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 Which birds had the narrator killed?: a hawk and two crows – 1 mark
• 1.2 What did the narrator come within sight of?: the mansion – 1 mark
• 1.3 From where does the narrator choose to view the mansion?: From a position next to the garden wall – 1 mark
• 1.4 Where did the narrator pause?: beside the garden wall – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 25 of the source:

6 change—except in one wing, where the broken windows and dilapidated roof had evidently been repaired, and where a thin wreath of smoke was curling up from the stack of chimneys. While I thus stood, leaning on my gun, and looking up at the dark gables, sunk

11 in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies, in which old associations and the fair young hermit, now within those walls, bore a nearly equal part, I heard a slight rustling and scrambling just within the garden; and, glancing in the direction whence the sound proceeded, I beheld a tiny hand elevated above the wall: it clung to the topmost stone, and then another

16 little hand was raised to take a firmer hold, and then appeared a small white forehead, surmounted with wreaths of light brown hair, with a pair of deep blue eyes beneath, and the upper portion of a diminutive ivory nose. The eyes did not notice me, but sparkled with glee on beholding Sancho, my

21 beautiful black and white setter, that was coursing about the field with its muzzle to the ground. The little creature raised its face and called aloud to the dog. The good-natured animal paused, looked up, and wagged his tail, but made no further advances. The child (a little boy, apparently about five years old) scrambled up to the top of the wall, and called again and again; but

How does the writer use language here to present the narrator’s idle reverie and the small child’s sudden appearance? 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 languid, meandering syntax and a textile metaphor for thought—“leaning on my gun,” “sunk in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies”—create dreamlike stasis that is punctured by auditory sibilance in “slight rustling and scrambling,” before a synecdochic, step-by-step reveal introduced by a colon and driven by polysyndetic repetition (“and then”)—“a tiny hand,” “another little hand,” “a small white forehead,” “deep blue eyes,” “diminutive ivory nose”—contrasts the “dark gables” with vivid innocence (“sparkled with glee”), while the echoed motif of “thin wreath of smoke”/“wreaths of light brown hair” suggests life quietly threading into the narrator’s introspection.

The writer establishes the narrator’s idle reverie through languorous syntax and delicate metaphor. The participial phrase "stood, leaning on my gun" and the adjective "idle" slow the rhythm. "Weaving a tissue of wayward fancies" figures thought as fragile fabric; "tissue" suggests fineness, "wayward" meandering. A "thin wreath of smoke... curling" personifies soft, looping calm.

This calm is punctured by sound and incremental revelation. The sibilant, onomatopoeic "slight rustling and scrambling" snaps him out of trance, while the colon in "I beheld a tiny hand...: it clung..." signals amplification. Polysyndetic, cumulative syntax—"and then... and then"—enacts the ascent, creating immediacy and surprise.

Moreover, synecdoche and tender colour imagery render the child’s arrival benign. Part-by-part glimpses—"tiny hand," "small white forehead," "deep blue eyes," "diminutive ivory nose"—miniaturise him; the material noun "ivory" and purity of "white" and "blue" connote innocence. The repeated "wreaths" (smoke, then "wreaths of light brown hair") form a lexical echo, binding homely warmth to the child.

Additionally, gentle anthropomorphism softens the encounter: the eyes "sparkled with glee" and the "good-natured" dog performs a courteous tricolon—"paused, looked up, and wagged." The dynamic verb "scrambled" and repetition "again and again" convey irrepressible energy. Thus language shifts from dreamy languor to lively, innocent intrusion, presenting the reverie and the child’s appearance with vivid precision.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer conveys the narrator’s dreamy detachment through a long, flowing sentence and soft imagery, showing he is 'sunk in an idle reverie' with the metaphor 'weaving a tissue of wayward fancies' and the gentle motion of 'thin wreath of smoke... curling'. In contrast, dynamic verbs and incremental detail ('slight rustling and scrambling', 'a tiny hand... then another little hand', 'deep blue eyes', 'sparkled with glee'), plus the colon after 'I beheld a tiny hand' and the warm description of the dog ('good-natured... wagged his tail'), make the child’s sudden appearance vivid and playful.

The writer uses metaphor and sentence form to present the narrator’s idle reverie. The phrase “sunk in an idle reverie”, with the participial detail “leaning on my gun, and looking up at the dark gables”, creates a languid pace. The metaphor “weaving a tissue of wayward fancies” suggests delicate, intricate thoughts, while the image of “a thin wreath of smoke… curling” creates gentle motion and a domestic calm. The long, complex sentence beginning “While I thus stood...” mirrors his drifting mind and postpones interruption.

Furthermore, the child’s appearance is made sudden and vivid through dynamic verbs and incremental description. The auditory “slight rustling and scrambling” breaks the trance, and the colon in “I beheld a tiny hand: it clung...” gives an instant visual reveal. The cumulative listing—“tiny hand… another little hand… small white forehead… deep blue eyes… diminutive ivory nose”—uses diminutives and visual imagery to stress innocence. Moreover, repetition of “and then” quickens the pace, while the personification “eyes… sparkled with glee” conveys delight. Thus, these choices contrast the narrator’s dreamy stillness with the lively, unexpected arrival of the child.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would spot that dreamy imagery and gentle verbs like 'idle reverie', 'weaving a tissue of wayward fancies' and 'thin wreath of smoke was curling up' create a slow, reflective mood. It would also notice the shift to descriptive detail and energetic action—'tiny hand', 'sparkled with glee', 'scrambled up to the top of the wall', 'called aloud'—to show the child’s sudden, lively arrival, with the long, flowing sentence mirroring drifting thoughts before quicker movement.

The writer presents the narrator’s idle reverie with calm, dreamy language. Adjectives like “dark gables” create a quiet, slightly gloomy mood, and the metaphor “sunk in an idle reverie, weaving a tissue of wayward fancies” shows he is daydreaming and drifting. The long, flowing sentence with -ing verbs (“leaning,” “looking”) slows the pace, making it feel peaceful.

Furthermore, the small child’s appearance is introduced through sudden sound: “a slight rustling and scrambling,” which breaks the calm and suggests quick movement. The writer then lists details—“tiny hand,” “another little hand,” “small white forehead,” “deep blue eyes,” “diminutive ivory nose”—to build up a gradual reveal, emphasising how little and innocent he is.

Additionally, “sparkled with glee” and “called again and again” show the boy’s excitement, while the dog “wagged his tail,” making the scene lively and warm. Therefore, the language moves from calm dreaming to quick, joyful action.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses describing words like "idle reverie" and "dark gables" to show the narrator daydreaming, and the long, flowing sentence helps create a slow, dreamy mood. Action words and repetition such as "rustling", "scrambling", "sparkled with glee", and "called again and again" make the small child’s sudden, lively appearance clear.

The writer uses metaphor to present the narrator’s daydream. The phrases “idle reverie” and “weaving a tissue of wayward fancies” show he is drifting and unfocused. Furthermore, adjectives like “tiny,” “little,” and “small” describe the child and make him seem delicate. Moreover, action verbs such as “rustling,” “scrambling,” and “clung” suggest a sudden, lively arrival. Additionally, the repetition of “and then” and “again and again” increases the pace to show excitement. Finally, “sparkled with glee” is emotive language that makes the child appear happy and innocent.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Metaphor of mental fabrication presents dreamy absorption and fragility in thought: the mind is actively making delicate imaginings (tissue of wayward fancies)
• Lexis of passivity and immersion emphasizes lethargic mood and depth of daydreaming (sunk in an idle reverie)
• Physical posture underscores stillness and inactivity, reinforcing the unalert, reflective state (leaning on my gun)
• Auditory imagery signals an external intrusion that punctures the reverie, shifting focus from inner to outer world (slight rustling)
• Cumulative syntax and staged reveal build suspense as the child emerges part by part, aided by repeated connectors and a revealing pause (then another little hand)
• Visual contrast moves from gloom to brightness, highlighting innocence breaking into the scene (small white forehead)
• Diminutives accumulate to create tenderness and vulnerability, shaping a gentle, affectionate tone (diminutive ivory nose)
• Focalisation through the child’s delight at the dog injects energy and immediacy, replacing introspection with lively attention (sparkled with glee)
• Tricolon plus adversative conjunction moderates excitement and sustains distance between child and dog, maintaining tension (made no further advances)
• Repetition conveys persistence and eagerness, quickening rhythm to match the child’s lively calls (again and again)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how alienation 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 track a whole-text progression, showing how focus narrows from exterior detachment—he paused beside the garden wall, thinking of the fair young hermit... within those walls—to a tentative connection in the tiny hand, before a sharp tonal and pace shift with a piercing shriek and the click of the iron gate as Mrs. Graham darted upon me. It would analyse how repeated barriers (wall, gate, the cherry-tree that kept him suspended) and the final social recoil—her proud, chilly look, she withdrew, leaving him angry and dissatisfied—structure an intensifying alienation.

One way the writer structures alienation is by opening with an outsider’s viewpoint and repeated thresholds. The narrator “paused beside the garden wall” and “did not like to go quite to the front,” keeping himself literally beyond the gate while “the new inhabitant” remains unseen. The narrative then zooms in by degrees—“a tiny hand… another little hand… a small white forehead”—a staged, partial reveal that sustains distance; even the child’s “eyes did not notice me.” In his reverie he names her a “fair young hermit,” a proleptic label that preconditions us for withdrawal.

In addition, a sharp shift in pace and focus intensifies estrangement. The meandering description breaks into action (“in an instant I had dropped my gun”), then an auditory pivot—“a click of the iron gate”—announces intrusion. Direct speech erupts—“Give me the child!”—whose curt imperative and “startling vehemence” overturn the tentative connection formed by the rescue and the dog. This structural juxtaposition of pastoral calm with defensive confrontation recasts the narrator as a contaminant “in my touch,” dramatizing his social exclusion.

A further structural choice is strategic withholding, culminating in a cyclical close. Recognition briefly softens her—“I beg your pardon”—but the tightly sustained first‑person focalisation keeps her motives opaque. Almost at once the “proud, chilly look” returns, she withdraws “without another word,” and the barrier is reinstated. The extract ends where it began—with the narrator outside and alone, “returned home, angry and dissatisfied”—an unresolved ending that loops back to exteriority and leaves character and reader suspended in alienation.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer structures alienation as a steady progression: starting with the narrator outside the boundary (paused beside the garden wall, in idle reverie), the focus narrows to the child (tiny hand) before the pivotal intrusion (click of the iron gate) and Mrs. Graham’s vehemence (Give me the child!, as if some dire contamination), reasserting distance. Shifts in tone then seal the estrangement, moving from brief conciliation (I beg your pardon, sir) to a proud, chilly look and the curt farewell (Good-morning, Mr. Markham), ending with the isolated return (I returned home, angry and dissatisfied).

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of alienation is by positioning the narrator outside and sustaining physical barriers. He “did not like to go quite to the front,” pausing “beside the garden wall,” which immediately establishes distance. The focus then zooms, piecemeal, on the child’s “tiny hand” and “small white forehead” over the wall, a fragmented view that keeps both narrator and reader excluded from the house.

In addition, there is a sharp shift in pace and tone that marks social estrangement. The auditory pivot—“a click of the iron gate”—introduces Mrs Graham, and direct speech, “Give me the child!”, delivered with “startling vehemence,” breaks the gentler mood. The contrast between his rescue and her response—she “snatched him… as if some dire contamination were in my touch”—heightens alienation, while short clauses and dashes accelerate the rupture.

A further structural feature is the sustained first-person viewpoint leading to an unresolved, circular return to isolation. She departs “without another word,” and he “returned home, angry and dissatisfied.” The recurrence of her “proud, chilly look” from church links back to earlier exclusion, and the withheld explanation—“I could scarcely tell you why”—keeps the ending open, extending alienation beyond the scene.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would notice that at the beginning the narrator paused beside the garden wall, showing he is kept outside, then the click of the iron gate and "Give me the child!" shift the scene into confrontation. By the end, her proud, chilly look, her exit (withdrew), and his "returned home, angry and dissatisfied" show a simple progression that deepens the alienation.

One way the writer structures the text to create alienation is at the beginning. The narrator stays outside the mansion and ‘did not like to go quite to the front’, pausing at the wall and gate. This places him on the edge, with barriers in the setting, so he looks in but is not included.

In addition, in the middle the focus shifts from the house to the child’s ‘tiny hand’, briefly softening the mood. But the sudden ‘click of the iron gate’ and the move into dialogue change the tone. Mrs Graham ‘snatched him from me, as if some dire contamination’, so kindness is rejected.

A further structural point is the ending. After a short exchange, her ‘proud, chilly look’ returns and she withdraws, while he ‘returned home, angry and dissatisfied’. This leaves the characters apart. The first-person perspective keeps us in his outsider view, making the alienation stronger.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies that it starts with the narrator outside the house, 'paused beside the garden wall' seeing 'no change'. Notes a sudden shift when Mrs. Graham orders 'Give me the child!', then she leaves 'without another word' and he is 'angry and dissatisfied', which simply shows alienation growing.

One way the writer structures alienation is by starting with the narrator outside the house. He “paused beside the garden wall” and won’t go to the gate. This keeps him apart.

In addition, the focus shifts to the child and dog, then to Mrs Graham, who “snatched him from me.” This sudden change in focus and action shows rejection and makes the narrator feel shut out.

A further structural feature is the ending. The dialogue “Good-morning” and the final line “I returned home, angry and dissatisfied” close the scene with distance, so the mood moves to coldness and alienation.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Threshold framing at the start positions the narrator as an outsider; standing aside sets an initial distance from the house and its people (paused beside the garden wall).
• Shift from observation to daydreaming intensifies separation; imagining rather than engaging underscores his exclusion from the resident’s world (fair young hermit).
• Incremental, part-by-part reveal of the child over the wall structures the encounter as obstructed and one-sided; even sight ignores presence (did not notice me).
• Repetition marks failed connection; the boy’s calls and the dog’s limited response keep the narrator peripheral to the action (again and again).
• The delay created by the child’s entanglement literalises in-betweenness; hanging neither side of the wall mirrors social disconnection (kept him suspended).
• Abrupt intrusion shifts tone from rescue to rejection; the mother’s seizure of the child casts the narrator as contaminating other and excludes him (snatched him from me).
• Brief tonal softening offers only a fragile respite; apology and blush modulate tension without dissolving the barrier (suddenly calming down).
• Rapid reversal after his smile restores distance; her expression hardens into proud reserve that shuts him out (proud, chilly look).
• The curt farewell and swift retreat complete a withdrawal pattern; he is left isolated with unresolved, unnamed dissatisfaction (without another word).
• Recurring boundary markers (wall, tree, gate) punctuate the scene; audible and physical thresholds enforce separation between spaces and people (click of the iron gate).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 36 to the end.

In this part of the source, where Mrs Graham snatches the child back, her reaction seems extreme and hostile. The writer suggests that this powerful response is driven by her instinct as a mother rather than any real anger at the narrator.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Mrs Graham's extreme and hostile reaction
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest Mrs Graham's powerful maternal instinct
• 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 writer frames Mrs Graham’s apparent hostility as instinctive maternal protection, analysing how dynamic verbs and oxymoronic contrast — "darted upon me", "snatched him from me, as if some dire contamination were in my touch", and "voice scarce louder than a whisper, but with a tone of startling vehemence" alongside "pale, breathless, quivering with agitation" — foreground instinct over malice. It would also evaluate the structural shift as she "suddenly calming down,—the light of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit", with a "faint blush" and "half-embarrassed laugh", supporting the writer’s viewpoint while noting the return of the "proud, chilly look" and "repellent scorn" as complicating evidence of lingering guardedness.

I largely agree with the statement: the episode reads as extreme and hostile on the surface, but the writer carefully codes Mrs Graham’s outburst as a reflexive, protective surge of maternal instinct rather than a calculated anger at the narrator.

From the moment the “click of the iron gate” and “rustle of female garments” announce her entrance, the sound imagery and kinetic verb “darted” create breathless urgency. Her appearance—“neck uncovered, her black locks streaming in the wind”—coupled with the imperative “Give me the child!” establishes a dramatic, almost feral protectiveness. Crucially, the voice is “scarce louder than a whisper,” yet carries “startling vehemence”: this deliberate juxtaposition functions like an oxymoron, suggesting intensity compressed by self-control, an instinctive surge channelled into the minimal volume needed to soothe rather than startle the boy. The simile “as if some dire contamination were in my touch” is hostile in effect, but its target is the imagined threat, not Markham personally; it conveys the exaggerated danger a mother’s mind conjures in a crisis. Her body language—“one hand firmly clasping his, the other on his shoulder”—is a protective brace, and the asyndetic triad “pale, breathless, quivering with agitation” foregrounds physiological shock (adrenaline) rather than sustained anger.

Structurally, the passage executes a sharp volte-face: she is “suddenly calming down,” with “the light of reason seeming to break upon her beclouded spirit.” Through this metaphor of cloud and illumination, filtered via Markham’s focalisation, the writer reframes the earlier extremity as instinct eclipsing judgment. The “faint blush,” the immediate “I beg your pardon, sir,” and the tender actions—she “stooped to kiss the child” and “fondly clasped her arm round his neck”—all temper the hostility and align with maternal contrition. Even her “half-embarrassed laugh” after the kidnapping jibe signals self-awareness rather than animus.

However, the later reversion to a “proud, chilly look… of repellent scorn,” prompted by Markham’s smile, complicates the picture. This coolness feels less maternal and more principled reserve or social defensiveness. Notably, it is heavily mediated by the narrator’s evaluative lexis—“unspeakably roused my aversion,” “more provoking… because I could not think it affected”—and his closing admission that he returns “angry and dissatisfied—I could scarcely tell you why” invites us to question his reliability. The hostility that remains seems contingent and decorous, not the raw force seen at the snatching.

Overall, then, the writer crafts an initial response that is undeniably extreme, but its texture—onomatopoeia, kinetic verbs, paradoxical vocal description, protective proxemics, and a structural pivot into apology—marks it as a mother’s instinctive defence, rather than genuine anger at Markham. Any lingering froideur belongs to a different register of reserve, not to the maternal surge.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree that Mrs Graham’s extreme reaction is driven by maternal instinct rather than personal anger, citing the imperative "Give me the child!", the violent "snatched", and physiological detail "pale, breathless, quivering", then noting "suddenly calming down" and the "light of reason" as evidence of a misunderstanding. It would also acknowledge some lingering hostility or pride in the "proud, chilly look" and "repellent scorn", showing tension towards the narrator remains.

I largely agree with the statement. Mrs Graham’s reaction initially appears extreme and hostile, but the writer presents it as an instinctive, protective response rather than deliberate anger at the narrator.

At the moment of crisis, the writer’s choice of dynamic verbs—“darted,” “seizing,” “snatched”—creates a sudden, almost feral urgency. The visual imagery of her “neck uncovered” and “black locks streaming in the wind” reinforces a raw, maternal energy. The juxtaposition in her speech—“a voice scarce louder than a whisper, but with a tone of startling vehemence”—suggests contained but powerful emotion. Most telling is the simile “as if some dire contamination were in my touch,” which hyperbolically frames the narrator as a potential threat; this exaggeration aligns with instinctive fear rather than reasoned hostility. Her posture—“one hand firmly clasping his, the other on his shoulder”—is protective body language, and the physiological detail “pale, breathless, quivering with agitation” indicates panic more than anger.

Structurally, the passage then pivots. The adverbial “suddenly calming down,” supported by the metaphor “the light of reason… break upon her beclouded spirit,” marks a tonal shift from instinct to reflection. Polite direct address—“I beg your pardon, sir”—along with a “faint blush” and “half-embarrassed laugh,” shows contrition. The tender verbs as she “stooped to kiss the child” and “fondly clasped” him emphasise maternal affection, not hostility toward Markham. The interrupted syntax and dashes convey breathless reconsideration, underscoring that her vehemence was impulsive.

However, the final return to a “proud, chilly look” and “repellent scorn,” and the abrupt “Good-morning, Mr. Markham,” reintroduce distance. This feels less like anger about the rescue and more like social reserve or pride, filtered through the narrator’s evaluative perspective.

Overall, to a large extent I agree: the immediate “snatching” is an extreme but instinctive maternal defense, while any lingering coldness seems rooted in character and decorum rather than genuine fury at the narrator.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would partly agree with the writer, pointing to the imperative "Give me the child!", the verb "snatched him from me" and the emotive detail "pale, breathless, quivering with agitation" to show an extreme, protective reaction. It would also note simple evidence of maternal instinct when she "suddenly calming down", says "I beg your pardon, sir" and "fondly clasped her arm round his neck", implying she is protective rather than truly angry with the narrator.

I mostly agree with the statement. Mrs Graham’s reaction does seem extreme and hostile at first, but the writer mainly shows it as a protective, maternal instinct rather than real anger at the narrator.

At the moment she arrives, the choice of verbs makes her seem fierce and urgent: she “darted upon me” and “snatched him,” which feels abrupt and aggressive. The simile “as if some dire contamination were in my touch” suggests fear for the child’s safety and purity, not hatred of Mr Markham personally. The description “pale, breathless, quivering with agitation” and her “large, luminous dark eyes” creates vivid imagery of panic. Even her voice, “scarce louder than a whisper” yet with “startling vehemence,” shows controlled but intense emotion, which I read as alarm rather than anger.

However, the structure quickly shifts. She “suddenly” calms, apologises (“I beg your pardon, sir”), and even blushes. This change, and the tender actions—she “stooped to kiss the child” and “fondly clasped her arm round his neck”—underline her maternal focus. The “half-embarrassed laugh” also implies she knows she misjudged the situation, so the hostility wasn’t truly directed at him.

That said, later she “assumed again that proud, chilly look” and “repellent scorn” after his smile. This suggests some personal coldness, but it comes after the danger has passed and seems linked to pride or reserve, not the earlier maternal panic.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents the snatching as an instinctive protective reaction, with any real hostility appearing later and for different reasons.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Level 1: Simple agreement that Mrs Graham’s reaction is protective rather than truly angry, citing basic phrases like “Give me the child!” and “snatched him” as evidence of maternal instinct. May also briefly note her quick apology “I beg your pardon” and that she “kiss the child,” with minimal or no comment on the writer’s methods.

I mostly agree with the statement. When Mrs Graham snatches the child, she seems extreme and hostile, but it looks like a mother defending her son.

At the start, the writer uses the verb “darted” and says her “black locks streaming,” which gives a fast, fierce image. Her speech is “scarce louder than a whisper” but with “startling vehemence,” showing strong feeling. She “snatched him… as if some dire contamination were in my touch.” That simile makes it seem like she fears harm, so her instinct is to pull him away. The list “pale, breathless, quivering” shows panic rather than anger.

After he explains, she “suddenly” calms and says “I beg your pardon.” She blushes and “fondly clasped” the boy and kisses him, which is tender, motherly imagery. The “half-embarrassed laugh” also suggests she isn’t really furious with Markham.

However, near the end, she gets a “proud, chilly look” and shows “repellent scorn,” which sounds hostile to the narrator personally.

Overall, I mostly agree: her reaction is mainly protective and maternal, though some real hostility appears at the end.

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:

• Dynamic verb and dishevelled entry → sudden, extreme protectiveness reads as instinct, not malice (darted upon me)
• Low volume with intense force → whisper plus intensity implies fear-driven control rather than fury (startling vehemence)
• Contamination framing of the snatch → hyperbolic aversion heightens urgency to shield the child’s body (dire contamination)
• Protective, anchoring grip → firm, possessive touch prioritises safety over confrontation (one hand firmly clasping his)
• Physiological distress → bodily signs of shock justify the extremity as panic, not personal hostility (pale, breathless, quivering)
• Rapid reappraisal and apology → reflex gives way to reason, showing no sustained anger at him (I beg your pardon)
• Immediate tenderness to the child → affectionate reassurance confirms a maternal motive post-crisis (stooped to kiss the child)
• Return of froideur toward narrator → later hauteur suggests some genuine disdain beyond maternal instinct (proud, chilly look)
• Narrator’s unsettled response → her manner leaves a hostile impact on him, complicating a purely instinctive reading (angry and dissatisfied)
• Self-aware humour after the scare → embarrassment signals recognition of overreaction, supporting the instinct-first view (half-embarrassed laugh)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

To celebrate the opening of a new nature reserve, organisers are inviting creative writing to display in the visitor centre.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a wildlife observation hide from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a long wait.

(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 hide crouches at the fringe of the marsh, a dark, weather-scabbed box braced on stilts, as if the land had grown a ribcage to keep a small secret from the wind. The path to it is a stitched line of boards, silvered and slick; they yield a patient creak with each footfall, releasing the salt-sour breath of creosote and damp lichen. Beyond, the water lies like pewter hammered flat, nerving itself against a thin, insistent breeze that combs the reedbeds until they whisper in one long, sibilant sentence.

From outside, the building pretends indifference. Narrow slits blink along its flanks; a corrugated roof shivers under the feathery thrum of rain that arrives before the clouds seem ready. It sits like a sentinel—perhaps too obvious an image—yet the notion clings: squat, watchful, uncomplaining. The door is stubborn and sticky; the grain has swelled, and when it finally yields, it does so with a resigned sigh, as though disapproving of lateness.

Inside: hush. It pools in the corners, brown with shadow. The plank bench remembers every visitor in the shallow cupping of its boards; there are nicks like small constellations where binoculars have been set down, a pale ring where a thermos cooled, notes in pencil left in a logbook that is soft at the edges from wet thumbs. A pen dangles from a string—always there, always almost out of ink. Cobwebs hold beads of old mist; they tremble when the door snicks shut, then become invisible again. Dust shines and dims as a cloud slides past. You find yourself matching your breath to the rhythm of the place: listen; wait; breathe.

Meanwhile, the windows narrow the world into purposeful strips. Through one, a heron stands, a hinge of slate hunched over its own reflection, lifting its feet with sacerdotal solemnity. Through another, lapwings seam the air, stitched back and forth on black-and-white thread; their calls are saw-edge and sweet. There is the plosive plop of something unseen, the neat V-drift of teal cutting a path that heals behind them, the dragonflies—anodised needles—flickering into and out of relevance. A reed warbler rattles like a miswound toy; from somewhere deep and bog-dark, the bittern issues its boom, a sound that seems too ancient for these fragile walls to hold.

Here, even the light behaves differently. It arrives low, late, honey-thick, and it kneads the rim of the viewing slit until the grain glows; it makes a theatre of the tiny, turning a smear of mud on the sill into topography, a single feather into cartography. And yet, for all that gilding, the hide keeps its manners; it reduces you to a silhouette, a quiet audience member, a pupil again. You might think of chapels—of pews, of psalms—or of a camera obscura, of the world reversed and scaled down. The analogy risks being too grand, perhaps, but the hush invites it.

Others have been here. Their words coil in the log: “curlew at dawn”; “otter—maybe?”; “windy but worth it.” The pages make a palimpsest of patience. There are smudges where a raindrop fell, a crude sketch of a snipe mid-drill, a date ringed twice for no clear reason. Consequently, you belong to a quiet lineage—a murmuration not of birds but of watchers—each lending their hour, their careful silence, their small heat. Outside, the marsh continues its rehearsal as if you were not here at all.

And the hide, knowing this, settles a little deeper into the reeds. It waits. It teaches you how.

Option B:

Time did not tick in the waiting room so much as thicken. The second hand dragged its red foot around the clock’s pale face and, with an almost shy click, admitted another second. The strip-lights hummed—a tired, insect hum—and their pallid sun lay across the scuffed lino in exacting panels. Chairs faced one another in obedient rows; a drooping plant held its breath; a television played without sound, its captions crawling like small, patient insects. Even the air had an antiseptic bite, so clean it burned.

Maya waited.

Her paper cup cooled between her palms until it felt like the idea of a drink rather than the thing itself. The coffee had that faintly metallic taste of vending machines, an aftertaste that lingered. On the far side of the room, a man jiggled his knee in a strict rhythm; a little boy drew loops on a leaflet with a blunt crayon, his mother’s hand resting—feather-light, possessive—on his shoulder. There was a cough, a whisper, the turn of a page. Every sound seemed magnified, framed, as if the room were a theatre and silence the lead actor.

When the double doors had swung inward—softly, implacably—her father had turned, his mouth doing that wry twist it always did when he wanted to say This is nothing. He had squeezed her fingers. “Routine,” he had said, using the smallest, bravest word. Routine: a preposterous label for the serrated unknown. The doors sighed shut; his outline dissolved; she was left holding the indentation of his last touch, like a print in wet sand.

After a while—ten minutes, thirty, an hour; the arithmetic of waiting is slippery—she began to compute time by other units. By the number of steps a nurse took down the corridor before vanishing. By the rings drying into ochre moons on the table. By the way the patch of sunlight on the skirting board edged forward, ineluctably, as if ashamed of its own impatience. She counted the vowels in the poster about hand hygiene; she followed the fragile thread of a spider’s web that had stitched a corner of the window, gossamer against glass that looked perpetually cold.

Waiting is a kind of work.

Still, it made her restless. She wanted to move, to do anything useful, to unscrew a light fitting, to reorganise the leaflets by colour, to press her ear to the wall and eavesdrop on the heartbeat of the building. Instead, she sat, arranging and rearranging the ends of her cobalt scarf so they lay in clean lines, then messy ones, then clean again.

A nurse appeared—a flutter of navy, a clipped smile. Every head lifted (Maya’s breath hopped in her throat). “Mrs Turner?” A woman two rows over stood, relief flooding her face in a quick tide, and the room exhaled. The door absorbed them, and silence pooled once more.

Outside, rain stippled the windows; the car park became a blurred palette, vehicles lacquered with water. Inside, the clock performed its slow acrobatics. The waiting room was a world bracketed from weather, a place where minutes had a geometry and hope sat, contradictory, with fear. Time pooled and then snagged, like a thread on a nail; it was both smooth and abrasive. What did people do with themselves in these suspended hours, in these liminal corridors between Before and After?

Maya let her shoulders sink, then straightened. When the doors finally opened for her, she told herself, she would not stumble. She would stand; she would be the first kind of brave. For now, she watched the seconds assemble—quietly, methodically, almost kindly—into something like an hour.

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

Option A:

The hide hunkers at the marsh’s edge, a squat silhouette stitched into the seam between land and water. Weathered larch boards, silvered by weather, overlap like scales; nail heads glint, scattered constellations in the grain. A narrow ramp — ribbed and damp — climbs to a door that sticks before yielding. Behind, reeds bow and gossip, their sibilant voices shivering across reflective water; ahead, the horizon is a thin, hard line pared by sky.

Inside, the smell is a quiet mixture: creosote, moss, salt and old boots. The floor complains in soft groans; benches run along the walls, their edges rounded by years of waiting. Carved initials, a heart, a year: a discreet archaeology. Notices are pinned — a chart of silhouettes, a child's kingfisher — curling at the corners. Dust floats in slow choreography where light falls through narrow slits. A shutter lifts; the hinge exhales; the room becomes a camera, framing the world.

Out there, the marsh is a palette of pewter and olive, stippled by rain as a cloud loosens. Coots scribble frantic wakes; a heron stands still, patient as a thought, then slides the blade of a beak into the mirrored surface. Beyond, a marsh harrier tilts, a loose, purposeful scythe over the reedbed. Dragonflies stitch the air; midges cloud in fugitive halos. Wind scuffs the water; reeds answer with dry music.

The small signs of people are present, but hushed. A notebook lies open under an elastic band; line after line loops and tilts, dated and hopeful: first swallows of April, otter at dusk, two avocets, maybe? A stub of pencil waits, bitten, loyal. A glove slumps in the corner (mud-dyed, orphaned). The wood bears a patina where elbows leaned, where chins rested. It is, in its way, a palimpsest of looking: what was seen remains, and what was missed remains too.

Time behaves differently here. Minutes stretch and settle; the breath slows; the mind, once crowded, finds space. There is concealment — and yet, revelation: behind this deliberate screen, the world forgets us and so shows itself. I wait and watch, wait and watch, wait and watch, held by the simple discipline of attention. The town’s horns and haste recede until the only clock is the steady drip from the eaves. When the egret lifts, white unfolded cleanly from green, it seems almost theatrical. I smile (perhaps at myself) and close the shutter; the hinge clicks, a small, certain punctuation to the afternoon.

Option B:

Time did not pass in the hospital; it thickened, became syrupy and slow. It hung from the strip-lights and the laminated leaflets and coated every breath with the faint sting of disinfectant. The clock coughed each second into the waiting room—metronomic, indifferent. It echoed in shuffling shoes and in the soft tear of a tissue. Waiting made everything louder and smaller at once: the hiss of the vending machine, the buzz of the double doors, the whisper of pages turned again.

Daniel rolled his paper cup between his palms until it collapsed a little. The coffee inside had abandoned its heat; it tasted of cardboard and old pennies. He tried to be reasonable—an adult, patient—but patience is a precarious bridge when your mother is behind a door marked 'Theatre'. He looked up at the ceiling and then down at the strict pattern on the floor; he followed the grey squares as if they might lead him somewhere brighter.

Minutes gathered like damp leaves. He told himself he had been there an hour; then he told himself it had been three. Numbers lost their edges. He counted each breath; he matched his heart to the clock; he failed. How long can a minute stretch before it snaps? The question sat beside him like another stranger, heavy and unhelpful.

Around him, other stories waited, too. A woman in a red scarf stared at nothing with fierce concentration. A boy lined up toy cars along the edge of a chair, pushing them in cautious arcs—tiny engines in a room full of held air. The security guard yawned behind his fist; at the desk, the receptionist's nails ticked a file into shape, tick, tick—almost a kindness. The room smelt of polish and worry. It felt like a bus shelter in winter, except there was nowhere to go.

He tried to read. The magazine was glossy and cheerful, all summer recipes and smiling people; the words slid off his eyes. He remembered other waits—results day, a phone call about a job—and they seemed light, almost laughable; memory edits out the drag. He checked his phone again: no messages. It buzzed once and he startled, hopeful, foolish. A delivery promotion. He wanted to laugh and didn't.

The double doors sighed open; then they settled, smug. Footsteps moved within the corridor, quick, professional. A nurse appeared with a clipboard and a careful face. Daniel stood without deciding to—straight-backed, as if the right posture could earn him good news. She looked up, glanced across the room, and said his surname.

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

Option A:

The hide crouches at the marsh’s edge, a low timber box darkened by weather and salt. Its roof is scabbed with lichen; its sides wear a quiet patina, as if stained by years of slow rain. Wind combs the reeds in wavering rows, making a shiver of green that leans and straightens, leans and straightens. The air smells of creosote and peat, a damp, brackish breath that settles on the tongue.

Inside, the door hushes shut and the world thins to wood and light. Benches run along the walls, polished smooth by steady use; the grain is a map of rivers, whorled and intricate, guiding fingertips without asking. Narrow viewing slits slice the far wall—slender, patient eyes that let in pale bands. Dust floats in them like slow snow. A spider has scaffolded the highest corner; its web trembles to some tiny rhythm, not mine.

Beyond the slits, water spreads like a sheet of pewter rucked by the wind. Reeds shiver and whisper, a million fine spears; dragonflies stitch bright threads low over the surface. Somewhere to the right, a curlew’s call lifts and falls, bubbling, then fading into the wide flat light. The mud at the margins gleams, pocked and stippled, and a heron stands there in still, regal silence—stone made feather. When it moves, it is deliberate: one step, a pause, another step. The same movement again and again, again and again, as if the marsh has taught it patience.

Meanwhile the hide breathes with people I cannot quite see. Coats whisper; a flask lid clicks; there is the careful cough someone tries to swallow. It is quiet, I can hear the small ticks of beetles behind the skirting. On the sill, initials have been pressed and scratched: years collapsed to letters. Between them, the knot-holes watch; a thin draught threads out, carrying the taste of iodine and leaf-mould.

Wait long enough and the place offers a gift: a sudden smear of swallows, a ripple of coots scribbling wake, the heavy wingbeats of a goose folding down into the water. A kingfisher sparks and is gone—no more than an afterimage, but it stays anyway, reproducing itself on the inside of your eyelids.

When I open the door again, the wind folds itself back through the slats. The reeds lean, then straighten. The hide, steadfast and plain, returns to watching, holding its hush upon hush while the marsh goes on.

Option B:

Time stuck like gum to the sole of morning. The clock on the wall performed its dutiful dance; second by second, tick by tick, it measured out our patience. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the corridor’s neon spine; chairs muttered when someone shifted; the heater coughed out warm dust. I cupped a polystyrene cup and let heat bite my palm. It did nothing to thaw the frost in my stomach.

At first, I believed the polite notice taped to the glass: "Please be patient—someone will call you." Easy words; hard minutes. We sat in a loose parade of strangers, united by the same posture—leaning forward, listening for our names, pretending not to watch the double doors sigh.

"Won't be long," the receptionist had said, eyes kind but busy. How long can a minute stretch, really? Long enough for the tea to skin over. Long enough for my phone to vibrate with nothing. Long enough to remember the way Mum's hand felt when I squeezed it, small and surprisingly light, before they wheeled her away.

Outside, rain threaded itself across the window, a grey net catching nothing. A boy filled in the loops of a magazine crossword with fierce concentration; his mother stared at the floor as if answers might rise from the lino. An old man counted change into his palm, over and over, as though it might add up differently this time.

By ten o'clock, time had lost accuracy and become texture: thick, slow, a kind of syrup I had to wade through. I tried to read a pamphlet about healthy eating; the sentences slid off my brain. Instead, I listened—to footfall behind the doors, to a nurse laughing down the hall, to my own breath, shallow and regular, like the sea that never quite reaches the castle you built.

Still, waiting is a job with no tools. You sit. You imagine. You adjust your coat, then adjust it again. You tell yourself it will be soon; it has to be soon. And the clock, diligently impartial, agrees with no one. It simply goes on.

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

Option A:

The hide crouches at the edge of the marsh, low and weathered, its tar-brown planks pressed by the weight of sky. Narrow viewing slits run along its side like careful eyes. Reeds lean in, fussing in the breeze. The water is pewter, ruffled by rings where insects touch and go. A curlew calls once; the sound falls through the air and settles. Close up, the boards show pale scars and knotholes; a spider patrols the sill.

Inside, the air is cooler and damp; the latch lifts with a soft complaint as I enter. It smells of timber and wet coats and a little tea. Benches line the walls, polished by years of waiting, initials scratched in careful letters. On a small noticeboard, sightings make a crooked mosaic: 7.14—kingfisher; a feather taped like proof.

Light spills through the slits in thin bands, turning dust into slow snow. Spider webs tremble when the door moves. A heron stands ankle-deep, a grey figure with its neck folded. A dragonfly stitches the air with a blue needle; water flickers when it lands. Reeds whisper, and the mud keeps small secrets in hoofprints. Far off, geese argue in the cold air, a loose line scribbled across the sky.

Two watchers share the bench: a man with creased hands, and a boy with a notebook. They whisper, then hush. Waiting is the rule here—waiting and watching; time loosens. Then—a sudden sip of movement—swallows skim low across the water.

The hide holds all this, calm and steady, a wooden pocket. Outside the path shines in shallow puddles, coins of light. As I stand to leave, the floor gives a small groan; behind me the narrow eyes keep looking as the day thins and the marsh darkens.

Option B:

Afternoon. A time when shadows lengthen, when tea cools on saucers, when the light turns thin at the edges. In the hospital waiting room, the afternoon had stopped; the clock’s hands seemed to drag their feet.

Leah sat on a plastic chair that stuck to the back of her knees. She folded and unfolded a leaflet until it looked like a small bird with broken wings. She counted the tiles, listened to the radiator cough. Each breath of the automatic doors made the room shiver, then settle.

She had arrived hours ago, or perhaps it was last week; time here was slippery. The receptionist tapped, tapped, tapped at her keyboard, and the cursor blinked like a heartbeat. Somewhere a vending machine dropped a coil of crisps. The scent of disinfectant floated under everything, clean and sharp, while the coffee smelled burnt and nervous.

This was the worst part: not knowing. If someone had said ten minutes, twenty, even an hour, she would have made a small plan—stretch her legs, send a text, breathe. Instead the minutes stretched her like elastic. How long could they go before they snapped? Leah rubbed the edge of her sleeve between finger and thumb, a soft rope she could control.

Other people waited too. A man in a paint-splashed jacket stared at the floor as if answers were written there. A red-haired girl read the same page over and over. An old woman slept with her mouth open, tiny snores escaping like moths. Their silence felt crowded with private storms.

Leah watched the door with the frosted glass. She watched until the letters on the sign blurred: CONSULTING ROOM 3. Still, it did not open. Still, the clock dragged its thin hands round the same circle. Outside, the afternoon thinned; inside, the wait thickened, heavy as fog.

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

Option A:

The hide crouches at the edge of the marsh, a low box of timber, tired of weather. Boards are stained the colour of tea and rain; they smell of salt and moss. Reeds scratch the sides like fingers. The door is plain, the bolt polished by other hands. A notice hangs crooked: Please be quiet - faded at the corners.

Inside, everything is darker, cooler, slower. Slats cut the sky into strips and the marsh into small frames, each slot like an eyelid, half open. A bench runs along the wall; it's scarred with names and little bird sketches, rings of old coffee. There is a visitors' book - smudged ink. Someone has left a knitted hat, damp at the edge. The air tastes of wet wood. Hush. Even the floor tries to hold its breath; the planks creak, but softly.

At first, nothing. Then a ripple lifts, a thin line drawn by a coot. A heron rises from the far reeds, folding and then unfolding like a grey umbrella. It steps through the shallows with slow knees, beak bright as a pin. Beyond, a curve of geese swings over, heavy and loud; their calls bang at the roof. People lean forward together, a quiet tide, binoculars clicking.

After a while the noise drains away. Mud shows its soft shine; wind scratches the reed tops again. Someone writes a date in the book, someone lifts the bolt carefully. The hide goes back to keeping watch, small and patient, holding its secret.

Option B:

Night. The time of hushed voices; the air smelt of antiseptic; the clock refused to hurry. In the hospital waiting room, plastic chairs stood in a straight, stubborn line. A vending machine hummed and blinked; its glass eye watching everyone. The second hand crawled around the face—tick, tick, tick—slow and sharp as a dripping tap. Outside, rain combed the windows and the automatic doors sighed each time someone shuffled through. Time, stretched thin like old chewing gum, pulled at the edge of patience.

Leah wrapped her fingers around a paper cup that was already empty. Her palms were damp, her feet numb. She read the same leaflet again, not really seeing the words, while flourescent lights buzzed above like trapped bees. Just a minute, they said: as if the clock could be trained. After a while, she counted ceiling tiles, then floor scuffs, then breaths—one, two, three—again. The chairs were cold, they squeaked when anyone moved. A man with muddy boots clicked his tongue; a nurse with soft shoes drifted past; a teenager yawned so wide it looked like he might swallow the room. Leah checked her phone; no bars; no new messages; no news. How long could a minute be? She tried to sit still, but her knee jittered; she stood, then sat, and stood again. Somewhere a door closed too gently, as if even the door knew to be quiet.

Tick, tick. It went on, and on, and it wouldnt stop.

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

Option A:

At first, at the edge of the marsh, the hide crouches like a patient animal. Weathered planks show pale scars; the roof sags slightly and its brown paint peels, meant to camouflage it. Inside, the door gives a long creak and shuts with a clunk, then the light goes dim. A rough bench, full of splinters, runs along the back; the walls carry small notes from other watchers. Cool air smells of damp wood and mud; the place whispers, be quiet.

Through the narrow slit, the world looks framed. Marsh water lies flat and grey-green, reeds shiver and make a soft swish. It looks tranquil, but it isn't; little lives twitch and dart. A heron stands statue-still; its beak is like a thin spear. The mud smells sharp and sweet, almost like rain. Somewhere a tapping starts: drip, drip, drip. Wind brushes the hide, the roof replies with a thin rattle, light slides in stripes across the floor like bars.

After a while, my breathing slows and the quiet feels almost solid. Time stretches—then snaps back. A goose laughs, then goes silent; a frog plops. On the horizon the reeds make a dark silhouette. The hide is plain yet it protects us. I write one line. It belongs here.

Option B:

Night pressed against the windows of the waiting room, but the fluorescent lights made everything look too awake. The plastic chairs squeaked, neat in a line like teeth. The clock above the desk ticked, then paused, then ticked again; it felt louder than breathing. The air smelt of hand gel and old coffee, a strange mix. I shifted; my shoes scratched the speckled floor.

I had been here for an hour, maybe more. My phone said 3:14; it had said that thirty minutes ago. I stared at the second hand and tried to will it on. People murmured, a baby whimpered, the vending machine hummed—like bees in a jar. I counted tiles, then breaths. Anticipation felt heavy, like a bag packed too much, pressing on my knees. How long was soon? I waited.

After a while, a trolley rattled past; the double doors trembled but stayed shut. A nurse walked by, she smiled, polite, and kept going. I wanted to ask; I tried to stand, but sat because my legs were pins and needles. I was waiting for a name, for our name. The handle twitched. All at once the room held its breath, and so did I.

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

Option A:

The hide is a small wooden hut by the marsh. It sits low and squat, like a box, with narrow slots for your eyes. It's wood walls are rough and dark. The wood is old and wet, it smells like damp coats and mud. The boards creak when I move and the roof drops a little drip, drip, drip onto the floor.

I press my face to the slit, it is cold.

I see grey water, flat and still, then little rings where something moves. Reeds stand in clumps. Ducks shuffle the water with there beaks, a thin quack comes and goes. Wind bends the reed heads like tired people.

I wait. The hide makes me quiet, even my breath feels big. So quiet! but not really, there is tapping and rustle and a far wing beat. There is holes in the plank and splinters stick my hand; I pull away and listen again, waiting and watching.

Option B:

The clock goes tick, tick. It is a slow sound and it hurts my head. I sit on a hard chair in a small room and the light is too bright. I am waiting for my name, I hold the paper tight in my hand.

Tick.

A woman coughs and then nothing. My stomach makes small noises. I look at the shut door. The door is heavy and it will not move, it just sits there. I think, five minutes is nothing, but it is not nothing in here. Minutes crawl like ants across the floor. I count to a hundred and then to two hundred, but it don't come.

I want to stand up. I stay still. My hands are cold and my mouth is dry. i read a leaflet. I don't see the words, my eyes slide off. The clock looks at me and keeps ticking. I wait again.

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

Option A:

The hide is small and wooden. It sits by the marsh like a box. The boards are rough, my hand feels splinters, the smell is wet and old. There is a little bench and a narrow windo, the wind pushes through and it creeks. I hear ducks and reeds. Tap tap of rain on the roof, then quiet, then the same tap again, back and forward. The water is brown and it moves slow. I look out and wait, its cold, my feet are muddy and I think about lunch. A bird jumps, I blink, I miss it. The place just watches.

Option B:

Time was slow like glue. I sat on the hard chair and I wait and I look at the door. The clock went tick tick tick but it felt stuck, it felt like it did not want to move. My hands were cold. I think about the bus home and chips and my phone is dead so I stare. The woman behind the desk says wait please so I do. I dont know how long. A boy drops a coin and it rolls. Outside a dog barks at nothing and the sky goes grey and the light hurts my eyes