AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 What mingled with the latter occupation?: a feeling of bitterness – 1 mark
• 1.2 All was ready for what?: my departure on the morrow – 1 mark
• 1.3 What seemed to swell the narrator/speaker's heart?: a sudden anguish – 1 mark
• 1.4 What did the narrator/speaker still affect to be?: gay – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

1 But there was a feeling of bitterness mingling with the latter occupation too; and when it was done—when all was ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home approached—a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends looked so sad, and spoke so very kindly, that I could scarcely keep my eyes from overflowing: but I still affected to be gay. I had taken my

6 last ramble with Mary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and round the house; I had fed, with her, our pet pigeons for the last time—the pretty creatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our hands: I had given a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as they crowded in my lap. I had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites, the pair of snow-white fantails; I

11 had played my last tune on the old familiar piano, and sung my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped, but the last for what appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps, when I did these things again it would be with different feelings: circumstances might be changed, and this house might never be my settled home again. My dear little friend, the kitten, would certainly be

How does the writer use language here to show the narrator saying goodbye to her home and daily life? 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 the writer juxtaposes inward emotion and outward performance through emotive hyperbole and contrast—"a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart" against "I still affected to be gay", intensified by the compassionate tone of "so sad" and "so very kindly"—while the anaphoric repetition and cumulative listing of farewells, "my last ramble", "my last walk", "for the last time", "my last tune", "my last song", underscores the finality of leaving. It would also examine sensory, affectionate imagery—"pretty creatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our hands", "silky backs", "snow-white fantails"—and sentence forms (long, semi-colon-linked lists and dashes, e.g., "—when all was ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home approached—") alongside modality in "this house might never be my settled home again" (and the unfinished certainty of "would certainly be"), to convey intimate attachment, anticipatory grief, and the unsettled future.

The writer uses emotive metaphor to convey a conflicted, valedictory mood. “A feeling of bitterness mingling” personifies emotion as something that can mix with practical tasks, suggesting the act of preparing to leave is tainted. Likewise, “a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart” is a visceral metaphor that makes the farewell physically painful, while the hyperbolic personification “keep my eyes from overflowing” evokes barely checked tears. Moreover, the antithesis between her inner sorrow and the facade “I still affected to be gay” exposes self-control in the face of loss, intensified by the modifiers “so sad” and “so very kindly.”

Furthermore, the writer crafts a cumulative, paratactic list to ritualise leave-taking. The anaphora of the past perfect—“I had taken… my last ramble… my last walk… I had fed… for the last time… I had given… I had tenderly kissed… I had played my last tune… and sung my last song”—and the valedictory lexis “last”/“farewell” create a litany of goodbyes to daily routines. Long, multi-clausal sentences with semicolons and parenthetical dashes elongate the moment, mirroring how she lingers over each habit and space, making the separation from home feel painstaking and deliberate.

Additionally, tender sensory imagery and affectionate personification animate the domestic world she is leaving. Tactile details—“silky backs,” pigeons that “tamed to peck… from our hands”—and visual precision, “snow-white fantails,” emphasise intimacy; calling the kitten “my dear little friend” elevates pets to companions, heightening pathos. Finally, uncertain modality—“not the last, I hoped,” “perhaps,” “might be changed”—and the evaluative contrast between “this house” and “my settled home” register anxiety that familiar life will not return, making her goodbye feel both inevitable and deeply poignant.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify emotive language like 'bitterness', 'a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart' and 'overflowing', and the contrast 'I still affected to be gay' to show suppressed grief; it would also explain how the repeated 'last' in a cumulative list ('last ramble', 'last tune', 'last song') and affectionate imagery ('silky backs', 'my dear little friend, the kitten') emphasise her attachment to daily routines and the pain of leaving. It might further note the long, flowing sentences with dashes/semicolons and hesitant modals 'perhaps'/'might' to create a sense of time running out and uncertainty about whether this will remain her 'settled home'.

The writer uses emotive language and metaphor to present a painful farewell. The “feeling of bitterness mingling” suggests mixed emotions, while “a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart” is a metaphor that physicalises her grief. The hyperbolic “eyes… overflowing” implies tears she tries to hide, and the verb phrase “affected to be gay” shows a façade of cheerfulness. This makes the goodbye feel strained.

Furthermore, the anaphora of “my last…” and the cumulative list linked by semi-colons create a ritual of leave-taking: “last ramble with Mary”, “last walk in the garden”, “played my last tune”. This repetition emphasises finality in everyday routines. The noun phrase “a farewell stroke” and the detail “crowded in my lap” create intimacy with the pigeons, intensifying the sense of parting from daily companions.

Additionally, sensory imagery and affectionate diction show attachment to place: “silky backs”, “snow-white fantails”, the “old familiar piano”, and “dear little friend, the kitten”. These choices create warmth, so the separation feels tender. The parenthesis “not the last, I hoped” and modal verbs “perhaps… might” introduce uncertainty, while “never be my settled home again” conveys the fear of a permanent goodbye. Long, complex sentences mirror her memories.

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 emotive words like “bitterness” and “a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart” to show sadness, and repeats “last” (e.g., “last ramble”, “last tune”) to emphasise she is saying goodbye. A long list of memories with “I had...” and gentle adjectives like “tenderly” and “snow-white” shows her affection for home and daily life.

Firstly, the writer uses emotive language and metaphor to show the goodbye to her home and daily life. The phrase 'a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart' is a metaphor that shows powerful feelings building up, and 'keep my eyes from overflowing' suggests she is close to tears even as she leaves.

Furthermore, the repetition of 'last' and the listing of actions like 'last ramble', 'last walk' and 'played my last tune' show she is saying farewell to ordinary routines. The long sentence creates a list-like feel, showing many memories.

Additionally, affectionate adjectives like 'dear', 'old familiar' and 'snow-white', and the verb 'tenderly kissed', make the tone loving, showing her attachment to home, family and pets.

Finally, the contrast in 'I… affected to be gay' shows she pretends to be cheerful, while 'this house might never be my settled home again' hints at loss and uncertainty.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive words like sudden anguish and sad to show her feelings, and repeats last (e.g., last ramble, last tune) and farewell to show she is saying goodbye. Listing everyday things like walk in the garden and feeding pet pigeons shows her daily life and makes the goodbye feel real.

Firstly, the writer uses emotive language like “sudden anguish” and “overflowing” to show strong feelings. This makes the narrator seem very sad about leaving. Furthermore, the repetition of “last” in “last ramble”, “last walk” and “last tune” shows she is saying goodbye to her daily life. It makes the reader notice each goodbye. The long list shows her routine. Moreover, descriptive adjectives such as “old familiar piano” and “snow-white fantails” create homely images, showing her love of home. Therefore, the language shows the narrator’s goodbye to her home and routines.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Abstract nouns and visceral metaphor → convey mixed sorrow and emotional intensity at parting → swell my heart
• Contrast between outward cheer and inward grief (concessive “but”) → shows a forced façade of calm → affected to be gay
• Anaphora and past perfect (“I had…”) → ritualises a series of completed farewells → I had
• Repetition of “last” across activities → intensifies the finality of everyday routines → last ramble
• Long, multi-clause sentences with dashes/semicolons → create a flowing, cumulative rhythm of goodbye → when all was ready
• Tactile, domestic imagery with animals → emphasises intimacy and tenderness in routine life → silky backs
• Affectionate diminutives and modifiers → foreground deep attachment and vulnerability in leave-taking → dear little friend
• Homely/pastoral and familial lexis → anchors the leave-taking in place and relationships → old familiar piano
• Modality and tentative adverbs → convey uncertainty and fear of permanent change → might never
• Formal temporal marker → heightens the sense of impending departure and solemnity → on the morrow

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how poignancy 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 a chronological deepening of poignancy via cumulative anaphora and listing—repeated "my last" rituals—from intimate farewells to a delayed emotional release when she only "burst into a flood of tears" after the veil is drawn. It would also analyse the tonal pivot "But the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits" as fleeting, undercut by pathetic fallacy ("a sickly ray") and a receding viewpoint to final separation ("I could see them no more"), showing how shifts in time and perspective intensify loss.

One way in which the writer structures the opening to heighten poignancy is through a cumulative, anaphoric catalogue of farewells and long periodic sentences that decelerate the narrative. The repetition of “last” in “last ramble,” “last walk,” “last tune,” and “sung my last song to papa” ritualises leave-taking and keeps the narrator suspended before departure. Parenthetical insertions and asides (“as she expressed it”; the kitten’s growth) act as digressions that defer the moment of parting, mirroring her reluctance and deepening the ache. This sits in counterpoint with the sustained first-person façade—“I still affected to be gay”—so the structure juxtaposes appearance and interiority to poignant effect.

In addition, the temporal trajectory from evening, through “bed-time,” to “the morning” engineers tonal modulation without dissolving pathos. Although “the morning brought a renewal of hope,” the writer delays the emotional climax until the liminal threshold of leaving: “mounted the gig… and then… burst into a flood of tears.” Even the staccato list—“rose, washed, dressed”—momentarily quickens the pace, making that collapse more abrupt. The brief, banal dialogue with Smith—closed by “Here ended our colloquy”—punctures the interior fervour (“fervently implored”), its minimalism highlighting her isolation within outward routine.

A further structural strategy is the progressive widening of spatial focus and the gradual loss of contact. The sequence moves from tactile intimacy—“kissed,” “stroked,” “embraces”—to mere sight as she “looked back,” to final absence: “I could see them no more,” and a self-protective refusal to look again. This zooming out, capped by the emblematic “village spire” and a “sickly ray” of light, uses pathetic fallacy and diminishing proximity to close the episode in unresolved, resonant poignancy.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: Structured chronologically, the writer lists repeated "last" domestic rituals and an outward "still affected to be gay" to build toward the parting climax when she "burst into a flood of tears", even after "the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits". A typical Level 3 would also note shifts in focus from home to journey and a final backward look, where the fading "sickly ray", the sunshine "departing", and her "carefully avoided another glance" leave a poignant sense of irreversible loss.

One way the writer structures the text to create poignancy is the chronological movement from ‘the last night at home’ to the ‘morning’ of departure, signposted by temporal markers. Within the night section, a cumulative list of ‘last’ actions and the anaphoric ‘I had...’ slow the pace and narrow the focus from place to intimate details (pigeons, kitten, shared bed), deepening the sense of loss. The silence after praying (‘neither of us spoke’) forms a poignant pause.

In addition, the writer varies pace and tone. Although ‘the morning brought a renewal of hope’, the swift, asyndetic preparations (‘rose, washed, dressed, swallowed...’) rush us to parting, and the delayed release—‘burst into a flood of tears’—feels inevitable. The brief, banal weather-talk with Smith uses clipped exchanges to emphasise isolation and stall the leave-taking, which intensifies the ache.

Furthermore, a shift in focus from people to setting heightens poignancy. The narrator looks back to the ‘village spire’ and ‘old grey parsonage’, adopting a wider perspective before choosing to ‘avoid another glance’. This zoom, followed by a refusal to look back, provides closure: blessing them, waving, descending the hill so she ‘could see them no more’ enacts separation and leaves a sense of loss.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer structures the start as a list of farewells with repetition of "last" (my last ramble, last walk, last tune) to build sadness, then briefly lifts the tone when "the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits" before departure where she "burst into a flood of tears." Ending images like the fading "sickly ray" and "I could see them no more" show the mood darkens by the end, making the separation feel poignant.

One way the writer structures the beginning to create poignancy is by listing final actions and repeating “last”. Phrases like “my last ramble” and “sung my last song” build towards departure “on the morrow”. This repetition makes the leaving feel final and sad.

In addition, in the middle there is a change in mood from pretending to be cheerful to quiet sorrow. At “bed-time” the focus moves to the shared room, and the silence (“neither of us spoke”) slows the pace. This deepens the emotion and shows the pain of parting.

A further structural feature at the end is the shift to the morning journey. The focus moves from home to the road, with brief dialogue, then she “looked back” and turns away as the sunshine is “departing”. Ending on this image keeps the poignancy, as she cannot see them anymore.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might note that the text moves in a simple order from getting ready to leaving, so the sadness gets stronger, shown by the repetition of last (e.g., last ramble) and the ending when she burst into a flood of tears. The final looked back also adds sadness as it feels like a goodbye.

One way the writer structures poignancy is by starting with a list of “last” things. The repetition of “last” (last ramble, last tune) and focus on home and pets makes the sadness build.

In addition, the text moves in chronological order from the final night to early morning and the journey. The change in mood from “hope” to “a flood of tears” shows the parting and feels more poignant.

A further structural feature is the shift in focus and setting. Short dialogue breaks the silence, then the ending image of not looking back and sunshine fading leaves a sad end.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Anaphora of “last” rituals builds inevitability and deepens sorrow (my last ramble)
• Tactile domestic details personalise the loss, making the leave-taking tender and painful (snow-white fantails)
• Projection into an altered future extends the sadness beyond the moment, hinting at lasting change (settled home again)
• Shared silence and prayer concentrate grief at bedtime, intensifying pathos (neither of us spoke)
• A dawn lift in mood provides contrast so the ensuing emotional fall lands harder (renewal of hope)
• Rapid, cumulative actions quicken the pace, masking emotion until it breaks (washed, dressed, swallowed)
• Emotional restraint collapses only at the threshold of departure, forming a poignant breaking point (not till then)
• Backward-looking viewpoint as distance grows visualises separation and longing (waving their adieux)
• A brief, practical dialogue interlude contrasts with inner turmoil, sharpening the sense of private sorrow (Here ended our colloquy)
• Ending with a self-protective refusal to look again leaves a fragile, bittersweet final image (carefully avoided another glance)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 31 to the end.

In this part of the source, the final beam of sunshine on Agnes’s home could be seen as a good sign. The writer suggests this hope is so fragile that Agnes is too afraid to look again.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Agnes's reaction to the beam of sunshine
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the fragility of Agnes's hope
• 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 perceptively evaluates the writer’s viewpoint, largely agreeing that the sunshine is a good sign yet precarious, closely analysing the symbolism and contrast in sickly ray, wandering beam as a propitious omen, and the surrounding sombre shade to show fragile hope. It would also show that Agnes is too afraid to look again, unpacking how action and syntax—With clasped hands I fervently implored, then hastily turned away and carefully avoided another glance, lest I should see it in gloomy shadow—encode a guarded optimism.

I largely agree: the final beam is presented as a tentative good sign, yet the writer simultaneously stages the fragility of that hope so keenly that Agnes dare not look again in case it is extinguished.

From the outset, the emotional weather makes hope precarious. The rapid listing “I rose, washed, dressed” and the delaying clause “but not till then” before she “burst into a flood of tears” dramatise contained feeling released only after she has “drew my veil”—a small act that symbolically shields sight. Meanwhile Smith’s dialect and pathetic fallacy—“a coldish mornin’… a darksome ’un”—cast a drab palette; Agnes’s pared-down replies “Yes… Perhaps it will” carry a hedged, provisional hope rather than certainty.

Against that gloom, home “basking in a slanting beam of sunshine” reads like a benediction. The religious frame—the “village spire” and “old grey parsonage”—charges the light with symbolism, and the elevated lexis “propitious omen” shows Agnes consciously interpreting it as a sign. Yet the undercutting modifiers matter: it is “but a sickly ray,” and the “wandering” beam (personified) suggests transience and caprice. The stark juxtaposition between this narrow illumination and the “sombre shade” swallowing “the village and surrounding hills” makes the blessing feel oblique and easily extinguished. Even the adjective “slanting” implies an oblique, provisional light rather than a full noon blaze. Her gesture—“with clasped hands I fervently implored a blessing”—reveals how hungrily she clings to it, actively transforming meteorology into meaning.

Crucially, the narrative then renders hope’s fragility through avoidance. The adverbials and verbs—“hastily turned away,” “carefully avoided another glance,” “lest I should see it in gloomy shadow”—trace a self-protective gaze; she prefers an untested hope to a confirmed fear. Structurally, the repeated “looked back” followed by averted vision enacts the oscillation between yearning and dread, while the participle “departing” forecloses the light even as she turns. The first-person perspective lets us inhabit the instant she decides to preserve the omen by refusing to risk watching it vanish.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the beam functions as a genuine good sign, but through pathetic fallacy, qualifying adjectives, personification, and the deliberate refusal to look, the writer makes that hope exquisitely fragile—so cherished that Agnes dare not test it by looking twice.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree, noting the contrast and symbolism: the beam is a hopeful propitious omen yet only a sickly ray amid sombre shade. It would also explain that Agnes’s fear of breaking this fragile hope is shown when the light is departing and she carefully avoided another glance, in case it was in gloomy shadow.

I largely agree with the statement. The sunshine is clearly presented as a hopeful sign for Agnes, yet the writer also suggests that this hope is tenuous, so delicate that she dare not look again in case it is extinguished.

Before the beam appears, the writer establishes a bleak backdrop through pathetic fallacy and contrast. The dialogue about the weather—“a coldish mornin’” and “a darksome ’un”—along with talk of “rain,” creates a sombre atmosphere. Structurally, Agnes’s emotional vulnerability is shown by “burst[ing] into a flood of tears” only once the gig moves off, preparing us to see how desperately she needs any omen of comfort.

Against that gloom, the description of the parsonage “basking in a slanting beam of sunshine” reads as symbolic hope. The contrast with the “sombre shade” over the village and hills magnifies the moment. Yet the lexical choice “it was but a sickly ray” undercuts the security of that sign; “sickly” connotes weakness. Personification in “the wandering beam” suggests transience. Even so, Agnes actively interprets it as positive, as she “hailed… a propitious omen,” the elevated diction showing her eagerness to invest it with meaning.

The fragility of this hope is emphasised by her response. With “clasped hands” she “fervently implored a blessing,” the adverbs revealing intensity bordering on desperation. Then, as the light is “departing,” she “hastily turned away” and “carefully avoided another glance, lest I should see it in gloomy shadow.” The cautious modal “lest” and the structural choice to stop looking after a second backward glance suggest she fears confirming a darker reality. However, her deliberate avoidance also shows a degree of agency: she protects the tiny hope by refusing to let it be tested.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. The sunshine functions as a good sign, but through contrast, personification, and careful structural choices, the writer presents Agnes’s hope as so fragile that she cannot risk looking back to see it fade.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Shows partial agreement by identifying the beam as a good sign (a propitious omen) but also its fragility through simple references to weak light (sickly ray, sombre shade) and Agnes’s fear of looking again (hastily turned away, lest I should see it in gloomy shadow).

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer shows the last beam as a hopeful sign but also shows Agnes’s fear that it could vanish. At the start of this section the weather talk sets a gloomy mood: “coldish,” “darksome,” and later the hills are in “sombre shade.” Against that, the “slanting beam of sunshine” stands out. Agnes even calls it a “propitious omen,” which clearly means a good sign for her home. However, it is “but a sickly ray,” and the beam is personified as “wandering,” which suggests it is weak and could go at any moment.

Agnes’s reaction supports the idea that her hope is fragile. The religious language “With clasped hands I fervently implored a blessing” shows strong hope. But the adverbs in “hastily turned away” and “carefully avoided another glance” show she is nervous. Structurally, she looks back and then refuses to look again. The reason she gives, “lest I should see it in gloomy shadow, like the rest of the landscape,” suggests she fears that one more look will destroy the hopeful image. The contrast between the single beam and the “sombre” surroundings emphasizes how rare and delicate this hope is.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer uses contrast, imagery and word choices like “sickly” and “departing” to present the sunlight as a positive sign that is also very fragile. Because of this, Agnes protects her hope by not looking back again, as if seeing the light fade would take away her comfort.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 response would agree, noting the sunshine as a good sign because Agnes calls it a 'propitious omen', and saying her hope is fragile since it is a 'sickly ray', the 'sunshine was departing', and she 'carefully avoided another glance'.

In this part, I mostly agree with the statement. The last beam of sunshine on Agnes’s home does look like a good sign, but it is weak and makes her nervous. The writer describes “a slanting beam of sunshine” and then calls it “a sickly ray.” The adjective “sickly” suggests the light is fragile. Agnes even “hailed the wandering beam as a propitious omen,” so she clearly wants to believe in hope. There is also personification, like the village “basking” and the beam “wandering,” which makes the light seem special.

After that, the hope seems easy to lose. She “saw the sunshine was departing” and “hastily turned away.” She “carefully avoided another glance, lest I should see it in gloomy shadow,” which shows she is afraid to look in case the sign has gone. The contrast between the bright beam and the “sombre shade” around the hills makes the hope stand out but small.

Overall, I agree the beam is a good sign, but the hope is so fragile that Agnes does not dare to look again. The writer uses contrast and descriptive language to show this.

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:

• Omen diction presents the beam as a genuine positive sign, so I largely agree it is read as hopeful propitious omen
• Deliberate refusal to look back dramatizes fear of shattering that hope, implying it is fragile carefully avoided another glance
• The qualifier weakens the light itself, suggesting a precarious, easily extinguished optimism sickly ray
• Her interpretive act makes the sign subjective, hinting at hope born of desire and thus vulnerable hailed the wandering beam
• Time-marking shows the sign is already fading, so any hope it gives feels short-lived sunshine was departing
• Pathetic fallacy saturates the scene with gloom, making the single light seem rare and at risk a darksome ’un
• Intensified prayer conveys urgent but insecure faith, as if hope needs protection to survive fervently implored a blessing
• Restrained, formulaic replies and professed calm suggest suppressed distress beneath the hopeful reading as calmly as I could
• Visual contrast isolates the brightness against pervasive darkness, making the “good sign” feel precious yet exposed sombre shade

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A community project is recording memories of local industry before the old mill is redeveloped.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an abandoned workshop from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about finding something from the past.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

Light slants through grime-smeared panes, slicing the room into thin, suspended shards; dust rises to meet it like breath surrendered in a cold confession. The workshop holds its breath. A long bench runs beneath a constellation of hooks and nails, a palimpsest of knocks and cuts smoothing the timber into a dull, human shine. Tools hang obediently over it—saws with teeth blunted to a tired grin, chisels sleeping in their shadows, a rust-flushed hammer with a handle thumb-polished to silk.

Silence here is not empty; it hums with the afterlife of labour. Air tastes faintly metallic, redolent of filings and paraffin, with a shy resinous sweetness that clings to the throat. A calendar curls at one corner, months faded to the colour of weak tea, the last date ringed and forgotten. From the roof, a patient drip ticks into a stained bucket, offering the room its only metronome.

On the bench itself there is a scatter of screws: a drift of sawdust like tawny snow; a stub of pencil gnawed almost to the ferrule. The vice waits mid-turn, caught in a clenched jaw; flakes of blue paint pepper its iron like old sky. A sketch—hasty, brilliant, then blurred by an incautious palm—maps the shape of something half-made. Beside it lies a collapsed glove, the leather creased with tiny rivers where a hand once bent and persuaded wood to yield.

Beyond the bench, the pegboard bristles with instruments. The tape measure coils back upon itself like a cautious snake; the plane’s mouth gapes, rust stippling its cheeks in a lichen bloom. Each handle remembers: fingerprints ground into grain, varnish worn to a ghost. Where a tool has been lifted long ago, a pale silhouette remains, a tidemark of absence. Even the cord of the old drill twists from the socket in a fixed question.

Sunlight—syrup-thick yet somehow surgical—pours through the frosted skylight and netted cobwebs. Each strand is bead-strung with dust. Shadows of dangling wrenches write long commas across the wall, as if the room is waiting. A draught threads the door and sets a single line of shavings to life; they turn, briefly, like gossiping minnows.

In the farther gloom, the lathe is anchored and inert, its belt slack, its dial frozen between numbers. Labels peel from jars of salvaged screws (brass, hex, odd), the handwriting neat and stubborn. On the floor, an oil-darkened patch reads like a map to somewhere you can no longer go.

Once, there were rhythms: the saw’s rough hymn, the hammer’s crisp amen, breath and effort. Now there is only this eloquent pause, thick with the aura of finished and unfinished things. The door, hung a fraction from its frame, keeps its counsel; the hinges hold the old language of metal. And still—despite the rust, despite the quiet—the place does not feel dead; it waits, patient as wood, forgiving the dust.

Option B:

Dust remembers what we forget: first footprints across attic boards; breath that fogged a winter window and vanished; names said once and never again. It shimmered in the slant of afternoon light as I pulled the hatch and the ladder creaked like a throat clearing. The house, a palimpsest emptied of voices and clocks, made its own music—pipes ticking, rafters murmuring.

Today should have been pragmatic: boxes, labels, the brisk severing of ties before the auctioneer came tomorrow with catalogues and clipped sympathy. Instead, I knelt under the eaves, brushing aside the camphoraceous breath of old coats and the sour sweetness of apples gone to parchment, as if I were an amateur archaeologist in a trench cut into my own life.

The trunk had always been there—low, iron-banded, its black paint worn to pewter—yet I had never noticed it; or I had, and filed it with the unexamined. It sulked where daylight faltered, half-swallowed by a shawl fossilised into pleats. When I hauled it forward the boards complained and dust cascaded, constellating my sleeves.

The latch resisted—of course it did—then yielded with a dry click. Inside, not chaos but a careful arrangement: linen (thin as regret), a cracked photograph album, a tobacco tin whose lid bore an enamelled swallow mid-flight. I hesitated. The past behaves like a sleeping animal; you never quite know how it will wake.

It was the tin that called me. The swallow’s eye seemed intent, and when I levered the lid the air shifted—the faintest susurration, as if pages elsewhere had turned. Folded within were three letters, ribbed with age, their edges foxed and friable. On the top one, in ink browned to sepia, a hand I recognised wrote my name: “M—my little moth.”

June 14th, 1940. The date lifted off the page like a burn. I could have closed the tin; kept to my timetable. Instead, cross-legged on the cold boards, I slid the letter free and the paper exhaled smoke and violets.

“My dearest,” it began—disciplined yet tender. He wrote of a platform under a pewter sky, a whistle, a wave meant to be temporary that became something else; of a key (wrap it in the blue scarf, he instructed), and a debt of trust; of fear without once naming it.

The blue scarf lay there too, silk flaring when it caught the light; tucked within its fold, a key. At the page’s bottom, an address waited—Harcourt Street, number twelve—underlined twice; beside it, a word that made my spine answer with a shiver: Return. Return to where?

Tomorrow, men with clipboards would come. But today—today—I knew there was more here than furniture. Something had waited, patient and precise, in a swallow’s tin under the eaves, and it had found me.

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

Option A:

Light slides through a cracked pane, thin as breath, and pools on a workbench furred with dust. It finds the floating motes and makes a small galaxy of them, turning in the attenuated air; slow, patient, inevitable. The smell lingers—oil that has gone to treacle, old sawdust, the faint tang of iron—as if the room were trying to remember its last use. Stillness. Yet the stillness isn’t empty: the rafters whisper with draughts, a thread of cobweb trembles, a chain of keys nudges the peg and moves back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

Tools hang in strict order on a pegboard, their outlines ghosted behind them where sunlight once kept a clean silhouette. Chisels, wrenches, calipers, hand-saws, dividers: the names line up as neatly as their steel bodies. Handles are worn to a satin shine by absent palms; metal is freckled with rust that looks almost pretty, almost decorative. The plane sits squat and prim, its mouth curled with a forgotten shaving like a yellow ribbon; the saw yawns, teeth small and bright despite the dust. At the centre, a vice—green with a lick of verdigris—holds its jaw half-closed, as if it cannot decide whether to bite. Above them all a clock sulks at seven; its second hand has not inched for years, but it retains the authority of a foreman.

The bench itself is a map of labour. Scores and divots cross it like river systems; here a ring from a mug has dried into the grain, there a scorch mark flowers where something got too hot. Nails sparkle in a jam jar; screws live next door in two more, sorted by size that made sense to one mind. Drawers with brass finger-pulls gape slightly—labels curling, the pencil strokes pale: Screws—Brass; 3/8 Bolts; Offcuts. A tape measure has sprung free and lies like a coiled snake; a pencil—chewed, blunt—waits exactly where a hand would reach. Even the floor contributes: curls of pine, crisp as old leaves, drift under the bench and hush my steps.

Beyond the window, bramble has taken up watch, pressing thorn and leaf to the glass; inside, everything is contained by that sallow light. Time has stood still; or rather, it has settled in layers, like sediment, filling every groove. Somewhere a drip ticks into a tin—counting, or pretending to. Who last tightened the vice, who rubbed beeswax into that handle, who measured and remeasured a line until it felt right? Their absence is everywhere—fingerprints in the polish, a chalk sum on the wall, the habit of order that keeps holding. And the dust keeps settling, quietly, faithfully, as the light thins and slides away.

Option B:

Dust. The colour of forgetting; a thin veil over everything my grandmother left behind. The clock on the mantelpiece had stopped the week she went into hospital—as if time, oddly polite, refused to go on without her.

I had come to clear the last of it: the cupboard under the stairs, that low triangle where umbrellas and wrapping paper lingered. The house smelt faintly of lavender and mothballs. Pale bars of light lay across the hallway carpet. When I pulled the door, the hinge gave a small theatrical groan; the floorboard beyond sighed.

Between a collapsed suitcase and a box of tarnished baubles I found a tin—oval, once-blue, its paint a palimpsest of rust. My grandmother kept buttons in tins like this—coins, too—and sweets if we had been good. The lid surrendered with a tacky pop. Inside, beneath tissue as thin as onion skin, lay a narrow leather notebook and a brass key, moustached with verdigris and tied on with fraying twine. On the first page, in neat upright letters, she had written: Elsie Hart, 1941.

I sat on the stairs with the tin on my knees (the banister cool against my shoulder) and let the quiet gather. The paper smelt of old tea and dust; its pages were foxed; the ink, though faded, kept a stern patience. A pressed violet slipped out and shivered onto the step. Was this her voice, kept in loops of ink? Had she meant me to find it?

What did it open? The loft had a sea-chest with a padlock; there was also the shed. Possibilities unfurled, bright and a little frightening. I turned a page and found a line that made my heartbeat lift: Today I hid it. If they ask, I will say nothing. Outside, a bus exhaled at the stop; inside, the air tightened with a listening hush.

I closed my hand around the key.

It was only metal—cold, ordinary, burnished by her thumb—yet it felt like a small door in my palm; the past hadn’t finished with us, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to open it.

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

Option A:

Light does not enter here; it leans in, uncertain, through a cracked window, and stops on the lip of a dusty workbench. The air is a mixture of iron and old rain, a tired, oily perfume that clings to the tongue. On the wall, tools hang obediently in a line, their outlines painted behind them like shadows that forgot to move. Dust rises when the smallest draft crosses the room and then sinks again, soft as ash; it lifts and settles, lifts and settles.

At the bench, a vice gapes, mid-bite, its jaws pitted with use. A square of sandpaper lies feathery and thin, a pencil nub balanced beside a steel ruler; the wood is crosshatched with cuts and burns, a record of small mistakes and careful fixes. An old calendar curls away from a nail: March, five winters ago. Above it, a plastic clock has stopped at twenty-seven past three. They keep company with the steady drip from a dark pipe: plink, plink, plink.

Beyond the bench, the pegboard is a map of absence; silhouettes of a saw, a spanner, pliers are stencilled in paler paint. Nails protrude, bent and stubborn. A jar of screws sits clouded with dust, its contents dull as coins. Labels peel from dented drawers—M6 bolts, Washers, Hinges—fading into tea-coloured paper. Pinned with a rusty thumbtack, a photograph has thinned to sepia: a man and a boy smile from its smudged face.

In the half-light, cobwebs net the corners, silky ladders strung from beam to beam. A spider negotiates a strand with patient feet. Wind squeezes the cracked window and sets a hanging spanner tapping—tap, tap—against the wall. Once this place hummed: saws rasping, a motor’s low whirr, voices overlapping. Now the rhythm is small but insistent—drip and tap speaking.

On the floor, sawdust shows the ghost of footsteps that begin, falter, then vanish beneath scattered offcuts. A pale square where a toolbox once sat gapes like a missing tooth. Who left the last screw halfway home? Meanwhile, a loose chain on the light fitting sways, slow and undecided. It waits—strangely hopeful—for a hand to reach for the switch, for the quiet to be broken.

Option B:

Dust. Not the bright, clean confetti that floats in sunbeams; the other kind—soft, stubborn, settled—frosting the beams like old sugar. The attic was warmer than I expected; it held summer the way a coat keeps smells, and it smelt faintly of beeswax and camphor. Under the low roof, boxes crouched in uneven shadows, labels flaking into indecipherable curls. The house seemed to be listening as I climbed the ladder, each rung clicking its tongue, as if I had interrupted a conversation that had been going on for decades.

Mum had said, lightly and a little too fast: "Take what matters, leave the rest," as if value was obvious; as if the past had a price tag. I nodded like I knew. But how do you decide? The cheap china birds with their eyes scratched off, the cracked frames, a velvet coat that still sighed of weddings? At first, I was brisk; I made piles; I told myself I was efficient; I told myself I didn't mind. However, the attic had other ideas. The longer I stayed, the more stubborn the air became, thick with stories I couldn't name.

I almost missed it. Pushed behind a suitcase with a broken handle, there was a biscuit tin the colour of rainwater, dented at one corner and tied, rather carefully, with frayed blue ribbon. No label. No explanation—just the certainty that someone had intended it to be found later, not by me, not like this.

I sat back on my heels. The dust climbed into my throat.

My fingers were clumsy; the knot resisted, then relented. The lid gave a small, private sigh. Inside: envelopes nested like pale birds; a fountain pen asleep in its case; a dried sprig of heather, preserved and fragile as a breath. There was a photograph too, edges scalloped and yellowed, of a girl standing beside the sea in a coat with a belt like a promise. She looked straight into the camera—straight at me, absurdly—and I felt the peculiar prickling you get when you realise a coincidence is not one.

On the back, in looping ink, a date: 14th October 1985. A name: Eliza. The handwriting was tidy, exact; the E tilted with confidence.

My middle name. My grandmother's.

Below my knees, the floor complained; somewhere downstairs, the clock sounded two, thin as a plea. I should have carried on with the other boxes, or texted Mum to ask, but my thumb was already under the next flap of paper. For all my plans, the afternoon had tipped. I was no longer sorting; I was trespassing. Yet, even as guilt prickled, something gentler moved in me—a small unlocking. The past, I discovered, is not silent; it murmurs when you lift the lid.

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

Option A:

Light slants through greasy windows in long, tired stripes, settling over a workbench layered with dust. The air tastes slightly metallic and sweet with old glue; it sits heavy in the throat. Along the bench run scars—burns, knife-cuts, dents—like a map of stubborn work. A thin tide of sawdust hugs the edge, curled shavings that look like pale, sleeping shells.

Above, tools hang from hooks in a wavering row. Spanners, chisels, a blunt saw: their silhouettes make crooked teeth against the wall. Rust blooms in freckles; handles are sticky with age. The big iron vice holds itself half-closed, as if still gripping a secret. A tape measure spills from a drawer and drags its yellow tongue across the floor; a cracked jar of screws waits open-mouthed. Cobwebs drape the corners like veils, grey and soft, and the single stool leans as though exhausted.

The silence is almost complete; it still has small seams. A drip, somewhere far back. A whisper of draught under the door. Now and then the roof gives a dry, tired sigh. In the corner, a calendar is faded to ghosts—July, a summer long gone. The clock above the shelf is stopped at seventeen past three, its second hand pointing and pointing, stubborn, never arriving.

Smells cling to everything: oil, sawdust, damp wood, a faint smoke that has long since cooled. I run a hand across the bench and raise a soft storm, tiny grains swirling in the light. On the wood, initials are carved—hesitant letters, careful—and a ring of tea stains dark as old coins. This place feels paused rather than finished, a breath held. Waiting, waiting—for boots on the step, for the small music of work to begin again. Until then, the workshop keeps its own slow memory, patient and quiet.

Option B:

Dust drifted in the attic like slow snow, softening the square of light. The ladder wobbled under my foot and I told it, out loud, to behave. It was silly, but the house felt too quiet. This had been Gran’s house; it still smelled of her soap and polish under the sink. Since the funeral I hadn’t come up here. Today I did, because the roof was leaking, and avoiding it was worse.

Cardboard boxes waited in uneven towers, labels blurred by time. A brown suitcase lay face-down, straps cracked like riverbeds. In the far corner, half-hidden by a broken chair leg, sat a biscuit tin painted with blue cornflowers – the kind we used to keep buttons in. Its rim was rusty, its side dented. It looked as if it had been waiting.

I slid it towards me and sat cross-legged. The lid resisted. My thumbnail bent; then, with a soft sigh, it lifted. Inside, the air changed: a breath of lavender and old paper, a whisper of damp string. Things lay arranged carefully: a photograph, a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon, a small brass key, two bus tickets curled at the edges. The paper crackled. The lavender, somehow, still smelled like summer.

The photograph was sepia, the corners scalloped and soft. Four people stood on the front steps of this house: a woman in a neat coat, a man with his hat under his arm, a girl with plaits, and a boy staring straight at the camera. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen. The tilt of his mouth, the line of his chin—my chin—made something cold move through me. It was like a mirror fogged by years.

The top letter was addressed to Elsie. The date: 1941. The key gleamed. I loosened the ribbon. The past, patient as dust, stirred.

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

Option A:

Light slices through a cracked window, turning the dust into little stars. The air smells of oil that has gone stale and something damp, like an old rag left in a bucket. I pause at the doorway; the workshop seems to hold its breath. I step inside, the dust lifts and spins like powder.

On the pegboard: spanners, chissels, a tape measure that curls like a dry leaf. Their outlines still drawn in faint marker, shadows printed behind them. A rusted hand saw grins with blunt teeth. The heavy vice on the bench crouches like a jaw, stubborn, waiting to bite; its handle frozen at an angle that looks tired.

The workbench itself is thick with grey, yet underneath I think the wood remembers. Rings from mugs stain the surface. A jam jar of screws sits cloudy and half full, it threatens to tip if anyone brushed it. A paint tin has grown a skin that has split like dried mud. In the corner a cracked radio rests, its dial stuck; it might never sing again. Overhead, a flourescent tube hangs crooked and dead.

The floor is a scatter of sawdust, flakes of paint, dark oil marks. No footprints, only the thin scribble of a mouse perhaps. Cobwebs droop from the beam like tired lace. Once this place was busy—voices, clatter, a saw whining, backwards and forwards. Who left first; who locked it last? The silence listens, it presses around my ears. Time has settled here like another tool: heavy and dull. The workshop waits.

Option B:

Autumn. The time of brittle leaves; pavements slick with rain, a pale sun squeezing through glass. A season that made everything smell like old books and wet wool.

In the back room of Gran's house, the cupboard yawned when I pulled the door open. Dust rose like tiny ghosts, drifting, hitching in my throat. I had promised to sort the boxes after school. At first I only saw brown cardboard and crooked labels. Then I noticed one box that was different: thin, tied with a frayed blue ribbon, its lid scuffed soft by fingertips.

I should have left it; instead, I slid it out. The ribbon stuck; my fingers trembled as if they remembered. Inside was a photograph, its paper delicate and silvered at the edges. A boy stood on a pier, waves biting the wood, and beside him stood a girl in a red scarf. He looked like me - the shoulder, the half-grin, the unsure eyes.

Under the photo, a letter lay sleeping. The ink had bled in places, but the date was clear: 1989. Gran's handwriting, careful and looping. I could hear her voice, that gentle hum, even though she wasn't in the room. I read the first line and stopped. My name was there; not my full name, but the one she only said when I was small.

After a moment, I lifted the page again. The paper smelt of salt; the house listened. Rain tapped the window. I sat on the floor and read because the words felt heavy, like keys without a door.

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

Option A:

The door is stiff and the air is cold. When I push it open, a line of light slides across the floor. Dust hangs like fog; it trembles in the beam. The room is quiet, like it has held its breath.

On the wall, tools hang in a line: hammers, spanners, a saw with teeth dulled by rust. They look like sleeping soldiers, waiting for a call that never comes. The workbench waits; grey dust, a coffee mug with a brown ring, a ledger open on jobs. The smell is old oil mixed with wood shavings, bitter and sweet.

At the back, a vice stands, jaws open, ready to bite. Shelves sag with jars of screws and nails, labels curling. A calendar from 2011 sticks to a nail—November—its edges faded. A chain swings from the ceiling and taps, tap, tap when the wind sneaks through a cracked window.

Underfoot the floor is gritty; footprints blur into nothing. The roof mutters, corrugated tin complaining. Somewhere a drip counts time, slow and stubborn. No voices; no radio; no clatter of machines. Only the quiet workshop, abandoned but still holding on, as if it remembers everything and won’t let it go.

Option B:

Autumn always made the house sound older. The loft ladder clicked down and the wooden steps groaned like a tired animal. Dust hung in the light, floating slow as snow. I had come for spare blankets; I found a smell of old paper and a quiet that felt heavy. The dust — it got in my throat — made me cough and laugh at myself.

Then I saw it in the corner, tucked behind a broken chair: a small tin box with blue paint scratched off, its lid dented. I reached for it, my fingers trembled. It felt heavier than it looked; like it was full of something more than buttons. Inside, wrapped in yellowed tissue, lay a photograph and a necklace. On the back, a name in faded ink: Elsie, 1941. The locket was delicate and cold; I pressed the clasp and it opened to the same girl.

The attic felt smaller then; the past had climbed up here with me. Who had hidden it, and why? I should of gone back down for the blankets, but I sat on the dusty floor, staring at their faces as if they might speak.

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

Option A:

The workshop is quiet and empty. Dust lays thick on the bench, it looks like grey snow. Tools hang over the workbench, they swing a tiny bit, even though there is no wind.

A single window is cracked, the light comes in in slices. The air smell of oil and old wood, it taste metal on the tongue. A hammer sleeps by a broken lamp, the tape is open and the numbers fade.

A rag hangs like a tired flag.

Nails scatter on the floor, some are bent, some are straight, they wait. The bench is scarred with cuts and names that you cant read. Cobwebs reach between the shelf and a saw, thin white strings, careful and sticky. Under the table there is boxes - and a mouse maybe, it is quiet, quiet again. The place feels stopped, like time got stuck, and it wont start.

Option B:

Autumn. Leaves stick to the steps. Dust on everything. The shed smells like old tea and rain. I go in after school, I have my bag, my breath white in the cold.

There is a box under the table, small, metal, dented. It is red but gone to brown. It looks like a sleeping animal. My heart do a jump. I kneel down, splinters in my knee.

The lid is tight, I pull and it scrapes. Inside there is paper and a picture, and a smell like old apples. The edges are soft. A watch sits there, not ticking.

I think it was Grandads, I think he left it for me or for no one.

It is heavy.

I hold the picture to the light, the window is dirty so the light comes in strips. A boy is there, he is me but not me, he stand by this shed years ago. Outside the wind taps at the door like fingers on a table. I sit and read the name on the back, I mouth it slow.

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

Option A:

Inside the workshop it is quiet and empty. The air smell like old oil and damp cloth. Dust sits on the bench and the tools hang on nails, they don’t move, only little bits of light move on them. A cracked window let in a thin line of sun and you see dust float around. The floor are cold, and there is sawdust in piles, like little hills. A hammer lies heavy. A clock on the wall is stopped, it just points at nothing. In the corner a sink drips drip drip. I hear a car outside. The door doesn’t care, it just stays shut.

Option B:

Spring. The shed is cold, the sun is up. Dust sits on the floor and my shoes. I kick a box and it slides, and something rattles, I dont mean to. I kneel and pull the lid, the cardboard is soft and wet. Inside there is a tin, green with flowers, like it waited. It is from the past, from my grandmas days. My hands shake I open it slow. It smells like old paper. There are letters, a photo of a boy. The dog barks and I remember I should go school, I shut the tin.