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 had not prepared the narrator/speaker for what the narrator/speaker saw?: The ordinary accounts of this vortex – 1 mark
• 1.2 Which account is described as perhaps the most circumstantial of any?: That of Jonas Ramus – 1 mark
• 1.3 What judgement does the narrator make about Jonas Ramus's written account of the vortex compared with what the narrator actually saw?: It is detailed but does not convey the true impact of the scene the narrator experienced. – 1 mark
• 1.4 What does the narrator indicate about earlier descriptions of the vortex, including the one by Jonas Ramus?: They are detailed but fail to convey the true splendour and dread of the experience – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 16 to 30 of the source:

16 When it is flood, the stream runs up the country between Lofoden and Moskoe with a boisterous rapidity; but the roar of its impetuous ebb to the sea is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts; the noise being heard several leagues off, and the vortices or pits are of such an extent and depth, that if a ship comes within its attraction, it is inevitably absorbed

21 and carried down to the bottom, and there beat to pieces against the rocks; and when the water relaxes, the fragments thereof are thrown up again. But these intervals of tranquility are only at the turn of the ebb and flood, and in calm weather, and last but a quarter of an hour, its violence gradually returning. When the stream is most boisterous, and its fury heightened by a

26 storm, it is dangerous to come within a Norway mile of it. Boats, yachts, and ships have been carried away by not guarding against it before they were within its reach. It likewise happens frequently, that whales come too near the stream, and are overpowered by its violence; and then it is impossible to describe their howlings and bellowings in their fruitless struggles to

How does the writer use language here to convey the power and danger of the whirlpool? 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: The writer crafts a relentless, animate menace through hyperbole and personification: the roar of its impetuous ebb is scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts, while deterministic, violent lexis—inevitably absorbed, beat to pieces—renders vessels helpless. Cumulative, polysyndetic syntax piles on escalating perils (from vortices... of such an extent and depth to fragments... thrown up again), as the stark juxtaposition of intervals of tranquility with fury heightened by a storm, precise quantification (a Norway mile), a tricolon of victims (Boats, yachts, and ships), and visceral auditory imagery in whales’ howlings and bellowings collectively evoke its relentless power and danger.

The writer uses auditory imagery and hyperbole to foreground the whirlpool’s might. The “roar of its impetuous ebb” fuses onomatopoeia with “impetuous”, suggesting reckless force, while it is “scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts,” magnifying it beyond waterfalls. Likewise, the “noise… heard several leagues off” quantifies its reach, making danger evident even at distance.

Furthermore, a semantic field of destruction, realised through dynamic verbs, conveys danger. If a ship comes within its “attraction”, it is “inevitably absorbed… carried down… and there beat to pieces”, the tripling and passive constructions stripping vessels of agency and implying certain ruin. When “the water relaxes”, only “fragments” are “thrown up again”, a chilling cycle that makes survival unlikely.

Moreover, personification heightens its menace and the syntax mirrors its relentlessness. The sea’s “fury heightened by a storm” casts it as an aggressor, while long, multi-clausal sentences linked by semi-colons surge forward, mimicking the current’s continuous pull. Precise measures—“a quarter of an hour” of calm and “a Norway mile” of peril—calibrate the risk and reinforce vast scale.

Additionally, cataloguing victims universalises the danger and intensifies dread. The tricolon “Boats, yachts, and ships” suggests no craft is exempt, and the passive “have been carried away” implies helpless surrender. Most strikingly, even “whales… are overpowered,” their “howlings and bellowings” evoked through visceral auditory imagery; “fruitless struggles” signals futility, presenting an inhuman power that annihilates resistance.

Collectively, these choices render the whirlpool an unstoppable, omnipresent, and fatally unpredictable force.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses hyperbole, sensory imagery and violent verbs to show power and danger: adjectives like "boisterous rapidity" and the "roar" of the "impetuous ebb" outdo "the loudest and most dreadful cataracts" and are "heard several leagues off", while ships are "inevitably absorbed", "carried down" and "beat to pieces", and even "whales" are "overpowered" with "howlings and bellowings". Long, cumulative sentences and quantified warnings—"intervals of tranquility... but a quarter of an hour", "dangerous to come within a Norway mile"—create a relentless, cautionary tone, showing only brief respite before the whirlpool’s "violence" returns.

The writer uses a violent semantic field and hyperbole to convey the whirlpool’s power. Phrases like “boisterous rapidity” and the noun “roar of its impetuous ebb”, “scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts”, make it sound greater than waterfalls, while “heard several leagues off” extends its scale through auditory imagery. Technical nouns, “vortices or pits”, and the idea of “attraction” suggest an irresistible pull, and “inevitably” with plosive verbs in “carried down…beat to pieces” emphasises certain, brutal destruction; “fragments…thrown up again” present the aftermath. Personification in “its fury” and “violence gradually returning” makes the force seem alive and relentless. Even “intervals of tranquility” last “but a quarter of an hour”, highlighting only a brief, deceptive safety.

Furthermore, sentence form and detail show the danger. The long, multi-clausal sentence with semicolons mirrors swirling motion and overwhelms the reader, reflecting unstoppable force. Precise measurement: “dangerous to come within a Norway mile” quantifies a radius of threat. Moreover, the list “boats, yachts, and ships” suggests all vessels are vulnerable, while even “whales” are “overpowered” (passive), heightening peril by showing powerful creatures defeated. The auditory imagery of “howlings and bellowings” conveys terror and suffering, reinforcing the whirlpool’s lethal danger.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses strong adjectives and violent verbs like 'boisterous rapidity', 'roar', 'inevitably absorbed', and 'beat to pieces' to show power and destruction, while hyperbole in 'the noise being heard several leagues off' and the list 'Boats, yachts, and ships' make the danger seem widespread. The long, extended sentence and personification/auditory imagery in 'its fury' and 'howlings and bellowings' make it feel relentless and terrifying, suggesting that even whales are 'overpowered'.

The writer uses powerful adjectives and verbs to show the whirlpool’s power. Words like “boisterous rapidity” and “roar” make it seem loud and wild. The phrase “inevitably absorbed” suggests nothing can escape, making the danger clear. The verb phrase “beat to pieces” is violent and shows what happens to ships. The long, flowing sentence mirrors the stream’s continuous force.

Furthermore, there is hyperbole when the “noise [is] heard several leagues off” and it is “dangerous to come within a Norway mile”. This exaggeration and the precise distance emphasise the huge scale and warn the reader to keep away.

Additionally, personification shows its anger: the stream’s “fury” is “heightened by a storm”. The list “Boats, yachts, and ships” suggests everything can be “carried away”. Even “whales… are overpowered”, and their “howlings and bellowings” use emotive language, making the danger feel real and the whirlpool seem deadly.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses powerful adjectives like boisterous rapidity and dangerous to show the whirlpool is strong and scary, and violent verbs such as inevitably absorbed, beat to pieces, and overpowered make it seem deadly. The comparison scarce equalled by the loudest and most dreadful cataracts and the noisy phrase howlings and bellowings also stress its power and danger.

The writer uses strong adjectives like “boisterous” and “dreadful” to show the whirlpool’s power. This makes it seem loud and scary to the reader. Furthermore, violent verbs such as “absorbed” and “beat to pieces” show danger, because ships are destroyed if they get close. Moreover, personification in “its fury” and “violence” makes the water feel angry and threatening. Additionally, the phrase “whales… overpowered” and their “howlings and bellowings” show how terrifying it is. Finally, the long, flowing sentence with semicolons lists effects, suggesting the force goes on and on.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Forceful lexis personifies the stream as aggressive and chaotic, foregrounding raw, uncontrollable power (boisterous rapidity).
• Superlatives and comparison to vast natural forces magnify its supremacy and terror (loudest and most dreadful cataracts).
• Aural imagery stretched over distance makes the danger feel inescapable and immense (noise being heard several leagues off).
• Technical nouns and emphasis on scale evoke an abyss that can engulf vessels (vortices or pits).
• Modal certainty with passive construction stresses inevitability and human helplessness (inevitably absorbed).
• Violent, destructive verbs depict brutal consequences, intensifying threat and fear (beat to pieces).
• Temporal markers shape a brief respite before renewed aggression, sustaining tension (quarter of an hour).
• Long, multi-clausal sentences with piling semicolons mimic the relentless, surging motion and overwhelm the reader.
• Precise measurement creates a wide exclusion zone, showing the reach of the hazard (within a Norway mile).
• Even giant creatures are defeated; graphic sound imagery of their cries makes the peril horrifying (howlings and bellowings).

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 story.

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

You could write about:

• how awe deepens throughout 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 how awe intensifies through structural framing and shifts: the narrator first dismisses ordinary accounts as exceedingly feeble, then embeds an authoritative report (which may be quoted for their details) whose cumulative list of catastrophes (whales, a bear, ships inevitably absorbed) escalates scale and dread. It would then analyse the pivot to a lofty, firsthand vantage (highest crag of Helseggen, howling Phlegethon) and climactic placement of a grand analogy (as little as a feather the hurricane), before the reflective re-evaluation (attempts to account now of an unsatisfactory aspect) reframes the phenomenon as beyond explanation, sustaining awe.

One way the writer structures the opening to create awe is by framing the scene through a contrast between second-hand chronicles and first-hand vision. The narrator insists “ordinary accounts… had by no means prepared me” and that Ramus “cannot impart the faintest conception” of its “magnificence” and “horror.” This metanarrative preface foregrounds insufficiency and withholds stable co-ordinates (“from what point of view… at what time”), priming awe before the vortex appears, announcing the ineffable and unsettling the reader’s orientation.

In addition, the writer embeds an extended quotation as a discourse unit that slows pace while cumulatively escalating scale. Quantification and temporal references—“thirty-six and forty fathoms,” “a Norway mile,” “every six hours,” and “Sexagesima Sunday, 1645”—lend verisimilitude; the catalogue widens from “boats… ships” to “whales” to “a bear,” each clause yoked in syndetic succession. The reported assertion that it is “impossible to describe” their “howlings” paradoxically intensifies the sublime. The narrator’s aside that these details are “exceedingly feeble” juxtaposes report and reality to deepen awe.

A further structural feature is the pivot in focalisation back to the first-person witness “from the highest crag of Helseggen,” a zoom from reportage to immediate vantage that creates a crescendo. Mythic recasting—“the howling Phlegethon”—and superlatives (“immeasurably greater”), alongside the simile “as little as a feather [to] the hurricane,” form the climax. The closing volte-face—“attempts to account… now wore… unsatisfactory”—withholds explanation, so the whole structure sustains and amplifies awe by leaving the phenomenon unresolved.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would clearly explain how awe deepens across the whole extract: it opens by contrasting the narrator’s experience with prior reports (had by no means prepared me), embeds a measured, factual report (Between Lofoden and Moskoe) to slow the pace and build scale, then shifts to first‑hand, elevated viewpoint (the highest crag of Helseggen, howling Phlegethon). This structural progression culminates in hyperbole (as little as a feather the hurricane) and a closing rejection of reason (now wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect), showing how changes in focus and perspective intensify awe.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create awe is at the start, by framing the passage with contrast between second-hand accounts and immediate experience. The opener—“ordinary accounts... had by no means prepared me”—and the verdict that Ramus is “exceedingly feeble” create a clear juxtaposition. This focus shift primes the reader for an overwhelming spectacle, and the tone moves from scepticism to reverent anticipation.

In addition, in the central section the extended embedded quotation from Jonas Ramus alters pace and focus. Its accumulative, factual detail—“thirty-six... forty fathoms,” a roar “heard several leagues off,” whales and a “bear” engulfed, and “in the year 1645”—widens scale and timespan. This expository interlude slows the narrative to build credibility and magnitude, while the cyclical “ebb and flood” pattern mirrors the vortex, so awe deepens through rhythm and relentless repetition.

A further structural choice is the return to the first‑person vantage on “Helseggen,” a clear shift in perspective. From this height, the narrator’s evaluation—“immeasurably greater” depth; a ship like “a feather”—escalates beyond the quoted account. The sequence from report to panoramic vision then closes by withholding explanation—“attempts to account... unsatisfactory”—leaving the phenomenon unresolved and the reader in awe.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would spot that the writer moves from other people’s "ordinary accounts" to "what I saw", then uses a long quotation with words like "roar", "boisterous", and "inevitably absorbed" to build awe. It would also notice a shift to the narrator’s viewpoint ("Looking down" from the "highest crag of Helseggen") and a final change in tone in "now wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect" to show the awe deepens.

One way the writer structures the opening to create awe is by beginning with a contrast between “ordinary accounts” and what he actually sees. This sets up the reader to expect something beyond description, with “magnificence” and “horror” showing the scale.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts to a long quotation from Jonas Ramus. This list of details (depths, “whales,” a “bear,” “1645”) slows the pace and piles up facts, so the scale feels massive and the reader is overwhelmed, which deepens the awe.

A further structural feature is the change in perspective at the end, back to the narrator on the “highest crag,” looking down. This zoom effect and the final statement that explanations are “unsatisfactory” leave the phenomenon unexplained, keeping the mood of awe.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer contrasts "ordinary accounts" with his own view, then inserts a long factual quotation starting "Between Lofoden and Moskoe" and listing dangers like "Boats, yachts, and ships" to build up the power. He then shifts back to a personal viewpoint from "the highest crag of Helseggen", looking over the "howling Phlegethon", which makes the awe feel stronger.

One way the writer has structured the text to create awe is the opening contrast: “ordinary accounts... had by no means prepared me.” This beginning sets up wonder.

In addition, the long quotation in the middle uses a list of dangers and numbers: “forty fathoms,” whales, a bear, ships, and “In the year 1645.” These long sentences pile up, making the vortex sound overwhelming.

A further structural feature is the shift back to first person at the end. From the summit, he says even the largest ship would vanish. This change of focus increases awe for the reader.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Framing contrast between prior reports and lived sight primes awe by exceeding expectation (by no means prepared me)
• Early uncertainty over vantage and timing builds mystery around the phenomenon, enlarging the unknown (not sure from what point)
• Embedded authoritative extract slows pacing with measured data, accumulating scale yet stressing insufficiency, so awe feels beyond reportage (between thirty-six and forty fathoms)
• Sequential catalogue of perils—from ships and boats to whales and a bear—escalates stakes step by step, intensifying awe (inevitably absorbed and carried down)
• Cyclical time markers (ebb/flood) alternate brief calm with returning violence, making awe feel relentless and inescapable (intervals of tranquility)
• Expansion of spatial and historical range broadens magnitude across landscape and time, deepening awe (several leagues off)
• Structural shift back to firsthand, elevated viewpoint boosts immediacy and spectacle through commanding perspective (highest crag of Helseggen)
• After factual accumulation, a move to mythic register recasts the scene as sublime, amplifying awe (howling Phlegethon below)
• Climactic hyperbolic comparison caps the build-up with an image of absolute power, sealing the sense of awe (as little as a feather)
• Closing reversal undermines prior explanations, leaving an unresolved, resonant mystery that sustains awe (unsatisfactory aspect)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, the narrator smiles when reading about the bear and whales being caught in the whirlpool. The writer suggests the reality of the whirlpool is so much more terrifying that these old horror stories now seem small and simple.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the narrator and the reality of the whirlpool
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the whirlpool's terrifying power
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively agree that the writer presents the whirlpool’s reality as more terrifying, arguing that the narrator’s ironic smiling at the simplicity of honest Jonas Ramus diminishes the anecdotes of the whales and the bears. It would analyse methods—classical allusion (howling Phlegethon), hyperbolic scale and simile (the largest ship of the line in existence, as little as a feather the hurricane), and the tonal shift to now wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect, reinforced by deadly attraction and disappear bodily and at once—to show how the immediate, annihilating reality eclipses the old horror stories.

I largely agree with the statement. The narrator’s smile is not a sign that the whirlpool’s horrors are exaggerated, but that the old anecdotes are dwarfed by the sublime terror of the reality he witnesses. The writer carefully contrasts second-hand “anecdotes” with immediate experience to show that the truth is more vast, more violent, and more incomprehensible than the “small and simple” tales of bears and whales.

At first, the narrator coolly dismantles received measurements: the “forty fathoms” can only apply “close upon the shore,” while the true depth “must be immeasurably greater.” That adverb “immeasurably” functions as hyperbole and foregrounds the sublime, placing the vortex beyond quantification. This shift from numeric certainty to unbounded depth prepares us for the narrator’s experiential revelation.

The vantage-point description intensifies that revaluation. From the “highest crag of Helseggen,” even a mere “sidelong glance into the abyss” suffices to undo book-knowledge. The lexis “abyss” connotes bottomlessness, and the allusion to a “howling Phlegethon” evokes the infernal river of myth, fusing personification and classical reference to render the whirlpool hellish and animate. Within this heightened register, the narrator “could not help smiling at the simplicity” of “honest Jonas Ramus.” That epithet “honest” is politely respectful, yet the smile is edged with irony: the old stories once “difficult of belief” now seem naïve beside the abyss roaring beneath him.

Crucially, the writer escalates scale through a devastating simile. The whirlpool’s “deadly attraction” would sweep away “the largest ship of the line” “as little as a feather the hurricane.” This juxtaposition of massive warship with weightless “feather,” driven by a cataclysmic “hurricane,” yokes hyperbole and simile to convey irresistible force and total helplessness. The deontic modality of “must disappear bodily and at once” asserts inevitability; the adverbial pairing “bodily and at once” compresses the time-scale to an instantaneous erasure, further dwarfing the lumbering creatures of the anecdotes.

Finally, the narrative voice pivots from scholarly curiosity to shaken conviction: the “attempts to account for the phenomenon,” once “sufficiently plausible,” now “wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect.” Personifying the theories as “wearing” an “aspect” emphasises their flimsy facade when confronted with lived terror. This structural movement—from reported tale, to measurement, to direct sight—tracks the narrator’s transformation and validates his sardonic smile.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer suggests that reality exposes the old horror stories as reductive. While the narrator’s courtesy to “honest” Ramus prevents outright mockery, his grimly ironic smile signals that the whirlpool’s truth is so vast that those tales seem, by comparison, small, simple, and utterly inadequate.

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, citing the narrator smiling at the simplicity of the whales and the bears, and explaining how hyperbole and allusion make the vortex a howling Phlegethon with deadly attraction that would pull the largest ship of the line as little as a feather the hurricane. It would also note the tonal shift from sufficiently plausible to unsatisfactory aspect, showing reality dwarfs the old horrors.

I largely agree that the narrator’s smile shows the old whale-and-bear tales seem small beside the true terror of the whirlpool. His tone is not playful but superior and chastened by what he has seen.

At first, he challenges earlier measurements, saying he “could not see” how depth was known near the vortex, and that “forty fathoms” apply only near the shore. The adverbial “immeasurably greater” magnifies the centre’s depth, and a structural shift from bookish report to direct witness intensifies fear: “no better proof… than… the sidelong glance… from the highest crag.” Looking down, the allusion and metaphor “howling Phlegethon” transform water into a hell-river; the personification “howling” gives it predatory life.

Set against this vision, he “could not help smiling at the simplicity” of “honest Jonas Ramus” and his “whales and the bears.” The adjective “honest” is patronising, while “simplicity” implies those anecdotes are naive. This supports the claim that legend now feels “small and simple.”

Crucially, the writer escalates scale: it is “self-evident” that “the largest ship of the line” would resist the “deadly attraction” no more than “a feather [to] the hurricane.” The simile and hyperbole stress absolute power and instant annihilation—“disappear bodily and at once.” Finally, the contrast in viewpoint—once “plausible in perusal,” the explanations now look “unsatisfactory”—confirms that lived reality overwhelms second-hand horror.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: through allusion, simile, and contrast, the writer makes the Maelstrom’s reality so terrifying that old horrors are diminished—less false than inadequate beside the abyss he actually beholds.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would broadly agree, noticing that the narrator says 'I could not help smiling' at 'the anecdotes of the whales and the bears', suggesting he now sees those stories as small and simple. It would give basic method points like the simile 'as little as a feather the hurricane' and the image 'the howling Phlegethon' to show the whirlpool’s terrifying power.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section, the narrator “smil[es] at the simplicity” of the old tales about “the whales and the bears,” which shows he now finds those horror stories small compared to what he sees. The reality is presented as overwhelming: the whirlpool is a “howling Phlegethon,” which makes it feel hellish and vast, and he looks into an “abyss.”

The writer also uses a strong simile to show scale: even “the largest ship of the line” would be carried off “as little as a feather [to] the hurricane” and would “disappear bodily and at once.” This comparison makes the animal stories seem minor; if warships cannot resist, a bear or whale would be nothing. Hyperbole like “immeasurably greater” for the depth and the phrase “deadly attraction” add to the terror.

There is a clear contrast (structure) between reading and seeing. Explanations that “seemed…plausible in perusal—now wore a very different and unsatisfactory aspect.” The adverb “now” signals the turning point: once he has a “sidelong glance into the abyss” from the “highest crag,” he dismisses neat claims like “forty fathoms” as naïve. Even a quick glance proves that the real whirlpool is beyond those tidy stories and numbers.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer makes the reality of the whirlpool far more terrifying, so the old accounts appear simple. However, he still calls Jonas Ramus “honest,” which hints at some respect, so the smile feels more like shocked recognition than cruel mockery.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response shows simple agreement that the writer presents the whirlpool as more terrifying than the old stories, noting the narrator could not help smiling at the whales and the bears. It uses brief quotes like deadly attraction, the largest ship of the line in existence, and as little as a feather the hurricane to support this basic view.

I mostly agree with the statement. When the narrator looks down from the "highest crag of Helseggen" and gets even "a sidelong glance into the abyss," he smiles at the "simplicity" of Jonas Ramus’s whale and bear stories. This shows he now thinks those tales are small next to what he sees.

The writer makes the whirlpool’s reality more terrifying through language. Calling it the "howling Phlegethon" is strong imagery; the adjective "howling" makes the water seem alive and angry. The depth is "immeasurably greater," and the pull is a "deadly attraction," which makes it sound extremely powerful and dangerous. There is also a clear simile: even "the largest ship of the line" would resist the whirlpool like "a feather in the hurricane" and would "disappear bodily and at once." This makes the force feel unstoppable.

At the end, the narrator says the "attempts to account for the phenomenon" that once seemed "plausible" now look "unsatisfactory." This contrast supports the idea that reality has overwhelmed the old horror stories.

Overall, I agree that he smiles because, compared to the terrifying whirlpool he witnesses, those stories seem simple and small.

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:

• Evaluative stance: The narrator’s amused reaction diminishes earlier horror anecdotes, implying firsthand reality outstrips them (quote: could not help smiling)
• Hyperbolic simile: Even the “largest ship of the line” is as helpless as a lightweight object, showing absolute, annihilating force (quote: as little as a feather)
• Mythic allusion and sound: Infernal imagery makes the whirl seem otherworldly and overwhelming, eclipsing animal tales (quote: howling Phlegethon)
• Structural shift to eyewitness authority: Moving from compiled reports to direct observation heightens credibility and terror (quote: sidelong glance into the abyss)
• Ironic source portrayal: Gentle condescension towards the chronicler frames older anecdotes as naive beside observed reality (quote: honest Jonas Ramus)
• Rejection of explanations: Theories once plausible now fail, suggesting a phenomenon beyond neat reason, deepening dread (quote: unsatisfactory aspect)
• Graphic aftermath: Violent, tactile evidence of destruction validates the whirlpool’s lethal depth and power (quote: broken and torn)
• Relentless cycles: Brief calms and timed tides stress inescapable recurrence, intensifying threat (quote: violence gradually returning)
• Scale and reach: Proximity warnings and indiscriminate pull on all vessels show vast danger, dwarfing old anecdotes (quote: a Norway mile)
• Counterpoint: The animals’ suffering remains genuinely horrific, so a reader may mostly—though not wholly—share the narrator’s disdain (quote: howlings and bellowings)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

This weekend, after sorting old boxes in the loft, your family will gather for a short reading of creative pieces.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a second-hand bookshop after closing from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about an old promise that resurfaces.

(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 door sighs shut; the bell gives a final, apologetic tremor, and silence ripples like ink in water. Dusk lingers: lambent amber pools beneath crooked lamps, dust bright as plankton rising and falling. The sign flips to Closed—undramatic, almost shy. A key clicks; footsteps diminish. Then, relieved of performance, the shop slackens its shoulders and becomes what it is when unobserved.

It smells of paper grown old gracefully—lignin-sweet, faintly medicinal—underlaid by a whisper of polish and the damp of coats. Floorboards murmur with cooling, the way radiators tick after a long day. The air retains the memory of fingertips; their echoes settle into spines and are absorbed. Books do not sleep so much as dream; pages rustle imperceptibly, like grass in a breeze that isn’t there.

Shelves run like terraces up narrow walls: biographies shoulder history; poetry leans in pale, particular fonts; travel writing smells faintly of salt. Spines are not merely titles but little faces—scarred, foxed, gilt, clothbound. Dedications bloom inside like pressed flowers; the ghost of a pencil note queries a line; a bus ticket becomes an artefact. In the corner, a tower of hardbacks lists with optimistic bravado; its precariousness is almost theatrical (if someone coughs, it will confess and tumble).

By the till, a mug leaves a pale ring; a cardigan is slung over a chair, patient as a dog. The ledger lies open—spidery—beside a dish of paperclips and a single peppermint. The drawer, jaw shut, keeps its tin whispers to itself; coins are obedient. A cat, grey as basement light, slips from between philosophy and photography, stretches—vertebrae like beads—and pads the perimeter, conducting its nightly audit.

Beyond the window, the street has thinned to scaffolding and sodium. Rain pearled earlier; now hemispheres of water fret along the glass, corrugating the reflected shelves into ship-lanterns. A siren yawns somewhere; tyres hiss; a bus exhales; then even those urban footnotes are removed. Inside, stillness—yet not stasis.

The shop has its own weather: a barometric hush, a climate of attention. Ladders lean as if listening. Who, seeing a row of children’s classics, can fail to imagine chocolate fingerprints and blanket forts? Sentimental, perhaps; true. The cat curls into a comma and edits the silence. Tomorrow will tap at the door; for now, the bookshop, second-hand and second-sight, rests—watchful, brimming with breath that does not disturb the air.

Option B:

November does not forget. It hoards the year’s sunlight in crisp, copper leaves and drops it, one sigh at a time; it presses memories between pages you thought you had outgrown.

On the morning the box arrived, rain sagged the sky; the kettle clicked; the postman thumped the letterbox. No return address—just my name in a looping, schoolgirl hand I had not seen in years.

Under the paper (thin as onion skin), a small brass key curved like a fish, its teeth worn smooth with handling. A ribbon, sun-faded to the colour of violets, was tied around it. The note was three words only: You promised. Iris.

I did not drop it. I sat down, because some sentences remove the scaffolding from your day. What do you do when the past knocks and knows your name? You promised. The words made a quiet incision through the years and folded me back to the river, to the willow whose roots drank the bank into lace.

We were thirteen and theatrically serious. Iris had a scrape on her chin and a dictionary of plans. We swore—palm on palm—that we would unlock the boathouse on the day we were thirty, and not before: together or not at all. We hid the key under a tile and drew a chalk star to mark it, as if the future needed a map.

Then life, perfunctory and extravagant, intervened; families moved; numbers changed; the tide kept its own counsel. At twenty, an argument; at twenty-two, silence. At some point, the chalk star dissolved.

And yet here was the key, resurrected, ribboned, patient; here was the insistence of that adolescent incantation. You promised.

I put on my coat. It was not bravery; it was inevitability. Rain made music on the pavement. I walked towards the river as if the road remembered my steps. Everything had shifted—fresh paint, a coffee place where the newsagent had been—yet the river still smelt of iron, and the willow still slouched over its reflection.

The boathouse door was scabbed with old paint and sun. The chalk star, of course, was gone; the tile was not. I crouched; my knees clicked; I was suddenly aware of thirty pressing against thirteen, of the odd anachronism of my adult hands repeating a child’s furtive motion.

The key slid in with an intimacy that was almost indecent. It resisted, then yielded. The lock sighed. For a moment I expected Iris to erupt from the shadow, all elbows and ideas.

But the boathouse breathed; the dark smelt of oars and time; and on the workbench, where light sheared in, lay another note—my name—and a tin box I recognised, its lid flecked with verdigris, the colour of forgotten promises.

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

Option A:

The bell above the door gives one last, tired clink, and silence, patient as dust, spreads over the aisles. The proprietor flips the sign—Closed—and turns the key; the lock answers with a small, decisive click. Streetlight filters through mottled glass in narrow stripes, laying pale ladders across the carpet while motes drift in that amber, slow as snow. Floorboards, relieved of footfall, exhale a faint wood-smell; leather cools; paper settles, and a sigh passes along the spines as if the books have been holding their breath all day; the air keeps its own history: tea leaves, polish, glue, foxed pages.

Shelves bow under their elderly cargo; some lean like old companions, shoulder to shoulder, while others stand prim, alphabetised with almost military neatness. Titles gleam in fractured gilt, rubbed to a whisper by years of fingertips. A hulking atlas, weighty as a promise, props up a tower of slim poetry; paperback spines (dog-eared, loyal) fan themselves on the counter. That counter is a palimpsest: pencilled prices, a dark ring where a mug once rested, a nicked edge smoothed by habitual palms. Bookmarks peep like shy tongues—bus tickets, pressed clover, an envelope half-addressed. A fringed lampshade casts a deliberate pool of honeyed light.

Moth, the shop cat, patrols his small dominion with a whispering tail. He pads across continents and meridians, leaving crescents in the atlas’s bloom of dust, then pauses to hear the delicate tick that holds the room together. Pipes mutter; somewhere a timid page relaxes. Across the street a neon sign blinks—red, then dark, then red again—its rhythmic pulse combing the aisles in a tide of colour. He knows where the warm patch lingers behind Biography: the radiator, grudging but loyal. Satisfied, he settles, a curled comma behind the till.

The day’s voices do not leave at once; they thin, they hover. A boy’s grin beside the comics; the woman with a list; the man who wanted "something to outlast me." Their traces dilute but do not vanish. The shop keeps them as a ledger keeps numbers—precise, private. By the door the bell dozes, and the placard makes its modest claim. The shop is not asleep. Not quite. It is thinking in paper, and it is thinking of morning.

Option B:

The sea has a way of returning what you thought was finished; shells, stories, the odd apology. It rolled the morning’s fog off the bay and laid, at my feet, a rust-eaten tin the size of a paperback. Barnacles stippled its lid. A loop of frayed string clung to it as though the box had been holding its breath for years.

I knew it before I touched it. My initials, a shy M carved with a penknife, bled through the salt patina; beside it, a thin, careful L. We had pressed the tin into wet sand at the edge of the old slipway and piled stones on top, two children officiating a ceremony nobody asked us to make. “For when we’re brave,” she had said, solemn as a magistrate. It had sounded sensible then, a calendar with only one date.

I had come back to clear my mother’s cottage; grief makes you meticulous and slow. The gulls scribbled over the pale sky, the smell of tar and seaweed rising in faint, sour breaths. Last winter a storm had cracked the harbour bell clean through. They’d hauled it away, and every evening since, the bay had felt a fraction quieter, as though a tooth had been knocked out. Perhaps that was why I noticed the tin. Perhaps it had simply decided I had run out of excuses.

I levered the lid with my house key. Air escaped—briny and familiar, a trapped decade exhaled. Inside: a bead bracelet bleached almost white, a pebble with a clumsy heart scratched into it, a torn corner of a tourist map, and a folded note the colour of old cream. The crease had fossilised; I had folded it myself. My name on the outside in her careful print.

You promised. When the bell stops, meet me on the slipway. Don’t leave.

Lina’s voice arrived with the words; not the girl from the note but the girl laughing through her hair, the one who could stand on a rotten plank and call the sea ordinary. We had made other promises, too—mathematics you could count: postcards, birthdays, the kind of call that never comes late. Life, obdurate and practical, had put its hand over my mouth and steered me inland. Time made me fluent in postponement.

What do you do with a promise that refuses to drown? I stood with the tin under my arm, the tide rustling around my ankles, the day already deciding itself. The slipway lay to the left, slick with algae, familiar as the map of my palm. I could see the place we had marked with a red star, childish and sudden. The bell had stopped. The note, long dormant, had finally ripened into an instruction I could not pretend to mishear.

“I’m late,” I said to nobody—half apology, half prayer—and turned toward the soundless harbour.

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

Option A:

The hanging sign flips with a soft click, and the bell gives one last jolt before the hush stretches out. The owner’s keys rasp in the lock; footsteps fade; the street sighs past the window. Inside, the shop exhales. Light slips through the blind in pale stripes, dust floating in those bands like tiny paper moons. The air carries the warm, dry scent of glue and foxed pages.

Along the walls the shelves lean into their own shadows, mismatched. Hardbacks squat in careful rows; paperbacks tilt, shoulder to shoulder. Spines in bruised blues and rusts; gilt letters worn thin; pencilled prices on yellowed stickers. Some books are stacked in precarious towers, a skyline of stories, and between them are oddities: an atlas that creaks when opened, a slim book of poems with a pressed fern inside.

At the counter, everything is paused: the till’s little green screen asleep; a mug with a brown ring drying on a saucer. Reading glasses lie folded like a fragile beetle. There is a notebook with orders—names, numbers, a careful star against the word first edition. A stubby pencil waits. The fern beside the stamps has sagged a little.

Earlier, voices scudded through here—soft, hurried, curious. Now the sounds are pared away until only the clock remains, a regular tick that seems larger than it should be. The floorboards ease. From somewhere at the back, a pipe knocks politely. Rain beads on the window; the letterbox breathes in the draught. A ladder leans like a tall spine, its shadow rippling across a threadbare rug.

In this quiet the books remember people. A child asking for dragons. A woman murmuring the date on a flyleaf, as if it mattered. A student bargaining, then smiling, leaving a fifty pence on the counter anyway. Dedications do most of the talking now: To A., with all the summers; For Dad, Christmas 1993.

Then the last lamp clicks off; the stripes of light thin and vanish. The exit sign is a small, faithful glow. A soft settling whisper passes down the shelves, and the shop sleeps; outside, the rain keeps reading the street. A small world, folded shut.

Option B:

Autumn crept through the loft hatch like a shy cat, pawing at boxes and fabric, leaving a thread of cold across my knuckles. Dust drifted in the narrow beam of the bulb—little galaxies spinning in the stale air—and somewhere a sparrow rattled in the guttering. I had climbed up for a scarf and distraction; instead, my fingers found the box.

The lid’s paper was the colour of old tea, the corners softened, tied with a sea-blue ribbon that had bleached to grey. The box was small, it felt heavier than it looked. My name swam on the top in narrow handwriting I knew at once and hadn’t seen for years—inked deliberately, as if each letter was a decision. For a second I just held it, aware of the hush pressing in around me, aware of the way my breath sounded too loud, like I was trespassing on something private that belonged to an earlier version of me.

When I loosened the ribbon, the knot loosened too easily, and the lid lifted with a sigh. Inside were ticket stubs, a brittle daisy pressed flat as a coin, a photograph with our two silhouettes leaning out over railings. And there, beneath the photo, folded twice, a scrap of lined paper with a sentence that had made us feel immortal: “Ten years from today—no excuses—we meet at the pier at sunset.” Below it, our names, scrawled like signatures on a treaty.

Back then we were sixteen and sure the future would be obedient. We carved our initials into the underside of the pier, our hands cold and sticky with salt, promising like actors in a play we wrote together. I can still hear the wind tearing our words into threads, the gulls insisting overhead, the world apparently listening.

Now, the date on the paper is tomorrow. Ten years is a strange measure; it is both a blink and an ache. I stand in the attic and try to imagine what she looks like now, whether she ever kept the shoelace bracelet I tied around her wrist, whether she will remember that the bench by the fish shack rocks if you lean on the right arm. My phone, cracked and stubborn, lights up with a train timetable; the route curls across the screen in a thin blue vein.

What do you do with a promise that wakes itself up? I fold the note once more—carefully, almost ceremoniously—and slip it into my pocket. Outside, the afternoon hurries on, brisk and undecided, and somewhere far off I think I can smell salt, or maybe that’s just my own reminiscence trying to be useful.

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

Option A:

The door snibs shut; the bell gives one last small jolt and the bookshop exhales. Outside, a streetlamp spreads a wedge of amber through the blinds, settling on the counter like quiet dust. Motes drift in that brittle beam, turning and turning, as if the air thinks. The CLOSED sign rocks — back and forth, back and forth — and grows still. Without footsteps, the floorboards loosen their shoulders; the aisles lengthen into a narrow hush.

The shelves climb the walls in uneven ranks. Second-hand hardbacks stand shoulder to shoulder, jackets sun-faded, gold titles rubbed thin; paperbacks lean in dog-eared groups, some collapsed into careful piles. Stacks occupy the carpet like low skylines, crooked yet stubborn; a rickety ladder waits with splashed paint on one rung. The air is a blend of glue, old leather, and dry paper; it clings to the tongue, familiar and sweet. Touch a spine and the dust lifts, soft as breath, hanging there, undecided.

On the counter: a receipt spike, a sleeping till, a jam jar of coins. Handwritten price tags curl at the edges. In the margins of a battered novel, a stranger has left pencil stars; on a flyleaf another hand writes, 'To M—, Christmas 1987.' The shop cat has chosen the atlas, kneading its blue continents, tail a question mark. In the back room, a kettle clicks as it cools; the smell of tea lingers.

The building makes its small noises — a shy creak, a pipe’s sigh, the clock tapping out seconds. Outside, traffic thins to a far hush; inside, the books seem to listen and the words settle like silt. Night lifts and lowers itself around the shelves, patient. It is not empty here. It is simply waiting for morning, for hands to ruffle pages, for that bell to jolt the quiet into life.

Option B:

Morning. The hour when the house uncoils; the kettle clicks, light slides over the table, dust dances in the thin beam coming through the blind. I was meant to be leaving for work, but the bottom drawer of the dresser snagged like a stubborn jaw, and I tugged until it finally gave up with a little sigh.

Something slipped free and fluttered to the floor.

The envelope was the colour of tea left too long. My name sat on it in careful, tilted letters I knew immediately. On the back, in smaller writing, four quiet words: For when the bells return. The paper smelled of attic air and old glue. I turned it over, once, twice. My stomach tightened in that strange old way I had almost forgotten.

Years ago, before the fire melted the church and silenced its iron heart, we had made a promise. We were sixteen, sitting on the bridge with our knees knocking, the river watching us like a patient animal. Pinky promise, we joked at first, but then it grew serious with the night. If we lost each other, we said, if life drifted us out of reach, we would try again when the bells rang once more. I had told myself it was teenage bravado; the sort of oath you make under stars and forget by morning.

But the bells were due to ring today. The town had been muttering about it all week, the way people do at bus stops and in queues. There would be a ceremony at noon—ribbons, speeches, a mayor with a grin too big for his face.

I broke the seal. Inside: only one line. Noon. The bridge.

My hands shook; not fear—something else, older, heavier. What if he remembered? What if I was the only one who did? The first soft toll rolled through the street, a sound like metal warmed by sunlight. I reached for my coat. The promise rose inside me, resurfacing like a bright fish from dark water, and I went to meet it.

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

Option A:

The bolt slides home and the bell gives a final, shaky chime; the shop seems to breathe out. Outside, footsteps fade. Inside, the lamplight from the street lies in long, orange bars across the carpet, striping it like a tiger. Dust floats in that thin light, turning slowly.

Now the rows of second‑hand books lean on each other, like tired friends after a long day. Spines frayed, cloth faded, gold letters rubbed away. The air is warm and musty; smelling of paper, glue and something sweet, like dried flowers. When the heating clicks, the shelves answer with a soft rustle. If I touched every shelf, my fingers would come away grey.

By the counter, the receipt roll has curled on itself like a snail. The till sits shut with its drawer tight like a mouth, stubborn. A handwritten sign says Cash only. There’s a mug with a brown ring — a tea tide mark — and a spoon asleep on a saucer. Above, a list of orders is pinned up: names underlined, dates and small stars as if they matter.

In the window a travel guide lies open, one loose page lifting then settling, like a slow breath when a bus sighs past. The blind twitches; the door answers with a soft click of the letter box. Somewhere at the back a step stool waits by maps with soft creases, and a ladder is folded neatly.

The quiet isn’t empty: it is full and patient. Tomorrow the bell will wake it, but tonight the bookshop keeps its stories to itself.

Option B:

Autumn. The season of brittle light; leaves like burnt paper drifting along the pavement, air sharp as an apple. The attic coughed when I tugged the ladder down and dust fell in a slow storm. I went up anyway because the house felt full of unsaid things, and because my phone had buzzed with a name I hadn't seen in years: Leah.

In the corner, a little tin waited, tied with a frayed blue ribbon. It looked ordinary, almost shy. I slid the lid; the metal squealed. Inside lay a folded page, edges yellow and thin, a pressed daisy curled like a small ear. The handwriting was childish, ours, the purple ink blotched where rain had splashed. I held the paper, it trembled, or maybe that was me.

Back then, me and Leah stood on the iron bridge at dusk, trainers wet, hearts stupidly brave. We had found something buried under the last plank, a rusted key and the note that said Do Not Open. We opened it of course. We promised—hand to heart, eye to eye—to return in ten years and make it right: to put back what we took and to tell the truth, even if it hurt. We were thirteen and the world seemed simple, like a map you could fold neat.

Now the promise had resurfaced like a stone rising through mud, slow but certain. Leah's message said only, You remember?

Ten years are up—today.

I breathe, the attic seems to listen. Maybe promises don't expire, maybe they wait; they wait until you are ready, or until you run out of excuses. I definately have run out.

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

Option A:

The sign swings to Closed and the bell stops its nervous ringing. The shop seems to breathe out. Lamps click off; a thin stripe of streetlight slips under the blind, making shadows on the floor. Dust floats in it like slow snow. The air is thick with paper and glue, and a hint of cold tea from a mug left by the till. The floorboards creak then settle, the whole room sighs. It is quiet now. Really quiet.

Along the tall shelves, second-hand hardbacks lean on each other, their spines faded and soft at the edges. A child’s name is pencilled on the first page; someone folded a corner once. At the back, the travel books are stacked in a tired tower—maps, tickets, a leaf used as a bookmark. Pages smell sweet; dust sits in the corners, layer on layer. A narrow aisle runs between history and crime: a corridor of paper. Tick, tick.

Meanwhile, the door is bolted and the key turned; the little bell is a black silhouette against the glass. Outside, the window shows only streetlight and a face. Somewhere a page lifts when a draught creeps under, then it falls again. The shop waits—patient, dusty, full of quiet stories... Who will wake them tomorrow?

Option B:

Rain fell in thin lines across the kitchen window, like someone drawing on the sky. At the back of the drawer I found the small tin I thought I'd lost. It clicked open softly. Inside lay a folded card tied with frayed blue ribbon. Only one word was on the front: Remember.

Years ago, by the river with our shoes off and our toes cold, we pressed our hands together and made a promise. Meet here again, we said, when we were older—when everything made sense. We carved our initials into the railing; we planned adventures; we swore we wouldn't forget. How could I forget?

My phone buzzed on the table; a new message flashed up like a light in fog. Are you coming? it said. From Leah. Ten years. Today. The old promise, the old bridge, the cold water on my ankles, it all rushed back at once, and my stomach dipped.

Now the rain was heavier, tapping like knuckles on the glass. I pulled on my coat and stuffed the card into my pocket. I thought about not going, about pretending the past could stay in its box, it felt safer there. But promises don't just sink; they float back to the top. I opened the door.

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

Option A:

The shop is shut now. The sign says Closed and it hangs a little crooked. The bell don't ring anymore; it just sits there like it is tired. The air is dusty and heavy. Quiet everywhere. It smells like paper, old tea and a bit of damp.

Shelves creaks in the small room. Stacks of hardback books lean like sleeping towers. Their pages are yellow and rough. Some stand straight, some wobble, the titles rubbed away.

A stripe of street light comes through the blinds, making lines on the floor. Dust floats in that light, up and down, up and down, like small snow. The clock goes tick, tick. The floor boards groan when no one is on them, like they remember feet.

Night presses on the windows.

The owner went.

The key click still stays in the quiet air.

The lamp at the till is out now.

Option B:

Autumn. The time when things fall and get found again. Leaves scuff the steps outside my flat. I open the drawer. It sticks, then it gives and dust puffs up.

At the back is a small box with a red ribbon. The ribbon is faded and rough, like old string. My name is on a card. My writing but from years ago. I forgot, or I tried to.

Inside there is a paper star and a stone, smooth as soap. And a note. Meet me by the bridge, ten years, dont be late.

We said it together, whispering, fingers crossed tight. The words wake the promise. It walks across my chest like a tiny animal. I hear the river in my head.

We were twelve. We scratched the date and said we would come back. It is today. Did she wait? Do I go now or do I stay

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

Option A:

The second hand book shop is shut now and it is quiet, the Closed sign hangs on the door and it swings. There is dust on the shelves and the hardbacks are stacked in piles that lean and look like they might fall. They dont. The air smell old, like paper and tea, it is dry. A clock goes tick, tick, tick, again and again. Light from street is thin, it lays on the floor. The books look like they are sleeping, some are open a little and a chair sits in the corner. Somewhere a bus went by, I thought I hear it.

Option B:

It was morning and the rain was soft. I went in the old kitchen to get a spoon. In the drawer I seen a small paper, it was folded and yellow. I open it slow and it said we made a promise. He will come back when the clock was right. I remember the park, the bench, his hand, we said it. I got to get the 8 bus for work but I just stand. The kettle whistle but I dont move. I shove the note in my pocket and go out, the rain starts heavy, I think maybe its time, maybe today