsie’s impatient hand from shopping lists, a note: For the one who listens.

I read the words twice, trying to make them ordinary. There had never been a well. Not in my lifetime. Yet here was a key, cool as a coin against my palm, and a place ringed on paper that had slept under my feet for years. Practical, I reminded myself. Still, below the nettles, a hush gathered—something like water remembering the way up.

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

Option A:

The station sits like a metal seed pressed into the seabed; water presses its cold palm against every panel, every seam. Inside, the air is dry and salted, tasting faintly of batteries. Fans turn. The ceiling murmurs with cables. A ribbon of light from the consoles cuts the blue gloom, steady, stern. It is quiet; not silence, but the careful hush of machines that dare not fail. Condensation beads along the window's rim, trembling with each measured thud of pumps. The floor hums underfoot. It breathes, and so do we, together; a very slow conversation.

Beyond the thick viewport, the water is a velvet dusk, scrolled with slow flakes of marine snow. A shoal turns as one body, each silver flank catching the spill of our lamps; then nothing, then a jellyfish rises, quivering like a small umbrella. Its bell pulses and the tendrils trail - frail writing in the dark. Every now and then a blunt shadow cruises past, more rumour than animal, and the station answers with a ripple of light. It is almost like watching weather: drifts, pauses, sudden bursts. Outside feels close, and endless at the same time.

Inside, the rooms are practical: white benches, clipped labels, a map dotted with red pins. Jars line a shelf, their contents pale and patient. The corridor is narrow and serviceable, pipes sweating faintly; the doors sigh and seal. There is always a clock - thin hands, fluorescent face - deciding our day because the sun cannot. Coffee tastes a bit metallic. The lights are steady and kind of warm, though the floor keeps its chill. Sometimes the pressure groans and we all stop, just for a second, listening. Then the hum resumes. Hush and hum, hush and hum.

At the far end, the moon pool is a black mouth. Ropes hang in neat coils; a submersible sleeps beneath a tarpaulin, its nose scuffed from patient work. When the hatch opens, the water nudges up with a glossy, cat-like rise, bringing cold and a quick smell of kelp. Boots leave damp commas along the deck. On the noticeboard, postcards have bleached to soft ghosts, edges curled. Even here there are small reminders of sky, though we live under it - under all of it.

Option B:

Dust. The kind that powdered your tongue and turned breath into chalk. The old terrace exhaled whenever the front door shut; timbers shivered, paint flaked like winter skin. I could smell old lavender and coal, a faint sweetness braided with something metallic, as if the house remembered every key that had ever turned in its locks.

We were meant to clear Great-Aunt Nella’s rooms today—bag the clothes, box the books, don’t get sentimental. At first, I did as told. I stacked paperbacks into neat towers and listened to Mum clatter in the kitchen, her voice carrying up the narrow stairwell. But the ladder to the loft was already down. It hung there like an invitation, thin rope swaying, a thread of light falling from the hatch and pooling on the landing.

Up I went, my palms whispering against the sides. The loft was not large, only a shallow wedge beneath the tiles, but it held a geography of forgotten things: suitcases with grinning buckles; a cracked mirror; a trunk furred with damp. I shifted a tea chest and something answered from the floor below it—a hollow knock, small but certain. I froze. Then I tapped again, this time with my knuckles, and heard the same muffled echo, as if the floor had swallowed a secret whole.

The board nearest my knee had a darker line, a sliver of shadow. I slid my fingers along the edge—splinters bit; I ignored them—and prised, failing at first. A butter knife lay in a mug beside an old paintbrush, so I used it, levering slow, hopeful, ridiculous. The board gave with a soft sigh.

Something waited.

The tin beneath was mint-green with a white lid, mottled with rust and fingerprints of time. My heart felt huge, clumsy. I touched the lid and it stuck, then yielded. Inside were: a coil of faded ribbon, a postcard from 1978 (Brighton, the sea smeared like glass), a key small as a wishbone, and a tiny bottle with a curled scrap of paper pressed into its throat. There was also a smell, of salt and peppermints, and suddenly I was eight again on the pier with Nella, her laugh lending courage to the gull-scissored air.

I unrolled the paper, careful not to tear it. Ink bled into the fibres but the words stood out, deliberate: If you found this, you’re part of it now. Return to where the tide forgets.

“Leah?” Mum called up, voice edged with hurry. “How’s it going?”

“Nearly finished!” I lied, because the house wasn’t finished with me; because my hands had already memorised the shape of that key.

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

Option A:

The observation dome sits like a patient eye in the skin of the station. Outside, the water is a deep, heavy blue that shifts, not fast, but constantly. The sea presses its cold face against the glass; it peers in with slow, unblinking patience. A soft thrum runs through the metal bones of the place, a mechanical heartbeat you stop noticing and then notice again.

Inside, corridors are narrow and neat, lined with pipes that sweat. Beads of condensation march down silver tubing and drop into little trays, plink, plink, a metronome for the day. The air tastes faintly of brine and something chemical; it smells of metal and old rubber. Cables snake under grates, and our footsteps sound hollow. We move carefully because everything matters here—every dial, every sealed hatch, every O-ring—small things keep the big pressure out.

Through the window a cloud of plankton drifts like snow that forgot how to fall. Tiny sparks of bioluminescence blink and scatter, as if a handful of stars has been thrown and will not land. A ray glides past, its wings smooth and certain, a shadow that seems to know us. Farther away, a shape larger than comfort curls and uncurls its arms, curious and slow. The world beyond is quiet but not empty; it moves in its own sentences.

In the lab the monitors murmur, graphs rise and fall, numbers climb like ants across glowing screens. The intercom crackles to life—oxygen stable, temperature stable—then fades. There are the human things: a mug with a faded ship, a scuffed notebook. They look ordinary against the thick glass and the dark. Sometimes we press our hands to the dome and feel the faint, cold answer pressing back, pressing and pressing. It keeps the rhythm, we keep time, and the station waits, a small, stubborn light in an underwater night.

Option B:

Rain. The kind that taps the windows and runs in thin rivers down the glass; the kind that makes old houses sigh. I stood in Nan’s hallway with a cardboard box under my arm, breathing in lavender and dust. Every surface wore soft grey, and the mirror showed a ghostly smear.

I had promised to sort the attic. It felt like climbing into another time. The steps groaned, the hatch stuck, and a weak bulb flickered as I pulled the cord. Light fell in tired stripes over suitcases, a torn lampshade, decorations that had lost their sparkle. I knelt and began to open things—careful, curious: a stack of letters tied with frayed ribbon; a cracked porcelain doll with one eye; a tin of buttons.

Under a loose board—half hidden by a moth-eaten rug—I found a shallow gap. My fingers, dusty and cold, reached in and touched metal: a small biscuit tin with faded flowers. The lid resisted, then yielded with a stiff sigh. Inside was a folded map, a brass key no bigger than my thumb, and a photograph—sepia, curled, strangely bright in the centre: a child, my face, beside a high white lighthouse. I have never been to the sea.

For a moment everything went still—rain, breath, the loud clock downstairs. My heart beat an uneven rhythm. Who took this picture? The map trembled in my hands; thin lanes stitched the paper, and a small cross sat at the coast’s edge. I could almost hear waves that weren’t there. I knew I should put the things back, label another box, be sensible, but curiosity pressed at me like a door left ajar. The key lay warm in my palm, and I felt, almost foolishly, that it belonged to me: to a story I hadn’t known I was in.

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

Option A:

The window is a wide oval, the glass thick and faintly scratched; it holds back a midnight world. Outside, the water is not empty, it flickers. Plankton glitter like dust in a torch beam, moving because the vents breathe them along. A jellyfish drifts past, its rim gentle, its threads like torn lace. Floodlights make pale cones: silt rises, dances, settles.

Inside the station, everything hums. Pipes cross the ceiling like ribs and the floor shudders softly, almost comfort. The air tastes metallic and a bit salty; condensation pearls on bolts and drips in a slow clock. Meanwhile, a console beeps, a calm heartbeat, and a voice on the intercom mutters numbers I half-understand. Heavy boots knock, knock, then fade, and someone laughs – a brief bubble of sound. There is tools on a bench and a tangled reel of cable, shining like a wet snake.

Beyond the glass, life is nearer than it should be. A manta sweeps by like a black flag. The station sits like a silver seed, pressurised and stubborn, refusing to be crushed. What keeps all this from falling in? In the dim lab, samples glow a little, a pale, almost luminesant green; the pumps breathe, and we watch.

Option B:

Evening. The time after the storm; rooftops shining, puddles fat as coins, damp air sneaking into the attic. A pause before the next rumble. As gutters dripped, I pushed up the hatch and dust fell like grey snow on my hair. Gran always told me to leave it alone; the rain had found a leak.

I crawled into the low space, knees on the scratchy insulation, boxes stacked like squat soldiers. I meant to fix the bucket, save the albums, be back for tea; nothing more. Light slanted through the tiles in a thin golden stripe.

Then my foot nudged a board that didn't sound right. Hollow—like an empty drum. I tapped it again, again. The plank was swollen and stubborn, I wiggled my fingers under the edge and a splinter bit me. Blood beaded. I didn't stop. With a dry creak, the wood lifted.

Underneath, tucked in a pocket of cold air, sat a small metal tin, black and dented, a ribbon still tied around it. My hands trembled. I blew the dust off, the lid shuddered and something chimed inside. For a moment I felt silly (I should put it back), but curiosity tugged harder.

I prised it open with a butter knife—Gran's old trick. Inside: a brass key, a folded paper, a photograph. The photo showed our garden, long ago. In faded ink, on the paper, my name: For Leah, when the rain stops. Who hides a future in a tin?

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

Option A:

The underwater station crouched on the grey sand like a patient crab, metal legs half-buried. Through the glass dome was a blue-green world; shadows drifted up from the seabed. Lights along the corridor flickered and buzzed, the air tasted faintly of tin and recycled salt, like old pennies. Pumps throbbed in the walls, again and again, again and again, a steady heartbeat for the building.

Inside, everything felt close. Narrow passages, white doors with numbers, wet suits hung dripping in a row. Condensation beads slithered down the round window. Beyond it, a shoal of silver fish turned together like coins in a shaken hand. A pale jelly drifted past, its edges glowing, almost luminescent. When a crab tapped the glass—click, click—it made me jump; the station did not.

Meanwhile, in the lab, screens threw soft light on tables. Jars, cables, notebooks lay in simple piles. A filter hummed; oxygen hissed. At the center was a map of the sea floor: ridges, vents, a dark trench. It felt serious but also lonely.

Outside, the ocean pressed its weight on every bolt. The station seemed to breathe in tiny sighs. Always humming, always watching - it waited for the next wave of night creatures to pass the window.

Option B:

Dust. It lay on every beam in the attic, a thin grey blanket that made the air stale. Light from the small window turned the dust into tiny stars. Mum had sent me up to find the photo albums, but the place had other ideas. The floorboards groaned under my trainers and cobwebs brushed my cheek like soft string. I wanted to go back down, the ladder creaked, and I felt foolish for feeling scared.

At first I only saw the trunk. Then, tucked behind it, I noticed a wooden box with a tarnished lock. It looked ordinary, a jewellery case maybe. My fingers were dusty and my hands shook as I lifted it. A small brass key was taped under the lid with careful handwriting: "For you." For me? I turned the key - it resisted - then it gave with a sharp, satisfying click.

Inside was not what I expected. Not photos. A narrow map lay folded, yellow and delicate, with a red X near the river behind our estate. There was a small black-and-white picture of Grandad, younger, grinning, the date scrawled 1979. He never talked about that year. One thing was clear: this wasn't just junk. I held the map as if it might break.

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

Option A:

The station sits under the water like a big tin can. The glass window looks out to a dark blue and I stare and I forget the time, it is slow here. The lights inside flicker and make the walls look yellow. I hear a hum, it hums and hums like a sleepy bee. Wires hang and pipes. The floor shakes soft because of the pump. I can see my breath fog up the screen and I wipe it with my sleeve.

Its quiet but not.

Outside the window a long fish slides past, eyes like torch lights. It is grey and soft looking but it has teeth like little needles. Tiny dots float, like dust in a room, like snow, they go up and down. A crab taps on the glass, tap tap, I think it is saying hello. The station feels small and big, a box in the sea.

Option B:

It was a normal morning. The rain had stoped and the yard smelt like wet dirt. Mum told me clear the shed, so I went. I didnt expect anything, I was just doing it because I had to.

Inside there was boxes and spider webs and old tools, all grey. I started to move stuff and sweep, dust puffed up. Then the floor wobbled under my foot, one plank was loose. I pushed it with my boot and it lifted like a thin lid. Suddnely I felt cold.

Under there was a small tin box, shinning dull like a old penny. My heart was beating like a drum, I dont no why. I picked it up and the dust came off like flour and there was a key hole but no key, the shed was quiet and it felt like the day was waiting.

I nearly put it back.

But I opened it anyway.

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

Option A:

The station is under the sea. The walls are cold, it hums all the time. Lights buzz over us, they flicker. Outside the window there is dark water and fish, they stare with round eyes and go back and forward, back and forward. The floor feel wet and the air taste like salt and metal. I hear a pump and a thud, like a heart but not. The corridor is long and the doors are heavy, a wheel turns slow. The station creak and I think it will bend, but it doesnt. In the kitchen a mug float, I hold it down.

Option B:

It was morning and the air was cold. I walked to the shed to get a spade, I only wanted to dig a small hole for the plant. The ground was hard like a plate. I hit something with the metal. It made a dull sound, I looked. Under the mud there was a small tin. I didnt expect to find nothing there. I was suprised and a bit scared, my hands shook and shook. I open it but the lid sticks, it smells like old coins. Mum shouted from the kitchen about toast and I forgot my phone died. I pull harder and the lid pop.