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 does the narrator/speaker say about the tale at the start?: It is a new one – 1 mark
• 1.2 Why can people not see the Gods to-day?: Because we have not faith – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which place is mentioned as the setting for a walk?: the garden of a temple – 1 mark
• 1.4 Who is described as ‘the greatest of Gods’?: Shiv – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 66 to 75 of the source:

66 heart of the money-lender was uneasy on account of expectation. Therefore at noon of the third day the money-lender went into the temple to spy upon the councils of the Gods, and to learn in what manner that gift might arrive. Even as he was making his prayers, a crack between the stones of the floor gaped, and, closing, caught him by the heel. Then he heard the Gods walking in the

71 temple in the darkness of the columns, and Shiv called to his son Ganesh, saying, “Son, what hast thou done in regard to the lakh of rupees for the mendicant?” And Ganesh woke, for the money-lender heard the dry rustle of his trunk uncoiling, and he answered, “Father, one half of the money has been paid, and the debtor for the other half I hold here fast by the heel.”’

How does the writer use language here to describe what happens to the money-lender in the temple? 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 perceptively analyse how personification and auditory imagery render divine retribution inescapable: the floor gaped and caught him by the heel, while the dry rustle of his trunk uncoiling in the darkness of the columns makes the Gods’ presence ominously tangible. It would also evaluate irony and syntax—his urge to spy upon the councils of the Gods, the temporal clause Even as he was making his prayers, and the lexical reversal where the lender becomes the debtor—to show how direct speech and pacing frame his capture as inevitable punishment.

The writer frames the money-lender’s downfall through personification and dynamic verbs. The “crack between the stones of the floor gaped” like a mouth and “caught him by the heel,” so the temple itself becomes an agent of divine justice. The concrete noun “heel” signals a point of vulnerability—an echo of an Achilles’ heel—so the reader senses inevitable capture just as he is “making his prayers.” The subordinating opener “Even as…” creates simultaneity, tightening suspense as worship and punishment collide.

Furthermore, atmospheric and auditory imagery render the gods present yet unseen. He “heard the Gods walking… in the darkness of the columns”: the abstract “darkness” and towering “columns” conjure a cavernous, consecrated space that dwarfs him. The onomatopoeic “dry rustle of his trunk uncoiling” makes Ganesh’s awakening tactile; “uncoiling” carries serpentine, constrictive overtones, amplifying the money-lender’s helplessness as he can only listen, pinned.

Moreover, the elevated, archaic register and an ironic financial semantic field expose a reversal of power. Phrases like “to spy upon the councils of the Gods” and the causal “Therefore at noon of the third day” lend ritual gravity while hinting at transgression (“spy”). In the divine dialogue—“Son, what hast thou done…?”—legal-economic lexis (from “on account of expectation” to “lakh of rupees” and “debtor”) recasts the money-lender as the one who owes; Ganesh’s verdict, “I… hold here fast by the heel,” fuses fiscal accountability with physical restraint. Finally, polysyndetic chaining (“and… and…”) propels events relentlessly, mirroring inescapable retribution. Together, these choices depict what happens to the money-lender as a swift, calculated entrapment by the sacred space he presumed to exploit.

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 typically identify personification and forceful verbs to show sudden divine entrapment, for example the temple floor "a crack... gaped" before it "caught him by the heel," as Ganesh vows to "hold here fast by the heel," presenting inescapable punishment. It would also comment on religious and sensory imagery—"darkness of the columns," the "dry rustle" of a "trunk uncoiling," and the archaic rebuke "Son, what hast thou done"—creating an ominous, judgmental mood, and on sentence form: the complex opener "Even as he was making his prayers" turning his "uneasy on account of expectation" into abrupt entrapment.

The writer uses personification and precise verbs to show the trap that befalls the money-lender. The “crack… gaped, and, closing, caught him by the heel.” “Gaped” and “caught” personify the floor as a mouth or hand, turning the temple into an agent of divine retribution. The temporal clause “Even as he was making his prayers” intensifies the shock of being seized mid-worship.

Furthermore, sensory imagery deepens the sacred menace. He “heard the Gods walking… in the darkness of the columns”: the noun “darkness” paired with “columns” creates a cavernous, solemn mood. The onomatopoeic phrase “dry rustle of his trunk uncoiling” makes Ganesh’s awakening audible and real, emphasising the Gods’ tangible power.

Moreover, diction exposes the money-lender’s wrongdoing. He goes “to spy upon the councils of the Gods”; the verb “spy” suggests secrecy and arrogance, so his capture feels deserved. The formal, archaic register—“what hast thou done”—lends authority, framing the scene as sacred judgement.

Additionally, direct speech clarifies his fate and reverses roles: “one half… has been paid, and the debtor for the other half I hold here fast by the heel.” Calling him “debtor” is ironic for a money-lender, and the adverb “fast” stresses his inescapable imprisonment within the temple.

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 personification and strong verbs to show sudden entrapment, as the floor gaped and caught him by the heel, making it seem like the temple grabs him. Simple sensory detail and dialogue like he heard the Gods walking, the dry rustle in the darkness of the columns, and Son, what hast thou done create a mysterious mood and show the Gods are in control of what happens to him.

The writer uses personification and powerful verbs to show the trap. The “crack between the stones of the floor gaped” like a mouth and then “caught him by the heel”. This makes him seem powerless and shocked, and the complex opening “Even as...” adds surprise. Earlier, the verb “spy” shows he is sneaky.

Furthermore, dark imagery suggests the Gods’ presence. The “darkness of the columns” gives a secret, threatening mood, and the sensory detail “the dry rustle of his trunk uncoiling” lets us hear Ganesh moving. This makes what happens feel real and scary inside the temple.

Additionally, the dialogue and formal diction show judgment. Shiv asks, “what hast thou done,” and Ganesh says he holds the “debtor... fast by the heel.” The money-lender, usually in control of debts, is now the debtor, so the language shows he is caught and punished in the temple.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple words like “uneasy” to show he is worried, and action verbs like “gaped” and “caught him by the heel” to show he is trapped, while sensory details such as “dry rustle” and “darkness of the columns” make the Gods seem real and threatening.

The writer uses personification to show what happens to the money-lender. The floor “gaped” and “caught him by the heel”, making the temple seem alive and trapping him. Furthermore, the phrase “darkness of the columns” is imagery that makes the setting scary. Moreover, the sound “dry rustle” lets the reader hear the trunk “uncoiling”, so it feels threatening. Additionally, the dialogue from the Gods, “what hast thou done” and “I hold here fast by the heel,” explains he is a debtor and shows why he is held. The long sentence adds suspense.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Foreboding tone via emotive lexis → foreshadows trouble as his anxiety builds (uneasy on account of expectation)
• Temporal-causal connective → creates inevitability and structured build-up to a turning point (Therefore at noon)
• Motive framed as transgression → secrecy and hubris heighten the sense he deserves retribution (to spy upon the councils)
• Subordinate time clause → simultaneity sharpens the shock of the trap springing mid-prayer (Even as he was making)
• Personification and dynamic verb choice → the temple floor feels predatory, suddenly threatening him (gaped)
• Aural imagery against a dark setting → unseen divine presence is felt more than seen, adding awe and menace (heard the Gods walking)
• Elevated, archaic register in divine dialogue → authority and solemnity underline judgment over him (what hast thou done)
• Sensory detail of Ganesh’s movement → the gods’ proximity becomes vivid and uncanny through sound (dry rustle of his trunk)
• Balanced phrasing → a measured, judicial tone presents events as a ledger of debt and repayment (one half of the money)
• Declarative closure → explicit divine control explains and justifies his restraint (hold here fast by the heel)

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 anticipation?

You could write about:

• how anticipation builds 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 perceptively tracks anticipation across the whole piece, showing how the framed oral opening (“Now, this is a new one”) and delaying interjections (“Which temple?”; “Oh father, was it thou?”) shift tone and defer revelation, while dramatic irony from the money‑lender “hidden among the marigolds” primes consequences. It analyses the rising structural pattern—a temporal countdown (“In three days”), cumulative escalation (“ten, fifty... rupees by the thousand... half a lakh”), and a late perspective shift to the temple’s crisis point (“caught him by the heel”)—before the retrospective divine explanation (“one half of the money has been paid... I hold here fast by the heel”) releases the tension.

One way the writer structures anticipation is through a frame narrative punctured by dialogic interruptions. The opening declarative, “Now, this is a new one which thou hast not heard,” acts as a proleptic hook, promising novelty yet withholding content. The story oscillates between mythic exposition (“Long and long ago...”) and the child’s interrogatives (“Which temple?”; “was it thou?”). This call-and-response quickens pace yet stalls progression, while the tonal contrast between the sacred register and homely asides keeps us waiting for the tale to begin, heightening curiosity.

In addition, temporal markers and accumulation create a countdown. The promise “In three days... one lakh of rupees” is tightened to “at noon of the third day,” a precise point the narrative circles toward. Focus shifts from Gods to human scheming: the bargaining escalates by incremental listing—“ten, fifty, and a hundred... by the thousand... half a lakh”—raising stakes while deferring the gift. We know Ganesh’s pledge, so dramatic irony makes us anticipate the money-lender’s fall. Focalisation then narrows in the temple: he is “caught... by the heel,” and the “dry rustle” he hears heralds the climax.

A further device is the cyclical return to the frame, which releases tension and completes the arc. After judgement, the focus swings back to the listener—“The child bubbled with laughter”—and the storyteller’s clipped coda, “thus Ganesh did his work,” functions as a moral epilogue. This controlled resolution, after foreshadowing, delay and disclosure, satisfies anticipation while implying more tales. Throughout, the sustained storyteller viewpoint drip-feeds information, managing shifts in focus, tone and pace to cultivate, then consummate, expectation.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would typically identify how the framed dialogue and interruptions (‘said the child’, ‘Oh father, was it thou?’) delay the main tale to build anticipation about the promised ‘one lakh of rupees’. It would also explain how chronological escalation (‘In three days’, rising bids ‘First, ten, fifty’ to ‘half a lakh of rupees’, and the timed pivot ‘at noon of the third day’) plus a perspective shift into the temple culminate in the sudden reveal ‘caught him by the heel’, creating a climactic payoff.

One way the writer creates anticipation is through a frame narrative and alternating dialogue that delays the tale. The hook, 'Now, this is a new one...', promises a story, while the child's interjections—'Which temple?' and 'Oh father, was it thou?'—shift focus and slow the pace. This controlled withholding by the storyteller makes the reader wait for the main event.

In addition, temporal markers create a ticking clock. Ganesh’s promise 'in three days' and 'at noon of the third day' structure the rising action and make us count down. The cumulative listing—'first, ten, fifty... then... by the thousand... half a lakh'—raises stakes and quickens pace. A shift to the temple’s 'darkness of the columns' darkens tone, signalling the climax.

A further structural choice is the delayed revelation at the climax, then a swift resolution. We first get partial sensory hints—'the dry rustle of his trunk' and the heel being 'caught'—before dialogue explains, sustaining suspense. Finally, the return to the frame (the child 'bubbled with laughter') and the brief denouement—'The money was paid at evening'—deliver closure. This movement from promise to build-up to payoff structures the whole text to keep the reader anticipating the outcome.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds anticipation by opening with a storyteller hook (Now, this is a new one) and using dialogue interruptions like Which temple? to delay the tale. Time markers (In three days, at noon of the third day) and the rising offers (First, ten, fifty, and a hundred rupees) build expectation until the twist when the crack caught him by the heel.

One way the writer structures anticipation is through the beginning. It starts with a storyteller and a child, and the dialogue (“Now, this is a new one…”, “Which temple?”) slows the start. These interruptions change the focus and delay the tale, making the reader curious about what will happen.

In addition, in the middle, time markers build a countdown: “in three days”, then “noon of the third day”. This time order creates pace and makes us wait. The list of offers (“ten, fifty, and a hundred rupees”) also builds the situation, so anticipation grows as we expect the promised lakh to arrive.

A further structural choice is to keep the outcome back until the end. The focus shifts to the temple and the money-lender’s trap, and only then is the reveal (“I hold here fast by the heel”). This ending releases the built-up anticipation, shown by the child’s laughter.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might note that the writer starts the story with Now, this is a new one, introduces a problem with But there was a money-lender, and uses time phrases like In three days and at noon of the third day to make us wait until the sudden moment when a crack...caught him by the heel.

One way the writer structures anticipation is in the opening. The narrator says “Now, this is a new one” and the child keeps asking questions. The dialogue delays the story and makes us wait.

In addition, time references build it up. We hear “in three days” and later “at noon of the third day”, like a countdown. This makes the reader expect something.

A further feature is a change of focus. It moves from the Gods to the money-lender and then into the temple, before the heel is caught. This creates a simple climax and keeps us waiting.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Framed oral storytelling opens with a promise → primes curiosity for an unheard tale → (thou hast not heard)
• Mythic time-setting then a present-day aside → widens scope and hints at unseen divine influence, building expectancy → (Long and long ago)
• Repeated child interruptions → delay the main narrative and keep the audience leaning forward → (Which temple?)
• Comic domestic digression within the frame → slows pace to tease the coming events of the sacred plot → (Thus they did to me)
• Prophetic deadline establishes a countdown → readers anticipate the promised windfall’s arrival → (In three days)
• Introduction of an eavesdropper → readers anticipate his scheme and its consequences through dramatic irony → (hidden among the marigolds)
• Incremental escalation of offers → steadily raises stakes and suspense as sums grow → (more and more)
• Strategic withholding after the bargain → subverts expectation to intensify anticipation for divine redress → (nothing from the Gods)
• Countdown reaches a decisive turn → a sudden entrapment delivers a sharp structural climax → (caught him by the heel)
• Switch to the Gods’ dialogue before outcome → prolongs suspense, then releases it with the final payment → (paid at evening)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 26 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the money-lender is trapped by the heel, the ending feels clever and satisfying. The writer suggests that extreme greed makes people foolish and brings about their own punishment.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the greedy money-lender
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray his downfall
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree that the ending is cleverly satisfying, arguing that the writer’s moral irony makes extreme greed foolish: the money-lender goes to "spy upon the councils of the Gods" but is "caught...by the heel", undone by the very scheme he contrived. It would analyse how religious spectacle and legal-financial diction fuse to deliver poetic justice—Ganesh’s "dry rustle of his trunk", naming him the "debtor", and the verdict "must pay to the uttermost", framed by the child’s "bubbled with laughter", affirm the writer’s viewpoint of self-inflicted punishment.

I agree to a great extent that the ending is both clever and satisfying, because the writer engineers a neat moral reversal in which the money-lender’s overreaching greed exposes his folly and precipitates his own punishment. Framed as a tale within a tale, Gobind’s narratorial voice and the mythic register of Shiv and Ganesh lend the story the feel of a didactic fable, priming us to expect ethical balance: “It shall be looked to,” promises Shiv, and the ending delivers on that assurance with precise symmetry.

From the outset, the money-lender is characterised evaluatively as “covetous” and “of a black heart,” a moral signposting that prepares us to relish his downfall. The writer uses cumulative listing and polysyndeton to chart his escalating avarice: he “sat all day” bidding “first, ten, fifty, and a hundred… and then… by the thousand,” until “half a lakh.” This relentless accretion mimics the compulsive momentum of greed and underlines his imprudence, especially since “he did not know when the Gods would pour down their gifts.” The financial lexis—“bond,” “debtor,” “paid”—constructs a semantic field of obligation that he attempts to weaponise against the mendicant. Ironically, he binds himself. Even the wife’s proverb, “The wolf runs through the corn for the sake of the fat deer,” casts greed in predatory imagery, and her later “shifted counsel” shows how temptation metastasises, implicating others in his scheme.

The pivot to punishment is engineered through striking structural and symbolic choices. At “noon of the third day” (a folktale-like temporal marker that creates inevitability), he invades the sacred space “to spy upon the councils of the Gods,” a hubristic act that marks his foolishness. The temple floor is personified—“a crack… gaped, and, closing, caught him by the heel”—and the precise body part suggests vulnerability, an Achilles-heel allusion that crystallises the idea that his flaw undoes him. Ganesh’s measured pronouncement completes the moral equation: “one half of the money has been paid, and the debtor for the other half I hold here fast by the heel.” The legal register is turned back on him; the punning inversion of “hold” (he who holds debtors is now held) feels exquisitely apt.

Finally, the tonal release—“The child bubbled with laughter”—encourages us to enjoy the poetic justice. The closing aphorism, “he whom the Gods hold by the heel must pay to the uttermost,” functions as a moral clincher, while the echoing imagery of “all silver, in great carts” mirrors the earlier “great white bullocks,” providing circularity and closure. Overall, the writer crafts a satisfyingly clever ending in which extreme greed renders the money-lender foolish, and divine justice ensures he is punished by the very mechanisms he tried to exploit.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, noting the money-lender is depicted as "covetous man, and of a black heart" whose escalating greed—"offering more and more", even "rupees by the thousand"—makes him foolish. It would point to the ironic, satisfying justice when he is "caught him by the heel" and Ganesh declares "I hold here fast by the heel", so he must "pay to the uttermost".

I agree to a large extent that the ending is clever and satisfying, because the money-lender’s own greed makes him reckless and ensures his punishment. From the outset of this section, the characterisation of the money-lender as “covetous” with a “black heart” frames him as morally flawed. The writer then uses structural escalation to expose his folly: his offers rise from “ten, fifty, and a hundred rupees” to “rupees by the thousand,” until he bids “half a lakh.” This cumulative listing builds tension and shows how greed overwhelms judgment, especially as he “did not know when the Gods would pour down their gifts.” His impatience—“uneasy on account of expectation”—pushes him to “spy upon the councils of the Gods,” a hubristic act that makes his downfall feel deserved.

The moment he is “caught... by the heel” is both vivid imagery and symbolic: the heel suggests a point of weakness, implying his own flaw traps him. The anthropomorphism of the deities—Ganesh’s “dry rustle of his trunk uncoiling” heard in “the darkness of the columns”—creates an ominous atmosphere of divine justice. The dialogue neatly delivers the twist: “one half of the money has been paid, and the debtor for the other half I hold here fast by the heel.” The balanced syntax and legal term “debtor” make the retribution feel precise and fair. There is also structural symmetry: earlier, the first payment arrives “in silver; great white bullocks bringing it by the cartload,” and at the end “The money was paid at evening, all silver, in great carts,” which gives satisfying closure. The child’s response—“bubbled with laughter”—and the storyteller frame keep the tone light, so the punishment comes across as just rather than cruel.

Overall, I agree that the writer suggests extreme greed makes people foolish and that it brings about their own punishment; through escalation, symbolism, and ironic reversal, the ending is both clever and morally satisfying.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, noting the money-lender is a covetous man of a black heart and showing simple understanding that greed makes him foolish: he went into the temple to spy upon the councils of the Gods. It would say the ending is satisfying because he is caught him by the heel and must pay to the uttermost, so his greed brings his own punishment.

I largely agree that the ending is clever and satisfying because the money-lender’s greed brings his own punishment. He is introduced with negative adjectives, “covetous” and “of a black heart,” so we distrust him. He hides “among the yellow marigolds” to overhear the Gods, showing sneaky behaviour. He pretends he has “learned to love” the mendicant, which is ironic because he only wants the lakh.

The writer shows his growing greed through escalation and listing: “first, ten, fifty, and a hundred… then… thousands… half a lakh.” This makes him look foolish, paying far more than the alms are worth. His “heart… was uneasy,” and he goes to “spy upon the councils of the Gods,” which suggests impatience and arrogance. The build-up prepares us for a fall.

The downfall is described vividly: “a crack… gaped, and, closing, caught him by the heel.” This personification makes it feel like the temple punishes him. The dialogue is witty when Ganesh says, “one half of the money has been paid, and the debtor for the other half I hold here fast by the heel.” Calling him a “debtor” fits his job and makes the justice feel exact. It is satisfying when “he whom the Gods hold by the heel must pay to the uttermost,” and the money comes “all silver, in great carts.” The child “bubbled with laughter,” encouraging us to enjoy the moral. Overall, I agree the writer shows that extreme greed makes people foolish and brings about their own punishment.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response will simply agree that greed brings its own punishment, noting the money-lender is a covetous man, and of a black heart, that he goes to spy upon the councils of the Gods, and that a crack caught him by the heel so he must pay to the uttermost.

I agree to a large extent that the ending is clever and satisfying. When the money-lender is trapped by the heel, it feels like he gets what he deserves. The writer shows that his extreme greed makes him act foolishly and brings his own punishment.

The writer presents him as greedy and bad through description: he is “covetous” and “of a black heart.” He tries to buy the mendicant’s “three days” while pretending to be kind. The rising list “ten, fifty, and a hundred… rupees by the thousand… half a lakh” shows his greed getting bigger. This repetition and the big numbers make him lose sense and act rashly. He even goes to “spy upon the councils of the Gods” because his “heart… was uneasy,” which seems foolish.

For the downfall, the writer uses a strong image: “a crack… caught him by the heel.” The verb “caught” feels like a trap. The dialogue of the Gods makes the justice clear: “I hold here fast by the heel.” The child’s “bubbled with laughter” also makes it feel light and satisfying. At the end, the “great carts” of silver show he pays back everything.

Overall, I agree that greed leads to foolishness and fair punishment in this ending.

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:

• Poetic justice through literal entrapment → the ending feels neat and deserved as greed literally ensnares the greedy → (caught him by the heel)
• Moral signposting in characterisation → labelling him a villain primes approval of his fate, boosting satisfaction → (black heart)
• Escalating offers structure excess → the rising bids expose reckless impatience, showing greed turning foolish → (by the thousand)
• Hubris in violating sacred space → his snooping reads as foolish overreach that calls down punishment → (to spy upon the councils)
• Dramatic irony via divine dialogue → clever twist as the would‑be cheat becomes the one who owes → (the debtor)
• Sensory presence of divinity → awe and inevitability make the capture feel inescapable and earned → (dry rustle)
• Aphoristic moral closes the case → a crisp maxim delivers justice and readerly closure → (must pay to the uttermost)
• Concrete restitution imagery → the visible rebalancing of wealth is gratifying and complete → (in great carts)
• Framing by a child’s delight → invites the reader to share the pleasure of just deserts → (bubbled with laughter)
• Irony in oily flattery earlier → his manipulative pose deepens the sense that the payback is justified → (learned to love thee)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local history archive is collecting creative pieces about personal memories of the area.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

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

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about returning to a place from childhood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Model Answers

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

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

Option A:

The gate hangs ajar, one hinge sighing in the thin wind, and the chain—rubbed smooth by hands that no longer come—dangles like a slack tongue. Grass shoulders through tarmac in a green archipelago; nettles bristle at the fence. Even so, the place makes a sound: a whisper of leaves against metal, the patient ticking of something loose.

The swings keep the rhythm. Only one moves. Without a child, it arcs shallowly, obedient to the breeze; the chains complain, an old song. Rust blooms brittle halos around the bolt holes. The seat is a black rubber jaw; it bites air, releases it, bites again—measured, stubborn—to and fro, to and fro. Beneath, the ground is tar polished by hundreds of feet, now starred with lichen and bottle-green puddles; yesterday’s rain gathers in a shallow mirror where a cloud trembles.

The slide waits. Its ladder rises at an angle, rungs worn to a gloss where small shoes queued; now there is only dust and a glaze of pollen. The chute is a strip of cold metal; beads of rain stitch its length into a bright seam. Paint scabs along the sides. From the side it looks beached, ribs showing: a patient whale that forgot to wake.

The roundabout, marooned, refuses to budge. Its handles stand like the spokes of a crown; a frayed ribbon knots one, the wind working it into haphazard semaphore. Push, and it groans, gives a grudging inch—then stops. Grit lives in the bearings, grinding softly. Nearby, the seesaw leans to the left; one end has settled into a shallow cup of earth, pinning a white feather that trembles and cannot fly.

Now it is a museum of small abandonments: a lone trainer, stiff with rain, gapes from the fence; a cracked yo-yo sleeps in nettles. Graffiti whitens on the shelter’s back wall—dates, an oath, a heart stabbed by an arrow. You can almost hear it: the kerosene burst of laughter, imperative squeals, parental calls rising and falling. Even the air tastes paler now: iron, the sweet rot of last summer’s leaves, the pepper of crushed nettle.

Beyond the railings, a path drifts between dog roses; a fox (thin as hunger) slips under the fence and leaves a sour thread of scent. Evening leans in; colours recede to sepia—moss, pewter, a tired blue. The swing takes a final, small arc and finds its centre. For a moment, everything holds its breath; then the place exhales.

Option B:

Salt settled on my tongue before the sea even appeared; the bus window offered only wheat-stubbled fields and a rag of sky, yet the taste arrived ahead of sight—sharp, clean, insistent—like the first bar of a song I hadn’t realised I still knew. When the road tilted over the brow, the town unfurled: slate roofs tipping toward a pewter strip, the pier black-ribbed and braced against the water, poking at the tide like a question posed too late.

The bus exhaled and I stepped into air that smelt of vinegar, tar and not-quite-rain. Gulls hung above the promenade, sulky and loquacious, their cries stitching the afternoon together. Even my feet remembered before I did; they found the dip in the kerb where I once launched a scooter into reckless flight, the loose flagstone that used to spit up a petty fountain after rain. Shopfronts had rearranged themselves (a bakery reborn as a boutique; a charity shop now gleaming with curated nostalgia), but the arcade still hummed, neon tired yet defiant, its open mouth gulping in coins and children.

Back then, we believed the pier never moved. We believed the sea held its breath for us—me, my brother, elbows scabbed, pockets clattering with stolen pebbles that we dignified as treasures. Now, the planks shivered faintly under my weight; the ironwork creaked, arthritic, and a rust-blossom had devoured one of the bolts to a fiery brown. This town is a palimpsest: every year writes over the last, yet the earliest script ghosts through. The bench where Mum opened a paper bag and the heat from sugared doughnuts scalded our fingers is still here, a scuffed green witness.

Inside the arcade, the light was both dim and gaudy. Machines coruscated; the air was sweet with candyfloss and the warm, metallic breath of money. The coin pusher chittered and shoved; a plastic keyring with a faded dolphin hovered on the edge, tantalising as ever. What do you do with the ache of recognition, with rooms that remember your laughter more precisely than you do? A boy trailed his father from machine to machine—eyes bright, shoelace undone—exactly as I had once done, thinking luck could be engineered by sheer attention.

Even so, the house was the heart. Halfway up the hill, past the harbour master’s office and the lamplit chippy, past hydrangeas the colour of bruised sky, it waited. The gate gave the same thin-metal complaint; the path kept its mosaic of cracked, crabbed concrete. Above the lintel, a horseshoe tilted for luck (although we never agreed which way luck should point). Ivy had thickened its fist around the downpipe; the letterbox clacked its familiar, juddering clack when I tested it—ridiculous rehearsal.

I had left; it had waited.

I reached for the key. It was heavier than memory, cool and certain in my palm; even the tiny notch where it once snagged a ribbon of skin seemed measurable and deliberate. The door swelled against the frame—stubborn, swollen, itself—and remembered where it stuck.

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

Option A:

The path that once guided small feet has vanished under a tangle of grass; pale blades lean as if listening. A thin wind crosshatches the field, worrying the seed heads and testing the old metal. At the centre, the swing frame stands skeletal, its once-bright paint scabbed, bolts furred with orange rust. The air tastes faintly metallic, like a coin held too long in the mouth; it smells of damp ropes and crushed nettles.

Only one swing remains. The other dangles by a single chain—twisted, questioning—while the survivor sits lopsided, a rubber seat cracked along its spine. When the gusts find the right angle, that seat moves, not quite a swing, more a shiver; it edges forward and then retreats, forward and then retreats, as if remembering the pattern but refusing the speed. The chains answer with a reluctant creak; not joyful, but rhythmic enough to be almost kind. Who would push it now?

Beyond, a slide pitches down into thistles, its metal skin dulled to a weary grey. A roundabout has sunk on one side, as if the earth is reclaiming the game; red bars are chalked with old graffiti, names that have bled into anonymity. The seesaw lies stranded, one end up, one end down, a posture of unfinished conversation. Nettles marshal at the edges; brambles lace themselves through the fence; dandelions stipple the gravel. This is a small museum of neglect: ordinary artefacts arranged by weather and time, curated by no one.

Listen: silence here is full. The field hisses with insects; a crow reports from the telegraph wire; somewhere, a can tumbles and rings and then goes still. On the air there is the cold tang of iron and the sweet, green damp of soil. Splinters fleck the wooden posts; flakes of paint lift like fish-scales under a fingernail. Touch anything and it answers—a brittle snap, a smear of red dust, a prick of nettle on the wrist—small reminders that the place is not asleep, only different.

The sky, on this afternoon, hangs low and bleached, as if it too is tired of colour. Shadows lie in long, cautious strips. It would be easy to imagine laughter here, to populate the empty benches with parents and bags and chatter; yet the truth is plainer, almost tender. The playground holds its space without complaint, letting weather write over it and rewrite: rain, sun, frost, rain again. It waits—if not for children, then for the uncomplicated company of the wind.

Option B:

Autumn. A season of return; hedgerows pricked with hawthorn, the air sharp with woodsmoke and rain, the fields breathing a pale fog that slides along the ditch like a cautious animal. It is the time when doors, once shut, are tried again; when drawers are pulled open and old things glance up, surprised to find the light still there. Coming back feels like revising a palimpsest: the present skims across the past, and both show through.

On the train I kept my hand on the small, scuffed suitcase, as if it might take fright and bolt. It was far lighter than the plastic bucket I used to drag along these same tracks in summer—shells clacking like loose teeth, a bent spade stuck in as a flag—yet it felt heavier; packed with the solid weight of expectation. Would the town have kept a version of me somewhere, folded and waiting, or had it shed me like an old skin? The carriage windows offered salt-silver glimpses: a wedge of sea, the staccato flash of gulls, the sudden dark of a cutting, then a torn flag of sky. The map in my mind, long neglected, uncurled itself lazily.

At Gull’s End—how grand that name had sounded to a child—we emptied onto the platform, and the wind carried a sibilant hiss that was unmistakable: the sea speaking in its difficult language. I took the lane down, my feet remembering without ceremony the places to avoid: the camber where water pooled; the cruel briar that hooked sleeves; the tilted milestone with its crusted lichen like frost frozen mid-thaw. Paint had peeled from the guest house railings in tired curls. The sweet shop—Mrs Keene’s, though it had been years since I’d dared to say her name aloud—had a fresh sign and the same bell, which lifted and dropped its little note as if to say, Still.

And then the pier. The boards had a darker patina than in my memory, tar-blackened and ribbed, exhaling brine and old creosote. Beneath, the water muscled and muttered; above, the gulls wheeled like untrimmed thoughts. I measured my steps without meaning to—three long planks to the ticket kiosk, two more to the place where the nail stuck up like a mean tooth. Once, long ago, I had tripped there, my knee flowering blood, my mother’s voice a thin ribbon in a wind I thought would lift me into the uncaring sky. It was curious: even the ache arrived on cue, a ghost of pain under the skin.

A chain hung across the entrance now, its links a dull grey; a sign declared, CLOSED FOR REPAIRS. Of course it was. Places of memory are always under repair. I stood with my hand on the cold metal and felt an unreasonable heat build behind my eyes. Somewhere deep in the pier’s spine, a loose plank slapped the water—familiar, percussive, like the clap my father made to call me back. The town bustled behind me; the sea kept speaking. I could turn away and pretend the gate was a final answer. Or I could climb.

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

Option A:

The gate hangs from one hinge, a tired jaw that has forgotten how to speak. Beyond it, the field has climbed back over the path; grass lashes the ankles, seeded heads nod, and the air smells of damp rope and iron. The afternoon is pale, almost silvery, and the playground waits.

A solitary swing lives under a leaning frame. Its chains are furred with rust; the seat is a black oval worn to dullness. A breeze arrives — careful at first, then bolder — and the swing gives a thin cry as it moves, back and forth, back and forth, slow as a clock trying to remember its rhythm. Once, colour screamed here: flaking paint in primary blues, a sign with cheerful rules. Now the letters fade; the painted sun's grin has bled into the grain.

Elsewhere, the roundabout is more puddle than paint, it holds a shallow sky. If you nudge it, it will turn a little and complain. The see-saw sits tilted like a crooked jaw; one handle is wrapped with bleached tape the sun has made brittle. The slide is a narrow spine, dented in the middle, split at the lip; nettles guard the ladder, daring anyone to try.

Everything has a second life here: spiderwebs string the monkey bars, a crust of lichen spreads on the bench, and chalk ghosts barely mark a hopscotch that leads nowhere. Creak answers creak; leaves clap; a plastic bottle rolls and stutters under the seat. From the road comes a droning hum, almost a laugh if you wanted it to be.

Sometimes a crow struts over bark chips, pecking at a wrapper; sometimes a fox prints the mud and slips between the posts. The fence keeps its slanting vigil. Nobody comes. At the gate, bindweed stitches the view shut. The swing slows; it seems to listen... then the field does what fields do — it breathes, it grows, it quietly takes everything back.

Option B:

Autumn. The time when trees let go; pavements gather copper coins of leaves; the air tastes faintly of bonfires. Every year something is surrendered, and today I came back to see what was left.

My old house waited at the end of the lane, narrower than I remembered. The gate, paint peeling in tired curls, leaned into the hedge as if eavesdropping. I held the brass key that had lived for years at the bottom of a drawer, familiar and heavy. It stalled in the lock, then turned with a stubborn, polite click. The door swung inward; the house released a breath I hadn’t known it was holding.

Light lay in strips across the floor; dust drifted lazily, like tiny snow in slow motion. The hallway smelt of polish and old apples and something else: damp cardboard. On the doorframe, inside, the pencil marks climbed in shaky ladders—Tom, 8; Tom, 10; the highest one crooked because I refused to stand still. My print was still in the chipped paint on the banister; it didn’t fit anymore.

In the kitchen the clock above the cooker had stopped at 3:17, as if time itself had taken a nap. A faded tea towel hung from the oven door. On the fridge a parrot magnet held a curling shopping list: milk, foil, birthday card. That last word tugged; a faint ache. What was I expecting—confetti, applause, some neat reunion with the past?

I edged the back door open. The garden blinked in the weak light. The lawn was a patchwork of moss and frost; the old apple tree leaned like a tired man. The rope-swing I had begged for dangled, its knots swollen and dark, its seat greened over. Everything was smaller.

Did it shrink, or did I simply grow?

A glint on the tiles pulled my eye: a glass marble, blue as a winter sky, lodged against the skirting. I knelt to coax it out; my knee clicked and complained. When it finally rolled warm into my palm, a laugh escaped—strange and recognisable.

Upstairs a floorboard creaked. The house settling, I told myself—still, I listened.

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

Option A:

The playground slumps at the edge of the overgrown field, as if tired of being looked at. It is quiet here. The wire fence is bent and sagging, the gate hanging by one hinge like a crooked grin. The swing frame leans; chains are scabbed with rust and the rubber seats are cupped with yesterday’s rain, grass already up the metal legs.

A faded sign tilts, its paint blistered; the cheerful cartoon has been scratched into a frown. The slide, once glossy, is chalky and dull, a pewter strip that catches a thin slice of light; beside it the climbing frame stands like a skeleton, already threaded with ivy. At the bottom, a shallow puddle lies green and still: insect skaters trace nervous circles there.

The wind threads through the chain links and makes a shy chime. The roundabout gives a reluctant shudder; leaves in its bowl spin, then stop. A seesaw sits stranded, one end heavy with mud, the other pointing upward like a quiet question. The wind nudges a single swing, back and forth, back and forth, in a slow arc; it creaks.

The air holds a smell: damp wood, flaking paint, old leaves and iron. A crow clicks its beak on the fence—then silence folds back in. Chalk ghosts tremble on the path, pale hopscotch squares half-erased by rain; a plastic spade lies bleached to the colour of bone, and none of it has anyone’s name on it now. It is not a place of laughter any more, but it keeps the shape of it; the playground waits while the grass does its slow work.

Option B:

Autumn again. The sycamores along our old street flicker like tiny flames in the wind, scattering brittle confetti over the pavement. I stop outside number twelve with my rucksack hung crooked on one shoulder, as if it never learned to sit right. The blue paint on the door has peeled to chalk; the brass letterbox wears a thin green crust. When I push the gate, it remembers me; it opens with a small, tired squeak that used to scare the cat.

In my head, the garden was huge—jungles and oceans—but now it is just a narrow path with tufts of grass like messy hair. We chalked galaxies on these slabs; we laid snow angels here and shivered until Mum called us in. I can almost taste her bitter marmalade and feel the iron warmth of the radiator after rain. The air smells of damp leaves and someone’s washing powder, oddly clean; it tastes wooden, or at least old. The window that held my bedroom is shaded by a blind the colour of tea. A spider has stitched a glimmering net between the crooked gatepost and the privet (and once, I would have blown it away, without thinking).

Only one thing is the same: the stump of the cherry tree by the wall, cut low, stubborn. I used to climb it. I used to sit there and watch the street. I used to imagine leaving and coming back braver and taller. Did I shrink, or did the house grow up without me? The path is narrower than I remember, it feels like someone folded it in half. My key is long gone. I rehearse a line I’ve heard people say: Sorry to bother you; I used to live here.

The bell is new—sleek, silver. Not our rattle. I lift my hand and pause. Footsteps move somewhere inside, a soft shadow crosses the hallway, and my heart does a small, foolish jump. Should I knock?

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

Option A:

The playground sits at the edge of an overgrown field, half-swallowed by tall grass and nettles. The sky is a pale, used-up blue, and a thin wind threads through the fence, smelling of rust and rainwater. A torn sign flaps from one nail; its faded warning a whisper now. Its hard to tell how long its been empty, but the silence has learnt the shape of it.

The swings are the first thing you notice. One seat hangs low, rubber split like a tired smile, the chains brown and stiff. When the wind moves, it answers with a thin squeak—back and forth, back and forth—although nobody touches it. Ivy has crawled up the frame like a careful snake.

To the left the slide tilts at a weary angle; the metal is dull and rough with flakes, old graffiti washed to ghost colours. At first the roundabout refuses to turn, I push my palm against it and it grinds with a low groan. Dry leaves scrape across the tarmac like boats on dark water. A pigeon bursts out of the climbing frame, startled, leaving a flutter of grey.

Beyond the bent gate a road stretches away, but no voices drift here. I picture small shoes and the click of laughter. Now the nettles own it; now the wind does. As I turn away, the swing gives one last creak, then stillness folds over the place like a thin blanket.

Option B:

The gate squeaked like it always did, a thin cry that made me stop. The paint, once sky-blue, was scabbed and peeling in long curls. Someone had tied a ribbon to the top bar; sun-faded, it fluttered, waving. I pressed my palm to the metal and felt the cold bite; it was as rough as a cat’s tongue. Did it always feel this small? I breathed in cut grass and rain, and the smell tugged at corners of me.

Beyond the gate, the playground stretched out—cracks like chalked rivers, the swings nudging each other with lazy creaks. The hall doors stood shut. When I was eight, we lined up two by two here, shoes squeaking, bell shouting over our giggles. I remember: the taste of milk that never seemed cold enough, the sting of a graze, the embarrassing warmth of a teacher’s praise. Now the bell was only a seagull, and my footsteps echoed too loudly.

I walked the old path to the oak at the field’s edge. We dared each other to climb higher; I fell once and cried, then laughed. Again and again, we ran the same loop, chasing, hiding, bursting back out like fireworks. It should have felt familar, but it didn’t—it was like a photograph that had shrunk in the wash. I wanted to turn back, but I kept going. I had come to see what was left. A sticker peeled on the bin, graffiti scabbed the wall, a faint heart scratched the bench. My name was still there, half scrubbed, half bold. Definately mine.

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

Option A:

The first thing I see is the swing. It hangs crooked over rough grass, as if tired. Tall weeds clutch the metal legs; burrs stick to my shoes. A thin wind breathes through the chains and they rattle, then fall quiet. The plastic seat is pale and scuffed, like a worn-out shoe, and it moves by itself: back and forth, back and forth. The whole place feels too big, the sky a flat grey lid.

At the edge, a slide leans with peeling paint. The ladder has a missing rung; my hand hovers, I can almost feel the cold. In the middle there is more: a roundabout that will not turn, a see-saw with one end buried, a sandpit swallowed by nettles. The fence yawns with a crooked gap—someone pushed through. On the wall the graffiti, names and a rough heart, is faded like it has been washed by years.

Finally I stand by the gate and look back. The air smells damp and a little sour, full of old wood and iron. A crow startles up—my chest jumps, silly really. I wait for a shout, for a laugh, for anything; nothing comes. Only the swing keeps moving, slowly, back and forth.

Option B:

Autumn. Leaves the colour of old gold drifted over the cracked pavement, and the wind tasted a bit metallic, like coins on the tongue. I stood outside the park where I spent most Saturdays, fingers on the same iron gate. The paint used to be bright; now it flaked off in thin curls.

My backpack felt heavier than it should, as if it carried all the years I'd tried to forget. I pushed the gate and it moaned - an embarrassed sound that made me smile. The swings moved slightly by themselves, a timid whisper. I used to fly on them, I used to jump off and pretend I could really soar. The climbing frame was smaller, shabbier, wrapped in nettles. On the old bench (the one with our names scratched underneath) a sticker still clung, wrinkled and brave. I reached out; the metal was ice cold, and memory came quick: scraped knees, fizzy drinks, Mum shouting, 'Don't be late.'

Then: sunlight through the chestnut leaves, the chip van bell, my brother racing me to the slide. Now: a crow's caw, the distant hum of a road. The place had shrunk, or maybe I've grown. Was it always this quiet? I took a breath and stepped in, uneasy but curious.

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

Option A:

The playground is empty and old. Just weeds and old metal.

The grass is long and wet, it brushes my legs and makes a hush sound. The sky is low, the air smells like metal and rain.

A swing hangs there and it moans, back and forth, back and forth.

The chains are brown and stiff and my hand gets orange when I touch them. I wipe it on my coat but it dont go. The slide is bent and dull, the ladder has a missing rung and it wobbles.

No kids, only a crow on the roundabout, then it flys off. There is graffiti but the letters are faded and I cant read them. My shoes sink in mud and the see saw sits lopsided and silent. It aint used no more.

I push the swing and it squeeks, it sounds like crying.

Option B:

The bus lets me off by the corner where the sweet shop used to be. The sign hangs crooked and dusty, like a old picture. I listen for kids shouting but there is only cars and soft rain.

I go back down the road to my first school. The gate look smaller than I rememberd. I put my hand on it. Once I ran here with a red lunch box and muddy knees. Mum shouted wait up and I laughed.

The tree by the fence is still there. Thick and quiet. I used to hide behind it, I used to count to ten. Do I go in? I want to see the classroom I want to see if my name is still carved under the desk.

The door is shut - of course it is. Paint peels like dry skin, time moved on and I did to.

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

Option A:

The playground is empty and old. The swing moves a bit in the wind, back and forward, back and forward, and it squeaks, that thin sound that goes in your ear. Rust on the chains and the seat is black and cracked. Long grass is around the legs and nettles sting. The slide is dull and wet, a dark line where rain runs. I think there was kids here once but now nobody comes. You can smell damp and mud. Then it is quiet like a whisper. I touch the frame and it is cold, it were like a stone.

Option B:

I came back to the old street. The houses look smaller than when I left, like toys. The gate squeaked, the paint is chipped, it smelled like wet leaves and dust and old rain. I think about when I was a kid, me and my brother running for the shop and our shoes slapping the path. The playground is still there. The slide is rusty and my hand comes away brown. My bag is heavy and I keep changing hands and I’m tired from the bus. A dog barks, like it knows me, like it says my name. I take a deep breath and I stand there.