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 A few moments later, what did Hermann hear open?: the door of Hermann's ante-room – 1 mark
• 1.2 Whom did Hermann think it was when the door opened?: Hermann's orderly, drunk as usual – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which room is mentioned?: the ante-room – 1 mark
• 1.4 After hearing the ante-room door open, whom does Hermann think is coming in?: Hermann's orderly – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:

1 Hermann paid no attention to this incident. A few moments afterwards he heard the door of his ante-room open. Hermann thought that it was his orderly, drunk as usual,

6 returning from some nocturnal expedition, but presently he heard footsteps that were unknown to him: somebody was walking softly over the floor in slippers. The door opened, and a woman dressed in white, entered the room.

11 Hermann mistook her for his old nurse, and wondered what could bring her there at that hour of the night. But the white woman glided rapidly across the room and stood before him--and Hermann

How does the writer use language here to create suspense and mystery about the visitor? You could include the writer’s choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how ambiguity and structural withholding create suspense, citing indefinite pronouns and auditory imagery in footsteps that were unknown to him: somebody was walking softly over the floor in slippers to foreground presence before identity, and misdirection in thought that it was his orderly, drunk as usual and mistook her for his old nurse. It would also explore the uncanny lexis dressed in white and glided rapidly, the repetition The door opened, and the abrupt cut --and Hermann (dash/unfinished clause) as sentence-form choices that sustain mystery and a cliffhanger.

The writer builds suspense through misdirection and auditory imagery. Hermann’s assumption that it was "his orderly, drunk as usual" acts as a red herring, lulling him into routine. This complacency is unsettled by the indefinite pronoun "somebody" and the phrase "footsteps that were unknown to him," foregrounding uncertainty about identity. The sibilant alliteration in "walking softly… in slippers" creates a hush of sound, mimicking stealth, while the phrase "nocturnal expedition" carries connotations of secrecy and transgression, deepening the sense of threat in the night.

Moreover, visual lexis constructs mystery around the visitor’s appearance. The description "a woman dressed in white" is loaded: white can connote purity but also the spectral, so the reader wavers between natural and supernatural. The verb "glided" further suggests a frictionless, ghostly movement, and its pairing with the adverb "rapidly" creates an uncanny combination of smoothness and speed, intensifying unease. Hermann’s misrecognition—he "mistook her for his old nurse"—shows unreliability of perception and blurs past and present, and the temporal marker "at that hour of the night" frames her as improper, heightening mystery.

Furthermore, sentence form and punctuation control pace to heighten suspense. The colon in "unknown to him: somebody was walking…" delays specification, drip-feeding detail. The repetition of "The door opened" echoes ominously, and the final aposiopesis—"stood before him--and Hermann"—breaks the syntax, a cliff-hanger that withholds information. Coupled with time adverbials ("A few moments afterwards," "presently") and limited third-person focalisation, the writer releases clues incrementally, crafting sustained suspense and enigma around the visitor.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Suspense is built through sensory detail and uncertainty: the repeated auditory focus ('he heard', 'footsteps that were unknown to him', 'walking softly') and the vague 'somebody' suggest an unseen presence, while the short declarative 'The door opened', the ghostly description 'a woman dressed in white', and the eerie verb 'glided' heighten mystery. Misdirection ('mistook her for his old nurse'), the contrastive 'But', and the cliffhanger dash in 'stood before him--' manipulate pace and withhold identity, sustaining tension.

The writer builds suspense through misdirection and uncertainty. Initially, Hermann “thought that it was his orderly, drunk as usual,” but the colon in “unknown to him: somebody” abruptly shifts expectation. The indefinite pronoun “somebody” and the adjective “unknown” create mystery, while “nocturnal” carries secretive, slightly ominous connotations.

Furthermore, auditory imagery and sibilance in “walking softly… in slippers” hush the scene, suggesting stealth. The adverb “softly” and the repeated s-sounds make the arrival feel covert, heightening tension as we strain to listen with Hermann.

Moreover, colour imagery in “a woman dressed in white” hints at ghostliness. Hermann “mistook her for his old nurse” and “wondered what could bring her there at that hour of the night”; this internal uncertainty reinforces the enigma around her identity and purpose.

Additionally, the dynamic verb “glided” suggests uncanny movement, while the adverb “rapidly” accelerates the pace. Finally, the broken sentence “stood before him--and Hermann” uses a dash to create an interruption, leaving a cliff-hanger that sustains suspense and deepens the mystery of the visitor. Together, these deliberate choices clearly build tension and keep the reader unsure about who the visitor is and what she wants.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might spot word choices like unknown to him and walking softly (in slippers) to show a quiet, unfamiliar presence, and phrases such as dressed in white and glided rapidly to make the visitor seem ghostly and mysterious. It would also notice the unfinished ending --and Hermann as a cliff-hanger that keeps the reader in suspense.

The writer uses descriptive words to create suspense and mystery about the visitor. The phrase “footsteps that were unknown to him” and the adverb “softly” suggest secrecy, so we are unsure who is coming. The noun phrase “a woman dressed in white” is vague, which keeps the reader guessing.

Furthermore, the verb “glided” makes her movement seem unnatural, almost ghost-like, which adds mystery, and the adverb “rapidly” adds urgency. The time phrase “at that hour of the night” and “nocturnal expedition” link to darkness, increasing suspense. Hermann even “mistook her for his old nurse”, which misleads the reader and makes us doubt what he is seeing.

Additionally, sentence forms build tension. Short, simple phrases like “The door opened” slow the moment. The dash after “and Hermann—” leaves the sentence unfinished, a clear cliff-hanger that holds the reader in suspense about what will happen next.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses words and phrases like "unknown to him", "walking softly", "woman dressed in white", and the verb "glided" to make the visitor seem strange and mysterious. Simple sentence parts like "The door opened" and the dash "--and Hermann" leave the moment hanging and create suspense.

The writer uses word choice to build suspense. The phrase "footsteps that were unknown to him" shows mystery because Hermann does not know the visitor. The adverb "softly" suggests someone trying not to be heard, which is tense.

Moreover, the description "a woman dressed in white" and the verb "glided" make her seem strange or ghost-like. This makes the reader unsure.

Additionally, the short sentence "The door opened" and the dash in "stood before him--and Hermann" create a pause. This keeps the reader waiting to find out who she is.

Overall, this creates suspense and mystery about the visitor.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Temporal marker slows time to build anticipation → (A few moments afterwards)
• Third-person limited focalisation traps us in Hermann’s uncertainty, increasing suspense → (Hermann thought)
• Red herring expectation normalises the noise before a reveal, sharpening tension when it’s not him → (his orderly, drunk as usual)
• Sound imagery and sibilance imply stealth and secrecy, creating unease → (walking softly)
• Indefinite reference stresses anonymity and mystery about the visitor → (unknown to him)
• Structural echo of the threshold moment delays and heightens the reveal → (The door opened)
• Sparse visual detail with stark colour leaves blanks for the reader to fear, hinting at the uncanny → (dressed in white)
• Unnatural, smooth motion intensifies eeriness and makes the figure feel otherworldly → (glided rapidly)
• Late-night timing adds an ominous, unsettling mood to the encounter → (that hour of the night)
• Em dash and abrupt truncation create a cliffhanger, withholding the next action → (and Hermann)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how fascination intensifies 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 perceptively trace the structural escalation from the hesitant, uncanny entry—'somebody was walking softly', a 'woman dressed in white'—to the apparition’s climax as Hermann 'recognised the Countess!', then pinpoint the hinge at 'VI' where a narratorial aphorism reframes events and the obsessive motif 'Three, seven, ace' 'drove out of Hermann's mind' all else, its relentless repetition and enumerated examples showing fascination permeating thought, speech and dream ('haunted him', 'assumed all possible shapes'). It would also analyse the macro shift from private chamber to Chekalinsky’s 'suite of magnificent rooms', ending on the banker’s 'perpetual smile', explaining how the widening focus and quickened pacing transform private fixation into public spectacle, heightening the reader’s fascination.

One way the writer structures the text to create fascination is through delayed revelation and controlled focalisation in the nocturnal scene. We move from “footsteps… in slippers” to the ambiguous “woman dressed in white,” through Hermann’s misrecognition of “his old nurse,” before the sudden unveiling: he “recognised the Countess!” This progressive disclosure, punctuated by short, sequential actions (“glided… stood… turned… disappeared”), accelerates narrative pace and intensifies the uncanny. The ghost’s formula “Three, seven, ace” works as a ritualistic tricolon and proleptic hook; its conditional terms (“only… that you do not play more than one card…”) set future constraints that drive reader curiosity. The structural echo “drunk as usual” before and after the visitation, alongside the locked “street-door,” forecloses rational explanation and deepens the mystery.

In addition, the marked section break “VI” functions as a volta, shifting from scene to authorial aphorism: “Two fixed ideas can no more exist…” This authorial intrusion reframes events as psychological case-study, tightening focus on obsession. Anaphoric repetition—“‘Three, seven, ace,’ were perpetually running… ‘Three, seven, ace’ haunted him”—creates a refrain that governs rhythm and enacts Hermann’s fixation. Temporal compression (“soon drove out,” “perpetually”) turns days into a feverish montage, sustaining fascination by accelerating consequences.

A further structural feature is the panoramic expansion and incremental zoom that follows. The narrative widens to a social canvas (“a society of rich gamesters”), then narrows—“He came to St. Petersburg… the young men… flocked… a suite of magnificent rooms… at the head of a long table”—guiding the reader from city, to salon, to the banker’s hand. This shift in setting and scale juxtaposes the private, Gothic chamber with public, opulent spectacle, refreshing tone while raising stakes.

Finally, the return from summary to scenic presentation—“Narumov conducted Hermann,” “Narumov introduced Hermann”—reinstates immediacy. Chekalinsky’s composed physiognomy (“silvery-white hair,” “perpetual smile”) ironises the peril beneath the surface, and the introduction structurally positions a decisive encounter, sustaining forward momentum and fascination.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response clearly tracks progression: the eerie visitation sets up a tantalising promise with "only on these conditions", then the obsessive refrain "Three, seven, ace" is repeated and visualised ("haunted him in his sleep"). It also notes the section break and shift into the opulent "suite of magnificent rooms" and focus on "the master of the house", explaining how changes in setting, scale and pace intensify fascination from private vision to public spectacle.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create fascination is through delayed revelation and a turning point. The focus begins on ambiguous signs (“A few moments afterwards…”, “footsteps that were unknown to him”), slowing the pace and withholding identity. Only then does the perspective snap to recognition: “Hermann recognised the Countess!” After the section break (“VI”), the mode shifts to explanation: the narrator generalises, “Two fixed ideas…,” signalling a new phase and renewing curiosity about “Three, seven, ace.”

In addition, the writer uses repetition as a motif to intensify fascination. “Three, seven, ace” recurs, while parallel openings (“If he saw… If anybody asked…”) show Hermann’s perception reorganised around the sequence. This repetition quickens the rhythm and makes the formula feel inescapable, compelling the reader to anticipate its testing.

A further structural feature is the shift in focus from the private room to a crowded, luxurious setting. An accumulating list—“suite of magnificent rooms… The place was crowded… Generals and Privy Counsellors”—delays the meeting with Chekalinsky and builds atmosphere. The zoom culminates at “the head of a long table,” where the banker sits, raising the stakes. Contrast in mood sustains fascination, driving us towards the gamble.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would spot simple structural shifts, e.g. from the eerie entrance of the 'woman dressed in white' to Hermann’s obsession shown by the repeated 'Three, seven, ace', saying this builds fascination by making us want to see if the secret works. It might also note the move to Chekalinsky’s 'suite of magnificent rooms' as a new setting that keeps interest and raises expectations.

One way the writer creates fascination is a quick shift from ordinary to strange at the start. Hermann hears unknown footsteps in slippers and “a woman dressed in white” enters. The Countess gives brief rules. This sudden arrival and clear conditions make us wonder what follows.

In addition, after the section break (VI), the focus moves to Hermann’s thoughts. The repeated phrase “Three, seven, ace” in the middle shows obsession. This structural repetition in speech and dreams makes the fascination grow, as we expect a dramatic test of the secret.

A further structural feature is the change of setting to Chekalinsky’s gambling rooms at the end. The writer widens the scene with details like “magnificent rooms” and “a long table,” slowing the pace. This contrast builds suspense to see Hermann finally play.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer first introduces a mysterious woman dressed in white, then repeats the secret Three, seven, ace so it haunted him in his sleep, and finally shifts to the busy gaming rooms filled with attentive domestics, which builds fascination by making us want to see what happens next.

One way the writer structures it is by the entrance of the woman/Countess at the start. This opening and the direct speech "Three, seven, ace" make us curious.

In addition, the writer uses repetition of the phrase "Three, seven, ace" in the next section. This simple pattern shows Hermann's obsession and keeps the idea in our heads, so fascination grows.

A further structural feature is the shift in focus and setting, marked by "VI" and moving from Hermann's room to Chekalinsky's rooms. This change of scene and listing of details builds interest about what will happen.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Delayed revelation steers us from the expected orderly to an uncanny intruder, sharpening curiosity through gradual disclosure (footsteps that were unknown).
• A chain of misrecognitions culminates in a sudden unveiling, heightening the shock and intrigue of the encounter (recognised the Countess!).
• The apparition’s rule-of-three and strict conditions shape a compelling quest, making the pattern itself a structural hook (Three, seven, ace).
• Immediate reality-check scenes keep ambiguity alive—mundane details contest the vision—sustaining fascination through uncertainty (The street-door was locked).
• A typographical shift and aphoristic frame widen the focus, recasting events as a universal psychological law to deepen interest (Two fixed ideas).
• Refrain-based progression infiltrates ordinary moments, the repeated motif compressing focus onto obsession to maintain grip (running through his head).
• Dream metamorphoses escalate intensity, moving from numbers to vivid images so the fixation expands across modes (assumed all possible shapes).
• A structural pivot accelerates pace with an unforeseen shortcut to opportunity, refreshing attention through surprise (Chance spared him).
• Processional entry through luxury and rank builds allure via accumulation and spectacle, promising high-stakes action ahead (suite of magnificent rooms).
• Final focus on the charismatic banker as the scene’s centre fixes anticipation for the coming trial of the secret (perpetual smile).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 46 to the end.

In this part of the source, the description of the grand rooms and respectable guests makes the gambling house seem safe. The writer suggests that this respectable appearance is just a way to hide the real dangers of gambling.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the gambling house and its respectable guests
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the dangers of gambling
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue to a great extent that the writer presents the gambling house’s respectability as a seductive façade, closely analysing how the opulent veneer of "suite of magnificent rooms", "Generals and Privy Counsellors", and Chekalinsky’s "perpetual smile" is juxtaposed with the predatory economics of "keeping the bank" and having "amassed millions", so that guests "preferring the emotions of faro" are lured into concealed danger. It would evaluate the irony of this hospitable scene—"open house", "famous cook"—masking exploitation, thereby endorsing the viewpoint that safety is an illusion designed to disguise risk.

I largely agree that the lavish rooms and decorous guests create an illusion of safety, and the writer carefully undermines that façade to expose the concealed dangers of gambling. Structurally, the passage primes us to read the opulence ironically: the aphoristic opening, “Two fixed ideas can no more exist together...,” followed by the anaphoric mantra “Three, seven, ace,” shows a mind colonised by a single compulsion. This obsessive triad is everywhere—“perpetually running through his head,” intruding even into casual talk (“‘Five minutes to seven’”), and reconfiguring perception through a patterned series of images. The numbers “assumed all possible shapes”: the threes “bloomed... as magnificent flowers,” the sevens as “Gothic portals,” and the aces as “gigantic spiders.” That imagistic escalation—from seductive “flowers” to ominous “Gothic portals” and predatory “spiders”—encodes the trajectory from allure to threat, foreshadowing the trap the respectable salon will disguise.

Against this psychological danger, the house itself is curated to look impeccably safe. The semantic field of hospitality and status—“a society of rich gamesters,” a “celebrated” host with an “open house, his famous cook,” and “agreeable and fascinating manners”—earns him “the respect of the public.” Spatially, the pair “passed through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled with attentive domestics,” while the clientele confer institutional legitimacy: “Generals and Privy Counsellors” play “whist,” and “young men” recline on “velvet-covered sofas, eating ices and smoking pipes.” Sensory detail and genteel pastimes create a salon-like calm. Chekalinsky’s characterisation intensifies this benign impression: his “silvery-white hair,” “full, florid countenance,” and “eyes” with a “perpetual smile” construct a paternal figure whose presence appears reassuring.

Yet the writer sows persistent signals of danger beneath the sheen. Chekalinsky has “passed all his life at the card-table” and “amassed millions,” while he “keeps the bank”—lexis that implies structural control. The smooth, syndetic listing of his attractions reads like a sales pitch; the transactional detail that he accepts “bills of exchange” for winnings but pays losses “in ready money” normalises extraction as respectable commerce. The crowd “flocked... forgetting balls for cards,” “preferring the emotions of faro”: the verbs and abstract noun suggest addictive pull and volatility. Visually, Chekalinsky sits “at the head of a long table... keeping the bank,” with players “around,” like the “gigantic spiders” image made literal—he becomes the smiling centre of a web. Even the “Gothic portals” prefigure the crossing of a threshold into danger masked by architecture.

Overall, the writer constructs a persuasive veneer of safety precisely to show how peril is laundered through status and civility. While the decorum is genuine enough to win “public” trust, that is why it is so dangerous: it legitimises compulsion and smooths the way to ruin.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would agree that the respectable setting makes the house seem safe, citing the "suite of magnificent rooms", "attentive domestics", the presence of "Generals and Privy Counsellors", and Chekalinsky’s "good-nature" and "perpetual smile". It would also explain that the writer hints at danger by contrasting this façade with Chekalinsky having "passed all his life at the card-table", "amassed millions", and "keeping the bank", suggesting control and the exploitative pull of gambling.

To a large extent, I agree that the grand setting and respectable guests create a surface impression of safety, and that the writer uses this very respectability to veil gambling’s dangers. Before Hermann even enters the salon, the motif “Three, seven, ace” has “haunted him in his sleep,” with the aces turning into “gigantic spiders.” This unsettling imagery and symbolism suggest entrapment and obsession, establishing the danger.

Against this, the narrative then foregrounds a comforting semantic field of prestige and hospitality. Chekalinsky presides over a “society of rich gamesters,” has “amassed millions,” and yet enjoys the “respect of the public.” The triadic listing of his “open house, his famous cook, and his agreeable and fascinating manners” constructs a genteel façade. Even the verb “flocked” and the comparison of pleasures — youths “forgetting balls for cards, and preferring the emotions of faro to the seductions of flirting” — personify the game as alluring, hinting that the polish is part of the lure.

Inside, sensory and luxury imagery makes the rooms seem safe and civilised: a “suite of magnificent rooms,” “attentive domestics,” “velvet-covered sofas,” men “eating ices and smoking pipes.” The presence of “Generals and Privy Counsellors” legitimises the space, as if authority equals safety. However, the structural juxtaposition with Hermann’s earlier fixation invites us to read this opulence as a mask: beneath the velvet lies the web suggested by those “spiders.”

Finally, Chekalinsky’s characterisation is double-edged. He appears “dignified,” with “silvery-white hair” and a “perpetual smile,” but he sits “keeping the bank,” the position of control in a system from which he has “amassed millions.” This irony undercuts the benevolent surface.

Overall, I agree: the writer crafts a reassuring, respectable exterior precisely to conceal and normalise a predatory, addictive environment, making its dangers harder to recognise.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Mostly agrees that the respectable image masks danger, pointing out the safe, high‑status setting—magnificent rooms, Generals and Privy Counsellors, and the host’s dignified appearance—as a façade. Also notes simply that details like Chekalinsky having amassed millions and keeping the bank imply risk and loss for players, so the smart setting hides the real dangers.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer first makes the gambling house look safe and respectable, but then hints that this elegance is a cover for real danger.

The rooms and guests are described with positive, reassuring detail. We are led “through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled with attentive domestics,” which sounds organised and secure. Important people are there: “Generals and Privy Counsellors were playing at whist,” and young men “lolling… on the velvet‑covered sofas, eating ices and smoking pipes.” These comforting nouns and adjectives create a polite, social atmosphere. Even Chekalinsky looks safe: he has a “dignified appearance,” “silvery‑white hair” and a “perpetual smile.” This formal, almost grandfatherly image suggests trust.

However, the writer also shows the hidden danger of gambling by focusing on Hermann’s obsession. The repeated phrase “Three, seven, ace” shows how the cards take over his mind. Words like “haunted him in his sleep” and the image of aces as “gigantic spiders” make gambling feel threatening. Structurally, this comes just before the grand setting, so the contrast suggests the luxury covers something darker. We also learn Chekalinsky “had passed all his life at the card‑table” and “amassed millions,” which implies a system that feeds on constant play. The young men “forgetting balls for cards” shows how gambling replaces normal pleasures.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The rich setting and respectable guests make the place seem safe, but the repetition, imagery and contrasts reveal gambling as consuming and dangerous beneath the surface.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response would simply agree that the writer makes the house seem safe by pointing to the "suite of magnificent rooms", the presence of "Generals and Privy Counsellors", and the host’s "very dignified appearance" and "respect of the public". It might briefly add that this respectability hides danger, noticing "amassed millions" and young men "forgetting balls for cards", without developed analysis.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the house looks safe and respectable, but the writer hints that this is hiding the dangers of gambling.

The setting is described with grand detail. We hear about a “suite of magnificent rooms,” “attentive domestics,” and even “velvet-covered sofas.” Important people are there, like “Generals and Privy Counsellors,” and the host looks “dignified” with “silvery-white hair” and a “perpetual smile.” These positive adjectives make the place seem proper and welcoming, so the gambling seems safe.

However, the writer also shows the harmful side. Before this visit, Hermann is already obsessed: “Three, seven, ace” keeps repeating in his head and even in sleep. The word “haunted” is strong and suggests danger. The imagery is unsettling: aces become “gigantic spiders” and sevens like “Gothic portals.” The simile “like the three of hearts” shows how gambling takes over his mind. This contrast with the “good-nature” of the host suggests the respectability is a mask.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The fine rooms and smiling people make it look safe, but the repeated phrase and creepy images show the real risks underneath.

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:

• Opulent setting normalises risk and suggests safety; prestige and grandeur reassure: suite of magnificent rooms
• Elite company acts as social proof; high-status players make vice look acceptable and safe: Generals and Privy Counsellors
• Domestic comforts soften risk; leisure details make the environment feel harmless: eating ices
• Charismatic banker persona masks danger; benevolent appearance builds trust while concealing purpose: perpetual smile
• Reputation and financial probity lure players; trust encourages higher stakes and continued play: confidence of his companions
• Addictive thrill displaces ordinary pleasures; the excitement itself signals hidden risk behind civility: preferring the emotions of faro
• Monstrous imagery exposes psychological harm; beneath the polish, obsession warps perception: gigantic spiders
• Popularity creates a false safety-in-numbers; a bustling room legitimises and hides potential harm: The place was crowded
• Economic detail reveals the house’s true aim; respectability fronts a system extracting wealth: amassed millions
• Cultivated hospitality operates as bait; charm and comfort distract from the peril of play: agreeable and fascinating manners

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A magazine for young travellers wants creative articles for a special feature.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a coach station late at night from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a journey to bring a rescued animal home.

(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:

Sodium light pools across the tarmac, turning rain-slicked puddles into tarnished coins no one will ever spend. The roof—ribbed, corrugated, stubborn—holds down the night, and the station beneath it seems to be holding its breath. Coaches crouch in their bays like gentle leviathans, livery gleaming in strips, windows black as unblinking eyes. Every so often an engine ticks; a metallic cooling, a whispered reminder of heat. Diesel hangs in the air—thick, oily, familiar—threaded with a thin ribbon of coffee and cold. Outside the glass, a fox slips along the railings: pale, precise, inevitable.

The electronic board hums into attention, a rectangle of blue impatience. Numbers flip; letters shiver; destinations bloom across it with bland authority: Manchester, Cardiff, Aberdeen, anywhere-but-here. One line glows On time (for now). The vending machine keeps its jaw lit with sugared teeth; it purrs, indifferent. Plastic seats wear the bright, brittle shine of a thousand waiting legs; their backs collect scuffs, stickers, the constellations of abandoned gum. Above, a strip light stutters and then surrenders; another takes up its vigil. The whole place is almost quiet—almost—for even silence has seams.

People slow the space into stories. A woman in a mustard scarf counts coins twice, her lips moving; she tucks a bus ticket like a secret into her sleeve. A boy drags a soft suitcase that thinks it is heavy; the wheel complains in a small, round squeal. An old man’s trilby perches on his head like a bird that might take off; he cradles a newspaper that smells of yesterday. The driver, fluorescent jacket slashed with reflective silver, checks a clipboard; his torch draws a pale pathway over tyres, mirrors, doors. Somewhere a cleaner moves, the mop sighing; a paper cup spins, catches, rests.

Then the announcement arrives, careful as a schoolteacher: measured, crisp, a voice that has taught itself to sound calm. Next departure from Bay Twelve. She breathes the syllables of towns as if they were lullabies. A couple laughs too brightly at nothing; their laughter falls and shatters like thin glass, and the air knits itself back together. The wind fusses along the bays; a crisp packet scuttles sideways; a poster peels at the corners and whispers to itself. Time loosens, stretches; minutes tremble like tired elastic—an image that shouldn’t quite work, yet here it does. The drip from the roof counts: one… two… three.

A coach exhales. Doors open with a soft hydraulic gasp; the stairs drop, inviting. The luggage bay yawns and accepts a procession of lives—soft bags, hard cases, a box taped into stubbornness. Tickets lift like small flags; phones glow; faces flicker into instant portraits: nervous, bored, brave. The driver’s wristwatch tilts; he nods; he beckons. The queue moves; shoes whisper on wet grit; the boy’s eyes close and open and close. When the engine clears its throat, the station rearranges itself. Doors sigh; lights firm to a steady white; the great vehicle leans forward—finally—and goes, leaving a space shaped exactly like expectation. Already, new headlights write their intentions on the dark.

Option B:

Home. A word that tastes of toast and sleep; of cracked mugs warming palms; of somewhere the wind cannot quite reach. For most of us, it hums beneath everything—arduous journeys, ordinary mornings, the clatter and drag of living—so constant we forget to listen. For a creature with a stitched flank and a heartbeat like a trembling piano key, it is something else entirely: a promise we must keep.

At five forty, the rescue centre glowed like a lantern in fog. The corridor smelled of antiseptic and hay; the heater rattled; a clock stuttered towards the hour. I tightened the webbing strap on the travel crate—vented plastic, a quilted towel, a small heat pad (not too hot)—and slid a gloved finger through the bars. He huffed once. Bramble. A hedgehog smaller than my palm, prickles flattened by sleep, the tip of his nose shining as if it had hoarded the moon.

“Keep him warm, little feeds, no drafts,” the volunteer said, her voice brisk and gentle at the same time. “If he uncurls, that’s good. If he’s listless—call.” She pressed a laminated sheet into my hands: temperatures, timings, numbers. The kind of litany that steadies you when the wind gets up.

Outside, the pre-dawn air was the colour of old pewter. My car—my forgiving, cough-prone hatchback—shivered as the engine turned over, then settled into a low, faithful hum. I wedged the crate beside me, clipped a seatbelt through its handle, and set the heater to a hopeful red. Through the windscreen, hedgerows crouched like patient animals; a single owl floated across the lane and disappeared as if swallowed by the morning.

We moved. The tyres sang on wet tarmac; the world unscrolled in slow motion: boarded-up shops, a field furred with frost, the river glazed and secretive. Meanwhile, inside the crate, a sound—quiet as tissue paper being folded—told me Bramble was waking. I spoke without thinking. “Hey, brave boy. Nearly there.” My voice sounded steadier than my hands felt.

It had seemed simple when the email arrived—an ask for a winter foster, a list of supplies: syringes, kitten food, an old shoebox. Yet simplicity frays. It frayed at the thought of failing something so small; at the memory of last winter’s fox, too far gone; at the knowledge that care is a series of decisions made while your heart strains like a kite in high wind. And yet, the road held; the heater breathed; the sky began to pale, incipient gold threading the edges of cloud.

At the lay-by, a lorry hissed, then stilled. I checked him again. A nose, inquisitive; a prickle, rising. My chest loosened. When he blinked—needles of light in the gloom—the car felt different, larger somehow, as if the air had been rearranged into something kinder. Perhaps I imagined it. Perhaps that’s what hope does: stacks itself, pebble by pebble, until there’s a place to stand.

Home was twenty minutes away. A warm box near the radiator; a saucer; my quiet kitchen. The promise hovered, fragile and bright. I drove on, careful as prayer.

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

Option A:

Under the pallid wash of the lamps, the coach station gleams in patches: a puzzle of wet asphalt and pale concrete, sliced into bays by white lines scuffed thin. The rain has eased to a freckling mist, leaving puddles that hold upside-down cities—fractured, trembling, not quite ours. The lights are blunt and yellow; they press at the darkness rather than piercing it, and the night presses back.

A coach backs in with the patience of a ship. Brakes hiss; doors unfurl; the engine idles with a sleep-heavy thrum that settles in the ribs. Diesel breath hangs in the air—acrid, a little sweet—mixing with the thin smell of hot chocolate from a vending machine that blinks its hard, cheerful lights. The timetable screen flickers; pixels shiver to announce: 00:32 Newcastle—Delayed. Another coach waits nose-to-bay, windows mirror-dark; it lifts and lowers almost imperceptibly, breathing. The station listens.

At the edges, people arrange themselves like punctuation. A woman in a red coat counts coins into her palm, lips moving, as if numbers could warm her. A man with paint-flecked boots sleeps on a moulded chair; his mouth opens, closes, opens—fish-like, helpless. Near the entrance, a security guard rubs his hands and scans the bays; a suitcase with a lopsided wheel complains: click-scrape, click-scrape.

It is a liminal place, this—a corridor rather than a room. Here, people become parcels with labels: 23:10 to Bristol; 00:05 to Glasgow; 01:15 to Somewhere Else. Arrival and departure share one motion—one person steps off as another steps on; hands lift, wave, fall. Even the announcements sound careful, almost kind: "Please stand behind the line."

When a coach finally closes its doors, there is a soft, civilised clap as the seals catch; the driver checks mirrors and pulls away. Headlights yawn into the road; red tail-lights draw two steady lines and fold from view. Paper flutters in the gap the vehicle leaves; the station exhales and resets. Waiting resumes—always the waiting, quiet and insistent, stretching the night a fraction longer.

Option B:

Morning came thin and silver, a ribbon through the wire of the rescue yard. The kennels exhaled bleach, wet fur and rain. In pen three he watched me, the animal whose name had been crossed out twice: Moss. Amber eyes in the grey. When I whispered it there was no magic—only a slackening in his stare, a breath let out.

Jade slid the clipboard across. Sign here; and here—microchip, medication, transfer. I nodded, my mind already mapping the way: bridge, bus, bakery. I packed assiduously—fleece that smelled like my hallway, rope lead, collapsible bowl; biscuits; a toy mouse. More pertinently, would he let those smells become his? Would my rooms feel like safety or like another cage?

Outside, rain cascaded from the cracked guttering. The crate was heavier than it looked; my arms trembled with the weight of hope. The bus groaned, doors splayed in a yawn. We climbed. Damp coats steamed; coins chattered; a child asked if the box held a dragon. Moss’s breath came in small tides—warm, yeasty, steady. The driver nodded us on; perhaps he had seen this choreography before.

As the bus shouldered into traffic, the city unspooled: tail-lights, puddles scalloped by tyres, a bakery’s exhale of sugar. Concurrently, rain threaded backwards across the windows as we moved forwards, and my chest performed its own staccato engine. How do you explain a promise to an animal? I slid two fingers through the grate; Moss pressed his nose there, cool and curious, his heartbeat a moth against a lampshade. A siren hiccupped somewhere; he flinched, then settled, then watched—always watching.

I pictured the flat like a storybook: a blue bowl by the skirting board, a blanket by the radiator, the corner where morning sun puddles. It will not be effortless; the past is arduous to carry. He has learned doors can close and hands can be loud. I have learned to live alone so neatly my socks arrange themselves like soldiers. Between us, perhaps, a middle ground: mess and patience, biscuits and quiet.

We turned by the canal (slick as graphite) and the bus sighed to a halt. Two more stops; my stop. I checked the latch—once, twice, again—because control felt like something I could hold. Home is not an address: it is a slow accumulation of ordinary hours—walks in rain, the kettle talking, the soft snap of a light switch. I will say his name until it belongs to him. And when the door opens, perhaps the word rescues both of us.

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

Option A:

Under a row of sodium lamps, the coach station sits like a tired mouth, yawning its bays to the night. Pools of light gather on slick tarmac; puddles hold pale moons, scratched by tyre tracks. A wind, not cold but persistent, combs litter into corners and sets a stray ticket trembling. Everything is pared back: shuttered kiosk, locked glass doors, the timetable’s glow a sterile rectangle in the gloom.

Somewhere, a vending machine hums; its neon belly offers chocolate and lukewarm coffee. The smell hangs—diesel, spilt milk, a hint of rain. Overhead, the lamps buzz as if thinking. In Bay 8, a coach idles, breathing a patient rhythm: hiss, sigh, hiss, sigh; its indicators blink like sleepy eyes. With each breath a veil of vapour unfurls, silvering the grille.

People are scattered rather than gathered. A woman with a blanket over her shoulders perches on the rigid orange seat, rocking a pram with two fingers and a far-off stare. A lad slumps opposite, hood up, the blue-white flare of his screen painting his cheekbones. An older man in a creased suit has his shoes off; his socks are thin at the heel, his ticket is crumpled too. Near the bay, a driver in a fluorescent jacket cradles a flask like it’s a small, warm animal.

From the dark lane beyond the fence, tyres whisper. Headlights slide along the corrugations of the roof; the station seems to brace. A coach swings in—heavy-bodied, obedient—and the bay number winks to greet it: 12. Doors fold open with the steady grace of theatre curtains. Heat presses out, smelling of miles and upholstery; it leaks into the night, making a brief cloud. People rise, not all at once but in a sequence: bags scraped, zips bitten, breath gathered.

And then, as quickly as it swelled, the moment ebbs. The coach noses forward, an enormous fish returning to dark water, and silence drops behind it. The soundscape thins to hum and drip; an announcement crackles, a wheel clacks over the yellow safety line. Midnight slides on, slow and indifferent; the lights keep their pale vigil, and the station keeps breathing—hiss, sigh—while the world beyond is almost still.

Option B:

Autumn. The hour of thinning light; pavements freckled with leaf-mulch, a sky the colour of tin. The city exhaled a damp breath that smelt of rain and diesel and the faint sweetness from a closing kebab van. I tightened my scarf and hooked my fingers under the wire handle of the travelling crate. Inside, amber eyes blinked—curious, cautious—as if testing the shape of trust.

At the rescue centre the volunteer had given me a list, practical and gentle: small meals at first, go steady on stairs, keep the lead tight near traffic. “He answers to Bracken, most days,” she said, folding a blanket as if it were a promise. His coat was mottled like leaf-shadow; a white scar, a thin comma beneath his ear (fur missing where the vet had shaved). “He doesn’t like sirens,” she added, and the word sirens hung there, bright and sharp, as if it would cut the quiet.

Meanwhile, the bus took its time. Wind worried the timetable; a crisp packet cartwheeled down the kerb. Bracken shifted, a soft scritch of paw on plastic, and I murmured his name—Bracken—so he’d hear something steady in all the uncertain noise. My heart felt too big for my chest, ridiculous and fast. What if he bolted? What if the world was louder than the blanket could muffle?

When the bus finally lumbered round the corner, it sighed its doors open; warm air rushed out, carrying the sting of wet coats and coins. I lifted the crate—careful, careful—and we climbed. People glanced, then looked away, then back again when Bracken’s nose pressed the mesh. A child smiled. A man in a paint-splashed jacket offered his seat, and I thanked him, surprised at how the word thank-you wobbled.

We rattled through streets I knew by habit but now measured differently: stop by stop, breath by breath. Past the bakery with its cloudy windows; past the park where the swings creaked; past a siren that wailed from somewhere near the river. At that, Bracken shivered. I drew the blanket half over the crate and talked about nonsense—about our flat with its slanting light in the afternoon, about bowls and a toy fox and the name on a brass tag I hadn’t bought yet.

Soon, the glass misted with our breath. The city thinned to terraced houses and puddles that held pieces of sky. My stop trembled closer, yellow letters flickering, and I felt the key in my pocket—cold, heavy, ordinary. Home is such a small word, really, but you carry it like something warm in your hands. We stood. The bus hissed. And together, awkward and careful, we stepped down into the amber evening.

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

Option A:

The station sits under a row of fluorescent lamps that hum like insects. Pools of light lie across the concrete, turning puddles into little mirrors. Coaches crouch in their bays; their windows are blank and dark. The engines are off, yet the tang of diesel lingers, sour and familiar. A timetable screen flickers, green digits stuttering, as if tired eyes are trying to stay open. The night—thin, sharp—threads through the open lane and nudges a loose sign, which answers with a small, repetitive click.

On the nearest bench, a woman in a long coat gathers a tartan blanket around her knees and watches the glass doors. A boy sleeps across three seats, open-mouthed, his suitcase like a faithful dog at his feet. Somewhere, a man paces with his phone pressed close; he speaks softly, words falling into the cold like breath. Up above, a camera blinks its red dot. Everyone looks half-awake, or half-asleep, caught between going and arriving.

From the far end, the loudspeaker clears its throat. The voice is tinny and calm, naming towns that sound like promise: Leeds, Bristol, Blackpool. Vending machines glow; one hum becomes a steady note. Wheels whisper; straps creak. A plastic wrapper skims the floor, chased by a tired gust. Then a coach noses in, white paint shining under the lights. It sighs as it settles, doors exhaling steam. For a moment, everything leans toward it. Time stretches, the clock hands tug forward, and the whole place feels like one thing: waiting.

Option B:

Morning. The pale kind that makes everything look unsure; pavements damp, roofs beaded with last night’s rain. I checked the list again with stiff fingers and a heart that wouldn’t settle: blanket, bowl, paperwork, treats. The crate waited by the door, smelling faintly of cardboard and hope. I had warmed the blanket on the radiator; I had even written his name on a tag I tied to the collar. He was coming home.

The rescue centre hummed quietly, a kettle clicking, steps soft along the corridor. It smelled of disinfectant and biscuits, clean and sharp together. A volunteer with kind, tired eyes led me to a pen where he curled like a comma against the wall. Brown-and-white, ears too big for his careful head—fragile, and stubborn. When I crouched, he watched me without blinking. I held my hand out, palm down, as I’d been told, and let the silence do the talking. He sniffed once, then again, a small tremor passing through him like a shiver the wind forgot. His nose touched my knuckles. “Home,” I whispered, surprising myself with how certain it sounded.

On the back seat the crate clicked into the seatbelt. The engine coughed awake and the wipers began their slow argument with the rain. Traffic moved like a reluctant river; brake lights blinked and the city exhaled. In the mirror his eyes met mine, curious and careful. What if he hated the flat? What if he howled at night, or couldn’t eat, or never forgot whatever had happened before? My voice kept going anyway, soft and steady, as if it could stitch something together. “Nearly there,” I said—the words hung warm and thin, a thread from me to him. The road unrolled; the distance between strange and safe narrowed, mile by careful mile.

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

Option A:

The lamps spill a pale, flourescent halo over the bays, making the wet concrete shine like a thin skin. Coaches huddle under numbers printed in white; their windows are blackened, their sides wearing streaks of old rain. The air is sharp and metallic. Plastic seats in the shelter stick to your coat, scratched glass panels catch the stuttering light and turn it into broken squares. A timetable board blinks, as if sleepy. It is late, it is quiet, and the station feels paused, like someone holding their breath.

A few figures wait, spread out like islands. A man with a heavy backpack leans on his knees; his hands are red from the cold. A woman in a red coat checks her watch again and again—her reflection does it too. Somewhere a child is sleeping, mouth open, small snores. There is sound, but it is all muffled: the soft hum of the vending machine, the electric buzz overhead, a cough, the clunk of a shutter half-closed. Diesel hangs in the air with coffee and something salty, like chips gone cold. An announcement crackles to life: Service delayed by twenty minutes due to a late arrival. It fades, leaving a flat silence behind.

Then, slowly, a coach glides in; brakes sigh, doors gasp, lights blink like tired eyes. The driver steps down and stretches (he looks like a shadow). Wrappers scuttle along the ground, pushed by a stingy wind, and a taxi idles, bored. People stand, then sit, then stand, waiting and waiting. The night stays wide and blue-black. Above us, the sign flickers—ON, off, ON—promising movement. The station keeps its watch, steady, until morning decides to come.

Option B:

Morning was thin and damp. The rescue centre sign clicked on its chain, opening and shutting like teeth. Rain stitched silver lines on the pavement; a bus grumbled down the road. I held the crate by its blue plastic handle and tried to breathe slow. It looked small for such a big job: carry her safely, carry her home.

Inside the lobby the air smelt of disinfectant and wet fur. Her name was Willow, a skinny brown dog with ears too big for her head. A white scar crossed her shoulder like chalk. When I knelt she sniffed my sleeve, hesitated, then leaned into my knee. Her heartbeat felt fast; mine too. Would she think the crate meant another cage?

Outside, the bus sighed and knelt. First we had to get on the bus; and then survive the ride. I climbed on with the crate pressed close, ticket clenched between my teeth while I fumbled for coins. The driver glanced at Willow’s nose poking the grate; he lifted his eyebrows. “She’s rescued,” I said. “We’re going home.” The word home seemed bigger than before—like a door opening.

The bus jerked, the crate slid, I caught it in time. Willow’s claws tapped a nervous code. I whispered about our flat, the rug that curls at the corner, the plant I forget to water. A lady in a red coat smiled; my hands were sweating. My job was simple: keep moving. I would keep her safe. I would bring her home.

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

Option A:

Under the fluorescent lights, the coach station looks washed and pale. Wet paving shines like glass. Coaches crouch in their spaces, big white bodies with dark windows; their engines sleeping. A thin wind pushes a scrap of paper round and round. The digital clock blinks red: 00:43. It feels late, and the air smells of diesel and cold metal. A vending machine hums, steady and mechanical, like a calm heart.

Meanwhile, a few figures wait. A man in a crumpled coat leans on a pillar, rubbing his hands. A girl with a heavy backpack yawns. The speaker crackles into life, stumbling over place names. Delayed. Suitcase wheels rattle over the tiles; a cleaner drags a grey mop and leaves a damp trail. A driver checks mirrors and lights, tapping the glass. Who travels now? People who must.

After a while a coach hisses awake, doors opening with a sigh. Passengers climb in slowly—one by one—and vanish into the warm glow. The engine grows louder; the bus shivers. Then it pulls away, steady and careful, like a ship. The clock changes to 00:52, and the station keeps breathing: waiting, waiting; but it will be morning soon.

Option B:

Rain. The kind that makes the road shine and the air taste like metal.

In the rescue office the light flickered; a woman pressed the carrier into my arms. "He's quieter in the dark," she said. Inside, the rescued kitten shifted, a tiny weight.

On the bus, the windows dripped. I held the box against my jumper. Through the air holes, two whiskers and a pink nose tested the world. My hands trembled, like the coins rattling in my pocket.

Could I keep him safe? The idea of home felt suddenly huge: room, food, medicine, all of it. Responsibility. It was a long word and it sat heavy.

The bus groaned and turned. People smiled, or looked away. A child asked if it was a rabbit, I nodded and shook my head at the same time, which made her laugh.

Careful, careful - every bump echoed in the lid. I whispered his new name, soft, so he would learn it; so he would learn me.

At last our stop. The rain had become a mist, the street looked washed. We stepped down, me and the box, and the idea of home walked beside us.

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

Option A:

The coach station is mostly empty. The flourescent lights buzz. The lights are to bright. They make the ground look pale and wet. Coaches sit in their bays like big sleeping animals, engines tick and sigh. Their windows are black, like eyes that dont blink. A driver yawns and leans on a door. A woman pulls her coat tight.

The air smells of diesel and old chips. A vending machine hums, it blinks and waits. Paper skates across the floor and a timetable flickers, then it stops. There is few people, they talk soft. An announcement crackles but the voice is tired too, words come out broken.

It is very late.

We wait and wait, like the night is stuck. My breath is like smoke. Footsteps echo and then they fade, doors hiss open, close. Headlights spread a white square on the wall. The coach pulls in slow, big and dull, it opens its mouth.

Option B:

Morning came grey and slow, the road was wet. I sat on the bus with a cardboard box on my knees, it felt warm and a little scratchy on my hands. Inside, the rescued kitten moved like a tiny engine. I whispered, dont worry, your coming home.

At the rescue centre the lady said he has been brave. The room smelled of bleach and biscuits and I signed a form, my hand was shaking. Now we was on the way.

The bus shaked and rattled, rain tapped the windows like fingers. He made a small mew, and my heart jumped. We are going home! Home, home.

I looked out at grey houses and puddles that shined. I think of the blanket on my bed, the bowl, the little red collar. We turned left to our street.

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

Option A:

Night sits on the coach station. Its cold. The lights are bright and sick, they buzz and blink, again and again. The floor is wet like a mirror, but dirty, it smells of fuel and old chips. A man sleeps on a bench, his bag is open and his shoe is off, nobody speaks. I hear one bus hiss and then go, then nothing, then a gull cry. The vending machine hums and the coffee tastes bad but warm. The wind pushes a paper across the bays. I think of my bed, also I look at the timetable that flickers and it feels far.

Option B:

Morning was grey and wet. I go to the rescue place. The dog is small and shaking. He look at me with big eyes. I put him in a box with a towel. The box is light but my arms feel heavy and long, like a slow bus. We walk to the bus stop. The bus smells of chips and old rain. My shoelace come loose and I think about my phone battery and my lunch for no reason. I want to get him home safe. He whines a little. I say shh, it okay, we going home now.