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 Who had been with Tom immediately before Tom came into the garden?: Tom's uncle – 1 mark
• 1.2 Before entering the garden, where had Tom been with Tom's uncle?: The neighbouring plantation – 1 mark
• 1.3 What did Tom carry in Tom’s hands?: A brood of little callow nestlings – 1 mark
• 1.4 What did Mary Ann and Fanny run to do?: They ran to admire Tom’s spoils, and to beg each a bird for themselves. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

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

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

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

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Level 4 answers perceptively analyse how exclamatives, repetition, and modality construct Tom’s gleeful cruelty: "No, not one!", "They’re all mine", and the staccato enumeration "one, two, three, four, five", with the prohibitive "you shan’t touch", assert possessive dominance and a lack of empathy. They also explore how kinetic/grotesque imagery and violent dialect intensify this attitude—he is "standing over it" with "legs wide apart", "hands thrust", his "face twisted" into "contortions" in the "ecstasy of his delight", while "fettle ’em off", "wallop ’em" and "By gum! ... rare sport" objectify the birds as mere entertainment.

The writer uses direct speech, exclamatives and repetition to foreground Tom’s possessive cruelty. His denial, "No, not one!", repeated and intensified by the possessive "They’re all mine", makes the staccato exclamatives hammer home refusal and entitlement. The asyndetic list "one, two, three, four, five" reads like a trophy tally, and "spoils" adopts a plunder metaphor, recasting the birds as loot. The hyperbolic "for your lives!" and modal "you shan’t" imply violent defence, presenting Tom as a gloating victor.

Furthermore, the dense physical description and dynamic verbs construct a domineering stance. He is "standing over it... legs wide apart": "over" and the stance connote territorial ownership. The kinetic "hands thrust" and "body bent" imply force, while "face twisted... in the ecstasy of his delight" fuses grotesque imagery with the emotive "ecstasy", exposing perverse joy. Participial sequencing ("laying... standing...") and plosive clustering ("bent... breeches... body") create a punchy rhythm, mirroring his excited guarding of the nest.

Moreover, colloquial dialect and violent lexis reveal his attitude to the birds as instruments of "sport". The regional verbs "fettle ’em off" and "I will wallop ’em" euphemise hurting and killing, normalising brutality as entertainment. The interjection "By gum!" and swaggering modality ("you shall see... See if I don’t") create a taunting tone, while the rhetorical question after "I will wallop ’em?" turns cruelty into performance. Thus Tom is possessive, aggressive and exultant, and the birds are dehumanised prey.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Using repetition and exclamatory sentences, the writer shows Tom’s possessive boasting: the repeated "No, not one!", the counting list "one, two, three, four, five", and "They’re all mine" (said "exultingly") create a gloating tone that excludes others. Colloquial, violent dialect and vivid body description—"fettle ’em", "I will wallop ’em", "By gum!", and "legs wide apart... face twisted... in the ecstasy of his delight"—present his cruel, childish excitement at the birds as "rare sport".

The writer uses exclamatives and repetition to present Tom as possessive and triumphant. The short cry “No, not one!” and the repeated “not one” emphasise his refusal to share, while “They’re all mine” asserts ownership. Counting “one, two, three, four, five” makes him treat the birds like property, and the hyperbole “for your lives!” hints he will defend them aggressively.

Moreover, vivid physical description and dynamic verbs show him as domineering. He is “standing over” the nest with “his legs wide apart,” his “hands thrust” into his pockets; his “face twisted… in the ecstasy of his delight” suggests swagger and cruel pleasure. The adverb “exultingly” reinforces his gloating attitude.

Additionally, the writer uses colloquial dialect and violent lexis to reveal his cruelty. Phrases like “fettle ’em off” and “I will wallop ’em”, plus the interjection “By gum!”, reduce the birds to things to be beaten, while calling it “rare sport” turns their suffering into entertainment. The rhetorical question “I will wallop ’em?” and the challenge “See if I don’t now” boast about the harm he plans, presenting Tom as callous towards the birds.

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 repetition, exclamations and listing—"No, not one!", "they’re all mine", "one, two, three, four, five"—to show Tom is possessive and bragging. Dialect and violent words like "fettle ’em", "wallop ’em", plus interjection "By gum!" and the physical description "legs wide apart", "face twisted", make him seem rough and cruel towards the birds, with short, exclamatory phrases creating excited aggression.

The writer uses repetition and exclamatory sentences to show Tom’s possessive attitude. The repeated 'No, not one!' and 'they’re all mine' make the reader see him as greedy and controlling, so the birds are just 'spoils' to keep. The counting 'one, two, three, four, five' reduces them to numbers and shows his pride.

Furthermore, the physical description and verbs present aggression. He stands 'over' the nest with 'legs wide apart', and the adverb 'exultingly' suggests triumph. His 'face twisted... in the ecstasy of his delight' shows cruel pleasure in owning the birds.

Additionally, dialect and violent language reveal his cruelty. Colloquial phrases like 'fettle ’em off' and 'I will wallop ’em', with 'By gum!', make him seem rough and eager to hurt them. Calling it 'rare sport' shows he treats the birds as entertainment, not as living creatures.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses repetition and exclamations in "No, not one!" and "one, two, three, four, five" to show Tom is greedy and excited. Dialect/violent words like "fettle ’em", "wallop ’em", "By gum!", and the description "legs wide apart" and "rare sport" make him seem rough and cruel towards the birds.

The writer uses repetition and exclamations to show Tom is possessive and excited: “No, not one!” and “They’re all mine” make him sound selfish. Furthermore, the physical description uses verbs and adjectives like “legs wide apart” and “face twisted… in the ecstasy of his delight,” which shows he is proud and enjoying it. Moreover, the dialect and violent verbs “fettle ’em”, “wallop ’em”, and the phrase “rare sport” present a cruel attitude to the birds. Additionally, the question “I will wallop ’em?” sounds boastful. Therefore, the language shows Tom is mean to the birds.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Possessive pronouns and emphatic exclamatives present jealous ownership and exclusion of others (They’re all mine)
• Enumerative listing slows the moment to tally trophies, intensifying gloating focus on quantity (one, two, three, four, five)
• Hyperbolic threat injects a violent, domineering edge to his guarding of the birds (for your lives!)
• Colloquial, violent verbs make cruelty sound casual and deliberate, reducing the birds to mere targets (I will wallop ’em)
• Framing harm as entertainment trivialises suffering and reveals callous enjoyment (rare sport)
• Interjection and oaths amplify swaggering excitement and bravado in his voice (By gum!)
• Boastful challenge turns the act into a performance, asserting control over onlookers (See if I don’t now)
• Dominant body language claims territory and intimidates, mirroring his possessive mindset (legs wide apart)
• Heightened emotional diction and grotesque expression suggest gloating, almost ecstatic relish (ecstasy of his delight)
• Trophy-like diction objectifies the birds as plunder, emphasising triumph rather than care (his spoils)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how contrast deepens from beginning to end
• how the writer uses structure to create an effect
• the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]

Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)

Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how contrast is structurally intensified, from the ironically serene opener 'Happily' and Tom’s exuberant counting 'one, two, three, four, five', through a central pivot where the narrator, 'urged by a sense of duty', 'crushed them flat', shifting the piece from childish triumph to uncompromising moral action. It would then analyse the widening contrast via shifts in focus—Uncle Robson who 'laughed excessively' versus the mother’s 'doubly dark and chilled' reserve—before the retrospective close 'nearest approach to a quarrel' frames the episode to underline the narrator’s ethical isolation.

One way the writer structures the extract to create contrast is by opening with a pastoral frame and quickly subverting it. The temporal framing “during that spring” and the concessive “Happily, however” prime the reader for innocence; yet the exceptional marker “that once” acts as a narrative pivot, ushering in Tom’s “high glee” as he brandishes “callow nestlings”. The juxtaposition of seasonal renewal with threatened harm establishes tonal dissonance, sharpening the reader’s unease as Tom’s possessive counting—“one, two, three, four, five”—sits in the opening scene.

In addition, the writer engineers shifts in focus that deepen the contrast between cruelty and conscience. The scene moves from children in the garden to the governess’s intervention, then is abruptly punctured by “I dropped the stone”—a terse pivot opposing Tom’s drawn-out threats. Immediately, an entrance intensifies conflict: “uncle Robson… pausing to kick his dog”, broadening the frame to habitual brutality. A further transition—“Tom next went to tell his mamma”—relocates the drama, so each successive authority counters the narrator’s ethic and widens the moral gulf.

A further structural feature is the orchestration of pace and dialogue to juxtapose values. Long, cumulative description of Tom’s stance slows time, savouring his “fiendish glee”, before the swift act accelerates it; afterwards, extended direct speech with Mrs Bloomfield adopts a cooler, legalistic tempo. The sustained first‑person perspective, with reflective asides, frames events, and the understated close—“I judged it prudent to say no more”—delivers an anticlimax that crystallises the narrator’s isolation.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify that the writer structures contrast by shifting from the light opening "Happily" and Tom’s "high glee" to "fiendish glee", building to the decisive "I dropped the stone", then widening to adult reactions: Mr. Robson "laughed excessively" while Mrs Bloomfield is "doubly dark and chilled", justifying cruelty as "created for our convenience" against "'Blessed are the merciful'", so changes in mood, direct speech and escalating conflict create a cumulative contrast between cruelty and conscience.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create contrast is through the opening shift from light to dark. The adverb "Happily" and the spring setting establish a gentle mood, but the focus quickly narrows to Tom’s "high glee" at seizing "nestlings". Dialogue with repeated exclamatives — "No, not one!" — and his threats to "wallop ’em" increase the pace, so childish excitement is juxtaposed with impending cruelty.

In addition, the narrative is organised around a clear turning point when the narrator "dropped the stone". Placed after a build-up of taunts and refusal, this moment forms the climax and feels abrupt and shocking. Immediately, the focus shifts to responses: Uncle Robson "laughed excessively" and praises a "nobler little scoundrel". This change in tone, from the narrator’s duty to the adults’ coarse approval, deepens the moral contrast.

A further structural feature is the movement from noisy conflict to a restrained aftermath. The first-person perspective is sustained, but the mood cools with Mrs Bloomfield; her calm assertions — "created for our convenience", "soulless brute" — oppose the narrator’s measured mercy. The slower pace and final reflective sentence, "nearest approach to a quarrel", act as an ending that fixes the contrast.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer builds contrast through the sequence: starting with Tom’s excited “running in high glee” and threats to “wallop ’em”, shifting to the narrator’s firm action—“I shall not allow”, “crushed them flat”—and ending with opposing adult reactions (Robson “laughed excessively” vs the mother “doubly dark and chilled”), moving from excitement to stopping the cruelty and then mixed responses.

One way the writer creates contrast is at the beginning, moving from a happy spring scene to sudden conflict. We start with Tom’s ‘high glee’, but the focus quickly shifts through direct speech: ‘No, not one!’ and the narrator’s warning, changing the tone and making the clash in values clear.

In addition, in the middle the pace changes with action: ‘I dropped the stone’. This sharp moment is contrasted with ‘Loud were the outcries’, then a new focus on Uncle Robson, who ‘laughed excessively’ and praises a ‘nobler little scoundrel’, opposing the narrator’s mercy and deepening the contrast.

A further contrast comes at the end when the focus turns to Mrs Bloomfield. The noisy scene becomes calm but cold; dialogue contrasts beliefs: ‘created for our convenience’ versus ‘the merciful man...’. The final line, ‘I judged it prudent...’, slows the pace and leaves a quiet, uneasy finish.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start Tom came running in high glee and boasts of rare sport, but later the narrator dropped the stone and the mother is doubly dark and chilled, so the structure moves from excitement to disapproval to create a clear contrast.

One way the writer creates contrast is by starting happy and turning serious. At the beginning Tom is in 'high glee', but later she kills the birds. This change in tone shocks the reader.

In addition, the focus moves from Tom to Uncle Robson to mother. This shift shows different views against the narrator. It builds the contrast and makes us see she is on her own.

A further feature is the dialogue. Tom’s loud boasts and 'You daren’t' are contrasted with the mother’s cold, calm speech. Short bits like 'Humph!' also change the mood and show the split.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening adverbial positivity flips into cruelty, creating an ironic tonal shift from benign to brutal (Happily, however)
• Early exception marker sets up a single disruptive incident against routine, priming a sharp turn (but once)
• Juxtaposition of the girls’ admiration with Tom’s possessiveness foregrounds immediate moral opposition (No, not one!)
• Visual contrast between fragility and swagger heightens power imbalance through description (little callow nestlings)
• Rapid, staccato dialogue pits childish bravado against principled resolve, sharpening conflict (You daren’t)
• Decisive midpoint act functions as a structural pivot from threat to irrevocable outcome (dropped the stone)
• Immediate reaction shift—public outcry versus mocking amusement—deepens ethical dissonance (Loud were the outcries)
• Timed entrance of adult authority aligns power with cruelty, intensifying the protagonist’s isolation (kick his dog)
• Scene shift to the mother recasts conflict as cold, theological debate, contrasting with earlier violence (Blessed are the merciful)
• Concluding reflective summary de‑escalates into measured hindsight, contrasting chaos with calm control (nearest approach to a quarrel)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, when Mrs Bloomfield defends her son, her arguments about animals seem cold and weak. The writer suggests she is simply making excuses for her child's cruelty.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Mrs Bloomfield's defence of her child's cruelty
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray her arguments as weak
• 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: Level 4: A perceptive, well-developed evaluation argues that the writer exposes Mrs Bloomfield’s defence as cold rationalisation, analysing how her 'calmly' delivered utilitarian claims—'created for our convenience', 'a soulless brute', and the euphemism 'amusements'—serve as weak excuses for cruelty. It typically contrasts these with the narrator’s ethical appeals ('Blessed are the merciful', 'The merciful man shows mercy to his beast') and reads the 'short, bitter laugh' and dismissive 'Oh! of course' as tonal cues to the writer’s critical viewpoint.

I largely agree that Mrs Bloomfield’s defence feels cold and weak: through controlled tone, euphemism and selective reasoning, the writer presents her as making excuses for Tom’s cruelty rather than confronting it. However, there is a suggestion that her arguments derive their force from social authority rather than moral strength, which sharpens the critique of her position.

From her first entrance, the narrator frames her as emotionally chilled and evasive. The description that “her aspect and demeanour were doubly dark and chilled” establishes a metaphorical coldness, and the structural choice to begin with a “casual remark about the weather” signals deflection. The adverbial tagging of her speech—she speaks “calmly”—creates a tone of genteel composure that, in this context of suffering, reads as moral indifference. This is intensified by the juxtaposition with Uncle Robson’s coarse brutality just prior; the shift from open violence to frosty politeness makes her restraint feel like genteel complicity.

Her defence relies on euphemism and dehumanising lexis. She reduces Tom’s torment to “amusements,” a minimising term that sanitises violence, while labelling animals “soulless brute[s],” which erases their “sentient” status (pointed out by Miss Grey) and pre-empts compassion. The assertion that “the creatures were all created for our convenience” adopts a doctrinal, utilitarian register. Because this claim is abstract and totalising, it feels weak against the concrete suffering at stake; it functions as a ready-made alibi rather than a reasoned argument. Even her syntax—“I think… scarcely to be weighed”—presents a specious weighing up that privileges a “child’s amusement” over welfare, revealing skewed values.

The religious exchange further exposes her special pleading. When Miss Grey quotes “Blessed are the merciful,” Mrs Bloomfield’s swift limitation—“of course; but that refers to our conduct towards each other”—is a selective exegesis that conveniently exempts animals. Miss Grey’s counter-citation, “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast,” closes that loophole, and Mrs Bloomfield’s response—a “short, bitter laugh”—is not a rebuttal but a paralinguistic dismissal. She then inverts the moral logic, accusing Miss Grey of lacking mercy for “killing the poor birds by wholesale” and causing the “dear boy” misery. The commercial metaphor “wholesale” is chillingly transactional, while “dear boy” is an emotive appeal designed to deflect ethical scrutiny.

Finally, the narrator’s comment that this was “the nearest approach to a quarrel” and that she “judged it prudent to say no more” suggests that Mrs Bloomfield’s authority, not her reasoning, ends the debate. Overall, I strongly agree: the writer’s choices—cold tonal colouring, euphemism, dehumanising diction, and selective theology—construct Mrs Bloomfield’s defence as brittle and evasive, a set of excuses that shield her child’s cruelty rather than confront it.

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 typically agree to a clear extent that the writer portrays Mrs Bloomfield’s defence as cold and weak, citing her utilitarian excuses—animals "created for our convenience", dismissed as a "soulless brute", and cruelty reduced to "amusement"—to show she is excusing her child. It would also comment on methods, noting her detached tone ("calmly", "short, bitter laugh"), the narrator’s "doubly dark and chilled" description, and the moral counterpoints "Blessed are the merciful" and "The merciful man shows mercy to his beast", which reinforce the writer’s critical viewpoint.

I largely agree that Mrs Bloomfield’s defence appears cold and weak; the writer presents her as making excuses for cruelty. Before she speaks, the narrator frames her with chill imagery: her “aspect and demeanour were doubly dark and chilled”, and “it was not her way to say much”. This characterisation, plus the adverb “calmly” in her rebuke, establishes a detached tone. Instead of empathy for “sentient creatures”, she focuses on policing the governess, not correcting the child.

In the dialogue, the weakness of her reasoning is shown through euphemism and blame-shifting. She recasts Tom’s cruelty as “Master Bloomfield’s amusements” and accuses Miss Grey of “destroying the birds”. The comparative “a child’s amusement is scarcely to be weighed against the welfare of a soulless brute” devalues life through the dehumanising phrase “soulless brute”. By contrast, Miss Grey’s precise “injuring sentient creatures” foregrounds feeling and duty, so the mother’s case reads as thin and self-serving.

Religious allusion further undermines her. When Miss Grey quotes “Blessed are the merciful”, the mother narrows it, saying “that refers to our conduct towards each other”, a selective reading that sounds like excuse-making. Miss Grey adds, “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast”, and Mrs Bloomfield retreats to a “short, bitter laugh”, a paralinguistic detail signalling scorn rather than logic. Her sentimental “dear boy” and stress on his “misery” shift attention from victims, suggesting excuse-making, not principle. The progression from euphemism to selective doctrine to scorn reveals a defence built on avoidance rather than ethics.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: through cold narrative framing, euphemistic diction and contrast with biblical ethics, the writer presents Mrs Bloomfield as rationalising her son’s cruelty rather than confronting it. Any firmness she shows reads as social complacency, not moral strength.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might mostly agree, noting the writer makes Mrs Bloomfield’s defence seem cold and excuse-making by showing her speak "calmly" and give a "short, bitter laugh", saying animals are "for our convenience" and a "soulless brute", and reducing cruelty to "a child's amusement" and Miss Grey’s act to "for a mere whim".

I mostly agree with the statement. When Mrs Bloomfield defends Tom, the writer makes her sound cold and as if she is excusing him. Even before she speaks, her “aspect and demeanour were doubly dark and chilled”. These adjectives create a cold tone, showing little feeling for the birds or for Miss Grey.

When she does speak, she “said… calmly” that “the creatures were all created for our convenience”. The adverb “calmly” makes the defence seem controlled but heartless, and the word “convenience” reduces living things to objects, so her point feels weak. She even calls an animal a “soulless brute”, which dehumanises it and helps her minimise Tom’s “amusements”. She also shifts blame onto the governess, saying she killed the “poor birds… in that shocking manner”, and calling Miss Grey’s act a “mere whim”. This sounds like an excuse to protect her child rather than a fair judgement.

The dialogue also shows a clash of values. Miss Grey talks about “injuring sentient creatures” and quotes “Blessed are the merciful”, but Mrs Bloomfield narrows this to “each other”. When Miss Grey adds “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast,” Mrs Bloomfield gives a “short, bitter laugh”, which suggests scorn, not reason. Structurally, after uncle Robson praises Tom’s cruelty, Mrs Bloomfield’s chilly defence continues the family’s approval.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: her arguments seem cold and weak, and the writer presents them as excuses for Tom’s cruelty.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, responses show simple awareness by agreeing that Mrs Bloomfield sounds cold and makes excuses for her child’s cruelty. They point to obvious phrases like created for our convenience, a soulless brute, her short, bitter laugh, and references to the dear boy and a mere whim to suggest the writer presents her defence as weak.

I agree that Mrs Bloomfield’s defence seems cold and weak, and the writer makes it look like she is just excusing Tom’s cruelty.

First, the description of her after Tom complains makes a cold impression: “her aspect and demeanour were doubly dark and chilled.” The adjectives “dark and chilled” make her seem uncaring. Also, “it was not her way to say much” and her “casual remark about the weather” feel distant, like she won’t face the problem.

In the dialogue, her arguments sound like excuses. She says, “the creatures were all created for our convenience,” and calls the bird “a soulless brute.” This language makes animals seem unimportant, so Tom’s behaviour is allowed. The adverb “calmly” shows a cold tone, and her “short, bitter laugh” feels unkind. She even calls Miss Grey’s act a “mere whim,” which weakens her point because it ignores the cruelty. The writer also uses religious references to show contrast: Miss Grey quotes “The merciful man shows mercy to his beast,” but Mrs Bloomfield replies, “that refers to our conduct towards each other,” which sounds like twisting it to suit her son.

Overall, I agree with the statement: through description, dialogue, and simple contrast, the writer presents Mrs Bloomfield’s defence as cold and weak, mainly making excuses for Tom’s cruelty.

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:

• Largely agree: her demeanour is described as emotionally cold, undermining any sense of compassion in her defence (doubly dark and chilled)
• Passive-aggressive opening: a polite preface masks a reprimand, suggesting evasiveness rather than moral conviction (casual remark about the weather)
• Delivery over substance: composure shades into scorn, signalling detachment instead of empathy and weakening persuasion (short, bitter laugh)
• Dehumanising language: reducing animals to a lesser moral category excuses cruelty and makes her argument feel callous (soulless brute)
• Self-serving doctrine: a sweeping generalisation recasts living beings as tools, reading like a cold rationalisation (all created for our convenience)
• Skewed priorities: pleasure is privileged over suffering, which feels ethically thin and unconvincing (scarcely to be weighed)
• Scriptural deflection: the flippant response narrows mercy to humans, sidestepping a direct moral challenge (Oh! of course)
• Inconsistency: calling them “poor” while defending their torment exposes a credibility gap and undercuts her stance (killing the poor birds by wholesale)
• Minimisation and bias: belittling the motive as trivial while sentimentalising the child reads as excuse-making, not ethics (mere whim)
• Power not persuasion: the narrator yields to authority, implying Mrs Bloomfield’s case relies on status rather than strength (I judged it prudent)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A weekly sports blog is asking students for short creative writing to feature on its site.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a cross-country race from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about refusing to give up.

(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:

Wind combs the hillside, ruffling the coarse grass into dark tides; white tape stutters, pennants that mark a path as thin as a thought. Bib numbers shine damply on chests; pins bite; breath blooms like ghost-flowers in the pale air. A whistle and a hush. Somewhere a cowbell chatters. Mud waits: rich, viscous, an unctuous language underfoot that will swallow syllables of stride and spit them out misshapen. Beyond the start, the course lounges over the slope, all innocent contours, quietly cunning.

At the line, shoulders jostle; hands twitch; someone adjusts a lace pointlessly. The front runners are tensile, coiled; behind them, a tangle of elbows, of intentions. Then the horn—sharp, imperative—and the field erupts, not a stampede but a rolling surge, a river let loose from its sluice. Spikes bite and skitter; jackets fall from the hedges like leaves; the sound is a complicated percussion: thud-suck, the wet kiss of mud, the fricative rasp of breath.

They string out along the trod. Up the first incline the gradient makes an argument against bravado; calves tick with heat, ankles splay for purchase, and the ground answers with a sly pull. Cold water threads the hollows and needles through socks; nettles graffiti shins with a stinging script. The air tastes metallic—old pennies, iron rain; lungs heave like bellows, filling, emptying, until the rhythm owns them.

On the ridge, the view opens: fields netted with hedgerows; a steeple pricking the sky; a sun as pale as a spent coin in a dish of cloud. For a second the runners seem ornamental—bright vests scattered like confetti along a brow—until the wind knifes across and their bodies remember the work. A marshal claps; another calls split times that evaporate in the gust. Meanwhile, spectators stamp, tea steaming in mittened hands, their cheers a ragged chorus that swells and thins with the race.

The descent is treachery disguised as relief. Gravity tempts; quads protest; the path narrows between bramble and gatepost and becomes bottleneck-steep. Footsteps hammer; someone skids, recovers, leaves a fan of splatter on the hawthorn. Breathe in—sharp, iced—breathe out—hot, urgent. Stones click and spit; shoes are heavier now, carrying trophies of earth; every step writes a story on the ground and the next step smears it away.

Across the last field the grass is churned into a palimpsest of effort: left, right, left, right, then a staccato scramble over a stile into the home straight. The tape funnels them—inexorable—towards a gantry where a clock burns its red arithmetic. Faces unknot or harden. Some kick, summoning improbable brightness; others simply hold, eyes sealed to keep the legs honest. What compels them? Not victory alone, but an ineluctable urge to meet the measure of themselves.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour the world rehearses itself: air pinched thin and clean; frost scribbling silver across the tarred curve of lane one; floodlights buzzing a soft, insect prayer. The track, a cold black ribbon, lay quiet and expectant, as if holding its breath for the first footfall.

Rae tightened the tape around her ankle—once, twice, again—until the dull ache grew orderly, contained. She blew into her gloves, tasting winter on her tongue, and watched her breath unravel into the dark. Above her bed, there still hung last year’s unforgiving souvenir: DNF. Three small letters; an accusation. When she closed her eyes she could feel the exact grain of the bib against her vest, hear the metallic cheer of cowbells and the soft, decisive moment her legs had mutinied. Twenty-one miles and she had drifted sideways, out, off; the world kept galloping without her. Not today.

She stepped to the line. The numbers on her watch pulsed green: 05:06. Beside the back straight, a gull screamed at the river and the smell of damp, iron-rich soil climbed the air. She rolled her shoulders as if they were doors that stuck, rolled her neck until something clicked into place. Run, she told herself—not loudly, not with fanfare. Simply: run.

The first three strides were clumsy, each footfall arguing with the rubber; her breath sawed in her chest. Then cadence assembled itself—inhale, two; exhale, two—until the rhythm became a metronome that did not ask for permission. The curve posed its quiet question and she answered with hips forward, chin soft, shoulders loose. She had been told a thousand times in a dozen earnest voices to relax. It sounded like a luxury. She ran anyway.

By the second lap, the cold was inside her gloves, needling; her fingers throbbed with a slow, suspicious heat. Her lungs felt like paper held too close to a flame. A stitch tested the softness beneath her ribs, a tiny blade; she pressed her palm there, counted eight, and kept going. Stop, a voice suggested—kindly, even reasonably. There will be other mornings, it coaxed. She tasted copper and answered it with nothing. Silence can be fierce.

She rounded the bend by the long jump pit and the sand lay raked and perfect, a light-coloured sea waiting for someone braver to hurl themselves into it. Braver? The thought almost made her laugh. Bravery wasn’t the roaring kind, not here; it was the stubborn, bone-deep decision to move a little further when every cell preferred not to. Her feet found a steadier music. The floodlights hummed. The city beyond the fence rolled awake: a bus coughed, a window clattered, a bakery’s first warm breath drifted like a promise.

She imagined her brother’s face pressed to the living-room window, smudging it with hope. She pictured the DNF slipping from the wall, its corners loosening, its paper tired of accusing. She lengthened her stride, just a fraction; felt the ankle hold; tasted rain as it began, thin and tentative. How many laps would be enough? Ten? Twenty? Numbers were a kind of comfort, but they never told the whole truth.

At the line she didn’t stop. She crossed and carried on, one breath—as deliberate as a prayer—into the next. The world did not change dramatically; the sky didn’t blaze; trumpets did not announce her name. Instead, her pulse spoke in calm Morse and her shadow kept up. Not today, she thought, and the words threaded through her like wire. Not this morning. Not this mile.

Again.

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

Option A:

The start line is a crooked stitch pulled through the hillside, bright vests pricked against the bruise-coloured morning. Breath ghosts upward; hands worry at laces; the whistle hangs like a small polished tooth in the starter’s fingers. Wind worries the hedges, then moves on, impatient, as if it will run before us. Beyond the tape, the course lopes away: a brown, ribbed ribbon, slick where the cattle crossed, pocked with rain. Everything narrows to three things: mud, breath, heartbeat.

The blast is a silver needle. We surge; the field becomes a single creature with a hundred legs, thudding, stuttering, finding grip. Shoes chew at the hill and spit freckles up our calves. Elbows meet ribs; brief apologetic glances; then the focus hardens again. The marshals’ flags are sudden autumns against the grey; their voices—left, mind the rut—snag at the edges of concentration. We run, we slip, we right ourselves. We run.

The first climb arrives without grace. It is long, rude, insistent; it leans into us and keeps leaning. My thighs flush with heat; my lungs rasp, tasting iron and rain. Bracken combs our shins; gorse snatches at sleeves; a rook scrawls the sky. Ahead, a back to follow, a cadence to steal; behind, breath like waves breaking. The path narrows to a thought: lift, land, breathe. Puddles are sly mirrors, hiding stones beneath a skin of brown glass. Somewhere a dog explodes into barking; a child’s thin cheer threads through the weather. For a moment I think of stopping—only to imagine the stillness as a different exhaustion.

Then the ridge. The world opens; fields quilted in dun and bottle-green, roofs glinting like wet scales, the river meandering with deliberate laziness. Air slices clean through me. I am both lost and located, a dot moving across a map drawn in mud.

Descent is treachery disguised as relief. Gravity seizes the lot of us; arms windmill for balance; the mud convulses, greedy and talkative. Legs feel like lead. The final field is a memory of field; the tape shivers; a clock blinks indifferent numbers. Names are called; some respond, some only look as though their names have been loaned to them. The line arrives before the breath does. I cross; the noise fades; breath hammers; steam lifts from backs like thin prayers. Mud dries to armour; laughter returns in scraps. The race keeps running inside the ribs, a quiet, stubborn animal, long after the hillside remembers its ordinary silence.

Option B:

November. The month when breath becomes visible; pavements glitter with reluctant frost. A season for cancelling plans, for quitting early. I tightened laces that would not quite obey my fingers—my gloves were too thick, or my nerves were—and stepped into the park’s dull-green glow. Lamps hummed like insects; the path was a narrow ribbon waiting to be written on.

I had promised Mum I would run the city 10k before my eighteenth; a neat ribbon for a loud grief. She used to say, in the voice that made ordinary things sound profound: 'Keep moving, Lena, even if it is one stubborn step.' After the hospital chair scraped the linoleum for the last time, those words grew heavier; they did not sink me, but they anchored me.

The first lap bit my lungs. Cold air razored my throat; the taste of pennies—metallic, ridiculous—sat on my tongue. My knee complained in a high whine I had learned to ignore.

I could have stopped. No coach watched; the park keeper had not yet rattled the gate. Who would care if I walked, or sat, or slipped home to the soft lie of a hot shower? But the private self that keeps the final score would care; that judge is not merciful.

Last summer, at sports day, I faltered in front of forgiving faces. My shoelace whispered loose; I let it be the reason. People clapped anyway; Mrs Khan called me brave, which was kind and not entirely true. On the bus home, the word nearly felt like a pebble in my shoe; it made a blister that grew.

The thing about not giving up is this: it is quieter than films suggest. No music, just arithmetic. I counted lampposts instead of seconds: two for my chest, three for my arms, four for the thought insisting I was not a runner. The park woke—someone coughed; a bicycle stitched light along the path. I ran when my legs went obstinate and my head went louder than birdsong because stopping was a language I no longer wanted to speak.

Halfway, a stitch grabbed at my side like a small, sharp hand. I negotiated with it—breathe in, hold, step, breathe out—until it released. I was not fast; I was faithful. The sky wrestled itself paler; a narrow seam of gold unpicked the grey, and the frost cracked softly under my shoes. My heart hammered, inelegant, determined. Some mornings require fireworks; this one needed only a stubborn heartbeat that refused to bow.

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

Option A:

The whistle slices the damp air; thirty bodies jolt forward as one. The hillside, rain-slick and sullen, waits. Breath plumes like smoke; the smell of wet earth rises, raw and metallic. Shoes meet mud and the ground takes us hostage. At first the pack moves as one creature, a centipede of colour—red, cobalt, school-green—numbers pinned like flags; elbows shuffle for space. Left-right, left-right, the rhythm knocks in my head.

Coaches bark names; marshals clap. The path pinches at a wall and we bunch, shoulder to shoulder, the slurp of shoes a messy chorus. Then the incline rears up—stubborn rather than savage. Spikes scrabble; calves burn with that familiar ache. I step in the hollows left by braver soles, where the mud seems least greedy. Wind combs the grass; still my lungs rasp like paper bags.

We dive under trees. Light dims, dripped through twig-lace, and the hush is pricked by breath and the slap of feet. Roots muscle across the trail; brambles snatch at shins. A rill cuts the path and stings our ankles; I skid, I don’t fall, I laugh—half a cough. Someone behind me mutters sorry, carries on. Who planned this cruel corner?

Out again, the descent arrives like a dare. Gravity tugs; we let knees loose, arms windmilling, mud freckling our calves. Spectators cluster on the ridge: dogs yap, flasks steam, voices reach for confidence. Come on! Nearly there! The field opens; a chalked arrow points; the finish banner flaps like a patient bird. I taste iron and rain, and I try to believe I have something left.

I find a scrap of speed I didn’t know I’d saved. The tape trembles, then yields; I stagger into the small, kind chaos beyond. Steam lifts from shoulders. A marshal gives a medal, light as foil, heavy as relief. Around us the hillside goes on breathing, indifferent; the mud is already smoothing our footprints, as if this mattered and didn’t, waiting for the next whistle.

Option B:

Morning cracked like thin ice across the estate roofs; the air bit, turning my breath to smoke. At the end of our road the hill waited, blunt as a fist. I flexed my knee, the stubborn ache a dull warning, and tightened my laces until my fingers stung. Everyone said rest—Coach, Mum. But sensibility doesn’t finish races. I slid the phone away like a rule I meant to break and looked up at the slope that had beaten me.

Last time, I’d stopped. Twenty strides from the tape my lungs turned to rust; the crowd smeared into colour; my legs were ropes. I heard Manny shouting, but the word “almost” drowned him. Afterwards, it lived in me like grit: almost fast enough, almost strong enough. Even so, training stitched new habits: drink, breathe, lift the knees, look ahead. Today was a retake I set myself; today I refused that small, sly word.

I started at a trot, past the shuttered bakery with yesterday’s bread still ghosting the air, past the cracked bus shelter, past the stray cat that blinked like a judge. The road tipped; the hill thickened under my shoes. Wind needled my cheeks and tugged my hood; my knee chimed a warning. However, the rhythm came—left, right; left, right. Cars hissed by and splashed my ankles. One step; one breath; another. Keep going.

The path curled round the church, stones dark with rain. I wanted to stop, I didn’t. Not this time. My chest burned. When does a promise count, if not now? I shortened my stride and counted to eight, then eight again—small sums I could pay. Above me, the bell struck once; I answered with the bell I had: the drum of my feet, obstinate and mine.

Near the top the wind opened wide. I leaned into it, into the stubborn weather, into the ache that said quit. Nevertheless, my feet kept arguing. The crest slid closer, a grey lip. I did not stop at the iron gate; I ran past into the thin light, and into whatever the road would throw next.

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

Option A:

Cold air pricks my cheeks as we huddle behind the tape, vests flaring like flags. The whistle snaps and the pack spills forward. Mud leaps up, freckling legs; my shoes bite then slide. The hillside is a patchwork of churned earth and bruised grass, slick with footsteps. Breath blooms in pale ghosts; the air smells of damp wool, wet leaves, nervous sweat. I find a rhythm, stubborn, as elbows and knees jostle me into the track.

The first rise comes sooner than expected, a blunt hump that keeps on rising. Left, right, left—each stride wrenched by the ground as if the hill would swallow us. Mud: cold, sticky, persistent. It clutches my ankles; it slurps at spikes. The wind heckles across the top, pushing us sideways in spiteful gusts. Someone skids; a gasp, a thud, then they’re up again, coated in brown. My lungs burn, and the taste of iron sits on my tongue.

On the ridge the world opens. Fields undulate, hedges tangle, and far a church tower pokes from the grey sky like a blunt needle. Our convoy strings out; colour beads on a brown rope. A marshal claps: “Keep going, nearly there!” he shouts, though the finish is hidden. We drop to a chattering stream. The water is shocking and clean, a swift bite around my ankles, then the earth again, heavier than before.

The descent is a decision more than a path—choose a line and trust it. My legs tremble but they obey; wooden pistons, then rubber, then suddenly mine again. Spectators bloom; their cheers a warm blanket. The finish arch looms—small then big, then there. I tip over it and stop. Everything is loud and bright: heart, breath, mud. Then quiet. The hill sits behind us, innocent, as if it hadn’t tried to keep us.

Option B:

Morning dragged pale light along the steps that stitched the hill to the sky. The metal handrail wore a lace of frost; my breath hung like a cloud and then vanished. The park was almost empty except for a curious crow. I stood at the bottom step, tugging the frayed laces of my trainers, feeling the knot in my stomach tighten and then loosen, like a tide I could not command.

Again.

I touched the rail, counted down—three, two, one—and drove my feet up the first ten steps. The cold went straight through my shoes; my calves burned; my lungs scratched. Halfway, the hill seemed to lean over me, a hard, grey shoulder refusing to shift. Stop, said the soft voice that used to win. Not this time. I had two choices: stop or try again. I let the rhythm carry me: lift, breathe, lift, breathe. What if I failed again? You only fail when you stop trying, I told myself.

Last month I had stopped at step forty-eight, bent double, pretending my laces needed attention. Coach Adams had watched, tired. "It's your choice," he said. "You can stop. But be careful: quitting is a lesson as well." At home, Mum slid a glass of water across the table and said nothing. I had gone to bed with the taste of failure like metal on my tongue, and a promise curling under my ribs.

I stumbled on step fifty-two and my knee kissed the concrete, sharp and bright. I didn't sit. I put my palms down, pushed, kept moving. The crow flapped once as if clapping. Ten more. My timer buzzed; I ignored it. I reached the platform, chest blazing, eyes wet with cold and effort, and turned back to the bottom because the hill was still there, because I was still here, and because I refused to give up.

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

Option A:

The whistle snaps and the field surges forward, a flood of legs and numbers over brown ground. Mud slaps my ankles; it spits up my back. The first hill waits like a dark shoulder. Thud-thud, thud-thud. We bunch then stretch into a thin line, each of us chasing the same strip of tape. The air smells of wet leaves and iron.

At the top the wind pushes us sideways, sharp on our cheeks. Puddles blink like dull coins; trainers plunge with a hungry sound. My calves burn; the hill doesn’t care. A stitch bites my side like a small knife and I count steps: ten, then ten again. The path dips, the earth turns slick and tries to keep us, but we keep moving.

Through a gap in a hedge we stumble onto a narrow track. A marshal in a yellow coat claps, shouting our numbers. Someone falls: a splash—then a swear—then up again. For a moment I want to look back, but I’m pulled on by the thud of feet and the pull of the pack. Left, right, left, right, the beat keeps going.

In the last field the finish is a strip of white tape shivering in the breeze. The crowd noise grows, then thickens. My heart is a drum; my lungs rasp like old paper. My legs feel wooden, but they answer anyway. Mud explodes under my shoes: brown stars. I cross the line; the sound falls away; the cold rushes back, and I bend double, coughing and smiling.

Option B:

Morning. The street was thin and pale; light slid across puddles and made them wink. My breath puffed like little ghosts in the cold and my heart went tap-tap. I tugged the strap of my old watch—cracked glass, stubborn tick. I told myself the tiny promise taped above my bed: keep going.

Last week I stopped at the corner shop, hands on knees, shame stuck in my throat. Coach shook his head, Leila ran on, even the pigeons seemed to smirk. Today I turned that corner and didn't look. The hill lifted its chin like a bully. My calves fizzed. The rain began in thin lines, like wires. I could hear Mum after midnight—you can do it, I'm here. It wasn't fancy; it was steady.

However, my stitch jabbed; my lace flapped; a bus hissed and sprayed grit. I wanted to stop. I didn't. I counted ten beats, then ten more. I named the lampposts like friends, one by one: Ted, Spike. The hill waited, it didn't care. Still, I lifted my knees; still, I climbed. My lungs crumpled then filled again, a shabby accordion trying to play the same song.

At the top—almost the top—I tasted rain, and something else: relief. I wasn't fast. I wasn't neat. But I was moving. The word quit knocked at my ribs; I closed the door. I said it out loud, though no one could hear except the road and the rain and my rattling watch: I will not give up.

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

Option A:

At first, we line up on the edge of a muddy field, shoulders tight, breath fogging the air. The whistle slices the morning and we lurch forward. Spikes scrape and the ground gives a wet hello. Cold mud splashes up our calves; it smells like wet earth and old leaves.

Then the hill rises ahead, bigger than it looked. We go up, up. My feet sink and squelch, socks heavy, legs like jelly but stubborn. While my shoes fight the slope, the wind pushes back, nagging at ears. The sky is a dull sheet; it promises more rain. Left, right, left, right—rythm and mud. I taste metal in my mouth, I keep going, I count my breathing. There is only this: the mud, the hill, the burning in my chest.

Over the top and we tip forward. Spikes click on stone – sharp, bright – then grass again. A boy slips and laughs, another curses quietly. Finally, the last field opens wide and the tape flutters like a small flag. My heart hammers; the crowd is a blur of coats and hats. The finish comes nearer, nearer. I stumble through and stop, acheing, painted with brown and strangely proud.

Option B:

Morning rain tapped the pavement, again and again, like a clock that wouldn't be quiet. The hill at the end of our street looked bigger than yesterday. I tied my scuffed trainers and the laces slipped away from my wet fingers. My stomach rolled. I had one rule: don't stop. Not today. Not after all those early alarms and sore legs.

Coach said to rest, Mum said to be sensible, the boys at school laughed when I came last. The wind pushed my chest like it wanted me to turn around. I stepped forward. The first metre hurt, then the next, then the next; the pain stacked up like bricks. I counted them. One to ten, then start again. Step. Breathe. Step. My breath scraped in and out, a rough saw across my ribs.

A car hissed past and sprayed my legs. My shoelace flapped and I almost tripped—but I didn't. I tightened my fists. A stitch bit my side and my knee complained, but I talked back, out loud, so the rain wouldn't hear me quitting. Keep going. Up the slope, past the leaning tree, past the cracked wall where we used to sit. I wasn't fast. I wasn't pretty. I was moving.

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

Option A:

We line up at the start. The sky is grey. Cold air bites my mouth like metal. The whistle goes and we jump forward, elbows and feet everywhere. Mud already on my legs. The grass sucks at my shoes, squelch, squelch. I run.

The hill looks big. It goes up and up. Mud sticks to me. Splash, splash, like thick soup. My breath goes in and out. My heart is a drum. Shouts from far away bounce over the field like waves. I taste soil. I can’t feel my hands, but I keep going.

We go down through trees, the path is narrow. People slip, someone falls, we go around, I look ahead, I nearly trip. My shoes are heavy. Left, right, left. The finish flag is small and then big.

I try to sprint but my legs don’t listen. They ache. They burn. I cross the line. Mud stays on me.

Option B:

Morning. Cold and grey. The path was long and the hill looked like a wall. My shoes were wet and my breath came out like smoke.

I wanted to stop. I wanted to sit, I told myself no. Not today. The wind pushed at my chest like hands, it tried to make me go back. I bent my head and pushed, I wont give up, not now. I ain't stopping.

People went past in cars, maybe they thought I was slow but I was not, I was steady. I remembered my grandad saying keep going, stone by stone. I counted steps, one, two, three, ten, then I lost count but I kept going.

I slipped and my knee hit the mud, it hurt a lot, it stung and I could taste metal in my mouth. I stood up, I had a choice - stop or go. I kept going.

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

Option A:

The hill is long and brown with mud. Runners go up it, they slip and push. My breath is white in the cold air and my chest is tight. Shoes slap the ground and the mud sucks at them like glue. I hear shouting somewhere, the wind takes it away. My hands are wet, I wipe them on my shorts, they get more dirty. I look for the next flag, I think about chips later. A boy falls and then he gets up, he is fine. I think of the finish and I dont stop! The sky is grey, it keeps going.

Option B:

Morning. The air is cold and thin. My breath comes out like smoke. I am at the track and the ground is hard. I tie my shoe tight. I will run. I tell myself dont stop. I think about last time when I fell. It was bad, it hurt, I wanted to go home, but not now. A bus roars by on the road and I look once, then I look front again. The whistle go and I go too. My legs burn, my chest is hot, the wind push me back and I still go. I wont give up, I keep going and going.