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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 Who exclaims, "What is she doing, then?": Cécile – 1 mark
• 1.2 Who is told to "go up"?: Mélanie – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the extract, what is M. Grégoire doing while Cécile gives instructions to Mélanie?: M. Grégoire is speaking his thoughts aloud about the starving people. – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator, what is M. Grégoire doing at this time?: Voicing thoughts aloud after seeing the starving people – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 21 to 30 of the source:

21 She wished to suggest to them the idea of the five-franc piece, and went on in her low voice, explaining the fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming. They paid regularly for many fortnights. But one day they got behind, and then it was all up. They could never catch up again. The gulf widened, and the men became disgusted with work which did not even allow them

26 to pay their way. Do what they could, there was nothing but difficulties until death. Besides, it must be understood that a collier needed a glass to wash away the dust. It began there, and then he was always in the inn when worries came. Without complaining of any one it might be that the workmen did not earn as much as they ought to.

How does the writer use language here to show the pressures on the mining families? 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 typically analyses how cumulative structure and metaphor render poverty inescapable: the intensifying sequence the fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming and the widening The gulf widened portray an inevitable slide, emphasised by clipped declaratives and the adversative pivot But one day they got behind, before it was all up and They could never catch up again. It also interrogates modality, euphemism, and passive authority—Do what they could, nothing but difficulties until death, it must be understood a collier needed a glass to wash away the dust, and the habitual always in the inn—to show social expectation and coping mechanisms masking systemic low pay (did not earn as much as they ought to) that press on mining families.

The writer employs metaphor and a fatalistic semantic field to render the miners’ poverty as inexorable. The phrase “the fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming” personifies debt as a killer; the gradation and “overwhelming” evoke drowning as the burden swells beyond control. The metaphor extends in “the gulf widened,” a chasm between wages and survival, while “they could never catch up again” recasts finance as an unwinnable race.

Moreover, sentence form intensifies inevitability. A chain of short declaratives—“They paid regularly… But one day they got behind… They could never catch up again.”—creates a staccato rhythm of setback and finality. The adversative “But” marks a turning point; the idiom “it was all up” carries doom, and the absolute “never” closes off hope. The concessive opener “Do what they could” and the totalising “nothing but difficulties until death” read as hyperbolic fatalism.

Additionally, social and psychological pressures are revealed through modality and euphemism. The authoritative “it must be understood” normalises coping, while “a collier needed a glass to wash away the dust” sanitises drink with a cleansing metaphor. Personification in “when worries came” makes anxiety an intruder prompting habitual escape—signalled by “always”—to the inn. Finally, the hedged “it might be that… they did not earn as much as they ought to” uses tentative modality and the moralising “ought” to imply systemic underpayment without overt blame, suggesting structural forces constricting their lives.

Together, these choices depict pressure as cumulative, normalised and inescapable for mining families.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses a semantic field of debt with 'fatal debt', 'got behind', 'They could never catch up again' and the metaphor 'The gulf widened' to show pressure growing from 'small at first' to 'large and overwhelming', while short, blunt sentences like 'They paid regularly for many fortnights.' and 'But one day they got behind, and then it was all up.' create an inevitable slide. Hyperbole in 'there was nothing but difficulties until death' and the authoritative, euphemistic 'it must be understood that a collier needed a glass to wash away the dust' suggest hopelessness and how hardship normalises drinking as a coping mechanism.

The writer uses a lexical field of money to highlight the constant financial strain on the mining families: “five-franc piece,” “fatal debt,” “pay,” “catch up,” “pay their way.” The adjective “fatal” and the metaphor “small at first, then large and overwhelming” make debt feel like a living force that grows and smothers them. The metaphor “The gulf widened” presents the gap between wages and bills as an unbridgeable chasm, making the pressure feel inevitable.

Furthermore, the sentence forms create a sense of hopeless momentum. Short, declarative sentences like “They paid regularly for many fortnights. But one day they got behind… They could never catch up again” mirror the sudden collapse and finality. The colloquial idiom “it was all up” suggests resignation, while the “low voice” implies shame and secrecy around money.

Moreover, “nothing but difficulties until death” uses hyperbole to show lifelong pressure, while the idiom “pay their way” highlights work’s failure, so the men become “disgusted”—an emotive detail. Additionally, “a collier needed a glass to wash away the dust” is a metaphor for coping, and “always in the inn when worries came” personifies anxiety, suggesting a damaging cycle for families.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response might say the writer uses emotive words like "fatal debt" and "large and overwhelming", and a metaphor such as "The gulf widened", to show money problems getting worse, while the short sentence "They could never catch up again." makes it feel hopeless. It might also note that "needed a glass to wash away the dust" and being "always in the inn" suggest turning to drink to cope, which adds to the pressure.

The writer uses emotive adjectives like “fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming” to show the heavy pressure on the mining families. “Fatal” makes the debt seem deadly and unavoidable, trapping them. The metaphor “The gulf widened” suggests a growing gap they cannot cross, increasing their stress.

Furthermore, short, simple sentences such as “They could never catch up again” and “it was all up” create a blunt, final tone, making the pressure feel hopeless and fixed.

Additionally, hyperbole in “nothing but difficulties until death” shows how the struggle never ends. The phrase “a collier needed a glass to wash away the dust” hints that drinking starts as relief but becomes a habit, “always in the inn,” which adds to money worries. Finally, “did not earn as much as they ought to” suggests unfair wages, linking back to how language shows the families’ constant pressure.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might spot negative words like fatal debt and overwhelming, and a simple image The gulf widened, to show growing pressure. It might also mention short statements like They could never catch up again and until death, and details such as needed a glass and always in the inn, to show hopelessness and stress.

The writer uses adjectives like “fatal” and “overwhelming” to describe the “debt,” which shows the pressure is heavy and scary. Short sentences such as “They could never catch up again” make it seem final and hopeless for the families. Moreover, the metaphor “The gulf widened” suggests the gap in money gets bigger, adding to their stress. Furthermore, the phrase “nothing but difficulties until death” shows the pressure never ends. Additionally, “always in the inn when worries came” personifies worries, showing how problems push miners to drink. This shows the pressure on the mining families.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Concrete, specific noun phrase makes saving feel meagre and tokenistic, highlighting scarcity: five-franc piece
• Emotive adjective and gradation build an escalating burden from manageable to crushing: large and overwhelming
• Contrastive conjunction and fatalistic idiom show a sudden collapse from routine to ruin: all up
• Short, definitive sentence with absolute negation conveys hopeless inevitability: never catch up again
• Metaphor of distance makes debt feel like an ever-growing chasm that cannot be bridged: The gulf widened
• Evaluative lexis and idiom show work’s failure to sustain dignity, intensifying frustration: pay their way
• Concessive opener and stark endpoint emphasise relentless, lifelong struggle: until death
• Hushed paralinguistic detail suggests shame and suppressed anxiety, intensifying the pressure: low voice
• Euphemistic, cleansing metaphor and causal sequencing present coping as a habit that traps: wash away the dust
• Hedging and modality hint at systemic underpayment while implying fear of blame: ought to

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how alienation intensifies through structural shifts in speaker, tone, and action—from bourgeois control and moralising (imperative "Mélanie, go up", pronouncement "There is evil in this world") to Maheude’s subdued, cumulative backstory ("small at first, then large and overwhelming", "Where there's nothing, there's nothing") and the hosts’ growing distance ("wearied and disquieted"). It would show how the pace tightens into gatekeeping ("No, it is not our custom", the plea "stifled") and a climactic exclusion ("pushed them out of the room"), leaving the closing image of "poor starving urchins" with "benumbed little hands" to structurally seal their alienation.

One way the writer structures alienation is by opening in medias res with impatience and moralising, foregrounding bourgeois voices and relegating the poor to objects of discourse. Cécile’s brusque imperative about "the parcel... at the bottom of the cupboard" frames charity as logistics, while M. Grégoire’s sermon—"There is evil in this world"—labels them "these starving ones". Alternating dialogue creates juxtaposition: fluent platitudes dominate as Maheude merely "replied... sturdily". Sustained third-person focalisation within the Grégoires’ parlour keeps us in its comfort, heightening social distance.

In addition, the writer engineers a slow, cumulative escalation through Maheude’s low-voiced account of debt, structured by temporal sequencing—"at first... then... one day... until death". The metaphor "the gulf widened" crystallises alienation as spatial distance. A strategic shift of focus onto objects—"the flaming coal"—and costings ("six francs a month") counterpoints the Grégoires’ "softly stretched out" ease, intensifying the gulf via stage-like blocking. Their aphoristic closure—"The best is... to live honestly"—imposes a lull that smooths over her reality.

A further structural feature is the pivot when "at last" the parcel arrives: pace quickens towards anticlimax. The decisive volta—"No, it is not our custom"—silences Maheude’s stifled plea for "a five-franc piece," enacting alienation as suppression of voice. Subsequent micro-actions centre the brioche as a focal prop: Cécile gives, then retracts—"taking the pieces back"—issuing imperatives ("Wait") that choreograph control. The closing image—"benumbed little hands"—provides end-focus, leaving them literally outside the room, a distilled emblem of estrangement.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response explains how the text progresses from patronising talk to exclusion: early moralising where M. Grégoire repeated aloud while Maheude speaks in her low voice shifts into summary distancing (The gulf widened, The lady and gentleman were silent), showing growing separation. It then identifies the climactic actions that enact alienation—Cécile pushed the mother and children towards the door, the refusal No, it is not our custom, and finally pushed them out of the room—contrasting token charity (the brioche) with the withheld five-franc piece to show intensification.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create alienation is by foregrounding power through opening commands and controlled turn-taking. The first line is an imperative—“What is she doing, then?”—and Cécile orders servants while, “in the meanwhile,” M. Grégoire generalises about “these starving ones.” This juxtaposition of domestic management with moralising establishes a social distance. The alternating dialogue is unequal: the Grégoires’ voices set the agenda, so Maheude enters as a petitioner, already positioned on the margins.

In addition, the writer manipulates focus and pace to distance Maheude. Her hardship is compressed into narrative summary—“explaining the fatal debt… the gulf widened”—whereas the bourgeois comforts are given concrete detail: she “glanced sideways at the flaming coal,” and the couple are “softly stretched out.” This shift in focus from her speech to their surroundings alienates her voice. Structurally, her tentative request is “stifled,” and the short, declarative refusal—“No, it is not our custom”—acts as a pivot that closes down the scene and reinforces exclusion.

A further structural choice is the ending’s zoom and framing. After the parcel’s arrival accelerates the pace, the narrative narrows to the brioche and the children’s “benumbed little hands,” before Cécile “pushed them out of the room.” The text begins with orders and ends with expulsion, a frame that culminates in physical and emotional separation, leaving the reader with a final, isolating image.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 answer might say the writer structures the passage to increase alienation by moving from the rich family’s comfort (flaming coal, softly stretched out) to Maheude’s growing problems (fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming), then a turning point when the plea for a five-franc piece is stifled and the father says We cannot do it, ending with the children being pushed ... out of the room. This sequence from polite chat to rejection and exit makes the poor family feel excluded and the starving urchins image emphasises the distance.

One way the writer structures alienation is by beginning with a contrast between the comfortable family and the poor visitors. The opening dialogue, "What is she doing, then?" and M. Grégoire’s lecturing, sets a distant tone. The time marker "in the meanwhile" keeps Maheude waiting.

In addition, the focus shifts in the middle to Maheude’s debt story, and the longer sequence slows the pace. Her "low voice" and the list "small at first, then large" show growing problems. Their silence changes the mood to awkward, increasing the social distance.

A further feature is the ending, where action moves quickly to refusal and exit. The sequencing "at last" and "then" drives to a climax: "we cannot do it", and Cécile "pushed" them to the door. The final image of "benumbed little hands" leaves the reader with a clear sense of exclusion and alienation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: It starts with the rich giving orders and judging ("What is she doing, then?", "workpeople are never prudent") and then moves to Maheude’s growing debt ("the gulf widened"). By the end they refuse and physically exclude them ("pushed the mother and children towards the door", "pushed them out", "went off"), which makes them seem left out.

One way the writer structures the text to show alienation is by opening with the rich family's dialogue. Their comments like "workpeople are never prudent" create distance. This makes Maheude seem apart in their house.

In addition, there is a shift in focus to Maheude's debt story and then to the parcel arriving. This change of focus contrasts comfort and need, so the poor feel outside the group.

A further structural feature is the ending image. The refusal of the "five-franc piece" and being "pushed... towards the door" lead to "benumbed little hands", leaving alienation strongest at the end.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening with brisk commands and immediate objectification frames the poor as observed subjects, establishing distance from the outset (starving ones)
• Alternating dialogue sets up a moralising versus lived-experience counterpoint, exposing a social gulf through misaligned assumptions (workpeople are never prudent)
• The debt account is built cumulatively, escalating from manageable to crushing to show inexorability and deepening separation from relief (large and overwhelming)
• A causal chain links coping habits to withdrawal from work, presenting alienation as a cycle rather than a single act (always in the inn)
• A pivot to questions about company provisions, paired with Maheude’s sideways glance, shifts focus to symbols of comfort she does not share (flaming coal)
• A written pause—silence and the lady and gentleman’s relaxed posture—slows the pace and foregrounds emotional detachment within the same room (softly stretched out)
• Consolatory platitudes and M. Grégoire’s endorsement close the debate structurally, replacing help with ideology and keeping speakers apart (above misfortune)
• Household interruptions (parcel; music mistress) accelerate the scene and physically usher the family out, prioritising routine over need (towards the door)
• The aborted plea followed by a firm refusal delivers an anticlimactic peak of exclusion, converting hope into denial (We cannot do it)
• The final exit image of careful, rationed sharing seals the distance, leaving only token sustenance as they depart (holding the brioche respectfully)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 21 to the end.

In this part of the source, the father lectures Maheude on how miners should save money. The writer suggests the father is completely unaware that it is impossible for the poor to save anything.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of how the hyena behaves
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the hyena
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer satirises the father’s obliviousness by contrasting his moralising platitudes (“With such sentiments... one is above misfortune”) and rigid refusal of the begged “five-franc piece” (“it is not our custom. We cannot do it”) with Maheude’s stark reality (“Where there’s nothing, there’s nothing”, the “fatal debt”), using irony and the symbolic “brioche” to show saving is impossible for the poor. It would also acknowledge nuance by noting cosmetic charity (clothes; sharing the “brioche”) that masks systemic blindness, as epitomised by the “poor starving urchins”, thereby largely agreeing with the statement while evaluating the writer’s critical viewpoint.

I largely agree that the writer presents the father as oblivious to the structural impossibility of saving, though the portrayal hints at wilful blindness rather than pure naivety.

From the outset, the omniscient narration insists on inevitability: “fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming.” The adverbial sequence “at first… then” and the mounting adjectives “large… overwhelming” chart a relentless progression. The repeated third-person “They paid… they got behind… they could never catch up” creates anaphoric rhythm that underlines entrapment. The metaphor of a “gulf widened” depicts poverty as a physical chasm; modal certainty in “could never” and the absolute “nothing but difficulties until death” make thrift feel not just unlikely but impossible.

Against this, Zola frames the Grégoires in complacent comfort: “the lady and gentleman were silent, softly stretched out,” the sibilance softening their detachment, while “wearied and disquieted” suggests only a genteel unease. Maheude’s laconic aphorism, “Where there’s nothing, there’s nothing,” summarises the miners’ reality, yet M. Grégoire offers a platitude—“With such sentiments… one is above misfortune”—whose inflated metaphor of being “above” suffering erases material need. His later refusal—“No, it is not our custom. We cannot do it”—relies on impersonal abstractions (“custom,” “it”) and the collective pronoun “our,” signalling a class code of charity that preserves principle over relief. The narratorial aside that he speaks with an “air of duty” further ironises his moral self-regard.

Structural juxtaposition sharpens the critique. The timid plea for “a five-franc piece” is “stifled” by pride, yet immediately countered by a barrage of in-kind gifts—“comforters, even stockings and mittens”—an asyndetic list that feels abundant but sidesteps cash. The domestic tableau—“flaming coal,” the arrival of a “music mistress”—operates as symbolic mise-en-scène of surplus, while the children “still looking fixedly at the brioche” embody hunger. Even the daughter’s kindness is framed as performance: she halves the “brioche,” wraps it in “an old newspaper,” and, “beneath the tender gaze” of her parents, ushers them out. The final image—“poor starving urchins… benumbed little hands”—is pathos-driven and strategically placed to expose the hollowness of lectures about thrift.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: through irony, contrast and loaded diction, the writer suggests the father cannot or will not grasp that saving is untenable for the poor. If he is not wholly “unaware,” his uneasy awareness is powerless against, and eclipsed by, a class-bound blindness that the narrative relentlessly unmasks.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree that the writer presents the father as oblivious to real hardship, contrasting Maheude’s need for a five-franc piece with a father who refused decisively, speaking with an air of duty, and insisting 'No, it is not our custom. We cannot do it.'. It would use emotive detail like the poor starving urchins with benumbed little hands (and the token brioche) to argue that saving is unrealistic for the miners, revealing the writer’s critical viewpoint.

I largely agree that the writer presents the father as oblivious to the fact that the poor cannot save, though he does not literally “lecture” so much as moralise. The passage first establishes, through Maheude’s voice, the impossibility of saving: the cumulative description of “the fatal debt, small at first, then large and overwhelming” and the metaphor “the gulf widened” show poverty as a relentless, structural trap. The escalating sequence (“they paid… got behind… it was all up”) creates inevitability, while the bleak generalisation “Where there’s nothing, there’s nothing” functions like an aphorism that undercuts any advice about thrift.

Against this, the wealthy family’s responses expose their ignorance. Madame Grégoire’s question about “lodging and firing” betrays a simplistic belief that employer “perks” solve hardship. More tellingly, M. Grégoire’s approving platitude—“With such sentiments… one is above misfortune”—adopts a paternalistic tone, implying that attitude rather than income determines survival. His declaratives, “It is not our custom. We cannot do it,” when the “five-franc piece” is hesitantly implied, sound like a mini-lecture on principle over need. The collective pronoun “our” marks class solidarity and distance, while the adverbial phrase “refused decisively, with an air of duty” suggests he feels morally righteous in withholding help.

The writer sharpens this critique through contrast and irony. The “flaming coal in the fireplace,” the “music mistress,” and the parents’ “tender gaze” as Cécile parcels out a token “brioche” set bourgeois comfort against the children’s “benumbed little hands.” Even the phrase “the exhibition of this wretchedness” frames poverty as a spectacle, hinting that the rich are “wearied” by viewing it rather than moved to understand it.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the narrative methods—metaphor, contrast, and loaded dialogue—suggest the father is effectively unaware that saving is impossible at this level of deprivation. However, “lectures” overstates his role; it is his complacent, cod-moral advice and adherence to “custom” that reveal his blindness.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would mostly agree that the writer shows the father as out of touch, pointing to dialogue like "No, it is not our custom. We cannot do it" and "with such sentiments... one is above misfortune" to show he doesn’t understand their poverty. It would use simple evidence such as "We are very short" and the "poor starving urchins" to suggest the poor cannot save, noting this through basic comments on dialogue and description.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer presents the father as comfortable and moralising, while showing that for people like Maheude saving is not realistic.

At the start of the section, the narrator describes the cycle of poverty with bleak imagery. The “fatal debt” that is “small at first, then large and overwhelming” and the metaphor “the gulf widened” suggest a trap that cannot be escaped. The phrase “do what they could, there was nothing but difficulties until death” gives a hopeless tone, making it clear that saving is impossible for the poor miners.

Against this, the Grégoires are shown in comfort: “the lady and gentleman were silent, softly stretched out,” which creates a contrast between their ease and Maheude’s desperation. The father’s line, “With such sentiments, my good woman, one is above misfortune,” sounds like a platitude. Through this dialogue, the writer suggests he believes good attitudes solve poverty, showing his unawareness of the real situation.

However, I would partly disagree with the idea that he “lectures” her on saving. He does not give advice; instead, when Maheude hints about “a five-franc piece,” he refuses “decisively,” with an “air of duty”: “No, it is not our custom.” The formal tone shows detachment rather than guidance. Meanwhile, the emotive image of the “poor starving urchins” with the brioche in their “benumbed little hands” underlines how urgent the need is.

Overall, I agree the writer presents the father as unaware of how impossible saving is for the poor, though he doesn’t really lecture; his polite refusal and moral tone reveal his blindness.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, responses will simply agree that the writer shows the father’s lack of awareness, pointing to his refusal to give a "five-franc piece" and saying "No, it is not our custom. We cannot do it.". They may lift basic signs of hardship like "Where there's nothing, there's nothing" and "The poor starving urchins" to support this view.

I mostly agree that the writer shows the father as unaware that poor people cannot save. At the start of this part, Maheude explains the debt: it is “small at first, then large and overwhelming” and “they could never catch up again.” The metaphor “the gulf widened” makes it seem impossible to save.

When Madame Grégoire asks about “lodging and firing,” Maheude answers, “Where there’s nothing, there’s nothing.” This short, direct sentence shows the real situation. The writer uses this plain language to show there is no money left over.

The father sounds moral and lecturing. He approves the idea that “with such sentiments… one is above misfortune,” which suggests he thinks attitude is enough. Later, when Maheude hints for “a five-franc piece,” he “refused decisively, with an air of duty: ‘No… It is not our custom.’” The phrase “air of duty” gives him a cold tone and shows he does not understand the need.

There is also contrast. The rich are “softly stretched out,” while the children are called “poor starving urchins” with “benumbed little hands.” This imagery makes the father’s refusal look blind.

Overall, I agree to a large extent that the writer shows his complete unawareness.

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:

• Decisive refusal characterises the father as principled but oblivious; elevates custom over need, supporting high agreement that he doesn’t grasp saving is impossible (not our custom).
• Juxtaposition of Maheude’s systemic hardship with his platitude exposes a gulf in understanding; his moral comfort ignores material reality (above misfortune).
• Concrete sums and small asks stress razor‑thin margins; his denial of cash help sidesteps the only remedy they seek (five-franc piece).
• Body-language of comfort contrasts with Maheude’s distress; relaxed detachment suggests insulated privilege rather than informed empathy (softly stretched out).
• Charity in kind replaces money, signalling paternalism; generous yet irrelevant gifts fail to meet urgent financial need (cut it in two).
• Diction framing refusal as duty shows ideology over compassion; righteousness masks a lack of practical awareness (air of duty).
• Pathos-centred imagery of the children intensifies reader judgment; their visible hunger undercuts his abstract principles (benumbed little hands).
• Emphasis on dignity and silence foregrounds desperation; her pride makes the plea exceptional, making his refusal seem more blinkered (never begged).
• Narrative summary of inexorable poverty frames saving as structurally unachievable; his stance reads as denial of that reality (nothing but difficulties).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A national charity that protects wildlife is running a creative writing competition.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a bird nesting in an unusual place from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story told from the point of view of an animal.

(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:

It blinks to its own metronome, that amber eye above the corner, and in the hollow behind its lens a nest sits—brazen, delicate, indomitable. The traffic light is a sideways lighthouse for the asphalt sea, its plastic pane crazed with tiny fractures; when it warms, the cracks flare gold like capillaries, a faint, honeyed heartbeat for a home no one asked permission to build.

Twigs are the scaffolding, certainly, but there is extravagance too: filigree strands of shredded receipt, a ribbon of police tape faded to the colour of old straw, a curl of silver crisp packet that glints with illicit glamour. Feathers stitched into the weave mute the sting of wind; oil-smudged fluff softens a cradle as small as two cupped palms. There is a smell to it, surprisingly wholesome amid the acrid breath of buses: warm dust, damp straw, a ghost of rain.

Meanwhile, the city performs its perpetual choreography below. Tyres hiss; brakes exhale; impatient horns erupt in brief, pungent sentences. Red, amber, green—injunctions that marshal human flow, a tricolour grammar of caution and imperative; yet within this liturgy, the bird edits ruthlessly. She slips out between the syllables of the street, an iridescent comma—a starling, speckled like ash—arrowing through the fumes. A swift contraction of wings; a flare of balance on the black visor; then she is inside, scolding softly, rearranging with precise, maternal fuss.

Her partner shuttles cargo with absurd seriousness: a straw clamped like a baton, a tail-feather rescued from a gutter, a morsel of moss stolen from a roof where it will not be missed. They have made a sanctuary from litter and light. When the amber bleeds on, a syrupy radiance suffuses the cavity; eggs—pale, freckled, perfect—glow as if lit from within. It is perilous, of course, precarious; and yet, each blink is a lullaby.

Some notice; most do not. A child points, tugging at a sleeve, eyes blown wide with the miracle above the kerb. A cyclist, pausing, tilts her head and smiles—an involuntary, quiet benediction—before green releases her like a starting pistol. A council worker looks up with the expression of a man who should put in a report and doesn’t. We are busy, the city says. Nonetheless, a small crowd of glances accumulates and drifts, like birds themselves.

At dusk, when the sky bruises to aubergine and windows ink themselves one by one, the amber intensifies. It seems to pour, molten, through the lattice of twigs, catching in the filaments of feather and thread until the nest itself is a lantern. The bird becomes silhouette and shadow, a hieroglyph of patience. Her throat thrums; there is, perhaps, the faintest tremor from within, an incipient pecking, a restless punctuation mark pressed against a shell.

The light changes. Again. Again. The road surges and stills, a tide without moon. Above the hurry, in the unlikely mouth of a machine designed to command us, life rehearses its tender obstinacy—quietly, resolutely, blinking, blinking.

Option B:

Night is a generous cloak; I wear it until it frays at the hem and dawn teases out a pale thread along the roofs. Under it, the city loosens; scents rise, layered and legible—a palimpsest I read nose-first: fried salt, damp stone, yesterday’s rain coaxed from drains, the metallic ghost of a cat, the warm, breadcrumb breath of pigeons. My world is not street names but this: warmth, wind, shadow, sound.

However, the city never truly sleeps. Not silence—never silence—but softer acoustics: the breath-saw of buses idling, a bottle chimes, a dog dreaming. My paws memorize cracked tarmac, the gap under the blue gate on Mercer Alley (three whiskers wide), the brief sanctuary behind the chip shop where heat still lingers. I slip through: a shadow with a heartbeat.

Once, long before my tail was full and my swagger learned, Mother taught me the map no human draws. Her rules were simple: keep to hedges; eat little, often; count three; stay downwind; never run in a straight line. The lessons were terse, precise, almost military—yet threaded with kindness. Even now, as the sky begins its hesitant blush, her rules return, not as words but as instincts that tighten and release like muscle.

The road is worse than water: it gleams and sings and lures. Headlights open like the pale eyes of predators; a motorbike ricochets down the glass corridor, leaving a bitterness that tastes of iron. Hunger makes mathematics of risk; ribs count hours; my feet choose anyway. What is hunger if not a law—immovable, insistent, inexorable? I wait. I dart. I live.

At the corner, a girl opens a door and spills light. She holds toast like a talisman; butter slicks the air, and sweetness (jam, strawberry) floats towards me. She sees me. We share a stillness so exact it hums. Her eyes widen; my ears tilt. We do not move; we do not speak. There is, briefly, a filament stretched between us—fear, fascination, a compassion I do not fully comprehend; nevertheless, I back away.

Then the door kisses shut and I am again a moving seam in the city’s fabric. Behind the pub, bins bloom like squat metal flowers; lids are askew; the air is lush with possibility: fish, curry, chips sacrificed to haste. I nose, I prise, I win—grease-striped, glorious, enough to stitch the ache inside me quieter. From beyond the allotments, a smell I distrust needles the night: fox (not mine), blood, something chemical. Dogs bark; a van door slams; men laugh. I file it away because, concurrently, under the elder hedge, four small heartbeats drum like rain. My den. My responsibility. Spring sharpens, and with it the arduous arithmetic of survival.

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

Option A:

The red eye at the junction flickers awake—bright, baleful, almost tender when you stand close enough to feel its thin warmth. Inside that vitreous circle, behind a crescent of dust, a nest has taken root. Not in a hedgerow or an eave but in the hollow of a traffic light: a cradle wedged where instructions to halt and hurry are made. Brittle straws stitched with plastic twine; a ring of faded receipts; a halo of grey fluff—they make a stubborn bowl. Each cycle the city blinks and the nest blushes.

She is a starling, small enough to slip through the maintenance slot, dusk-coloured until the sun touches her; then she becomes oil-slick—greens, purples, midnight blues coruscating across feathers. Her bead-bright eye is a precise instrument. She tucks a thread, tests a twig, rearranges a snippet of foil that shines like a coin. From my side of the glass her silhouette is a delicate diagram: beak, crown, wing, the arc of her back mapped against a man-made moon.

Heat hums in the casing. The faint smell of warmed resin and rain-damp wiring mingles with petrol and fried onions from the van on the corner. Amber floods the lens—soft light, almost hearthlike; green follows—cool river. The rhythm is relentless: stop, go; stop, go; stop, go. Yet inside the aperture there is a pause, a hush, an unlikely stillness. Two pale eggs rest in a bed of shredded newspaper (a weather report, a lottery advert), their shells faintly freckled, their promise almost audible.

Commuters tide past in their predictable currents. A cyclist mutters; a bus sighs; a child points and then is tugged away. High heels click-clack, a staccato metronome to the city’s low susurration. No one sees her slip out, dip to the gutter for a feather, bounce to a bollard, then return—an arrow of intent—to the red-lit sanctum. The signal coughs to red; her chest lifts; she settles, a careful weight over small futures.

It is incongruous and also not. The city is a patchwork of interstices, and life finds the gaps; it always does. Still, this feels like a defiant little miracle—against all odds, as people say, perhaps too easily. A siren skirls by; the casing vibrates; she presses lower, and the eggs do not stir.

Dusk spills down the avenue in long bruised stripes. The red becomes an ember, a small domestic glow in the steel and glass. A flake of down drifts, sticks to the lens, trembles. For a moment the whole junction is held—cars idling, breath bated, the light meditative. Then green. Then amber. Then red again; and behind its tempered glass, the smallest beak makes the smallest tap, like a polite knock on the door of the world.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour when the city's voice softens; gutters whisper; windows blink open one by one. I wait where brambles stitch the fence to the earth, a red thread among nettles, my breath puffing like pale smoke. The tarmac holds the night's coolness in its skin, and the air is crowded with flavours I cannot refuse: breadcrumbs and bin juice, pigeon feathers, petrichor. The day is beginning for you. For me, it has not quite ended.

I am a fox, though your children call me shadow or thief. Perhaps that is accurate; I take what is dropped, what is forgotten. My mother taught me to read this place the way you read your papers: line by line, scent by scent, tracing stories in the scuffs and spills. Quick, little one. Quiet, little one. She is gone now—slipped like mist into the hollows under the railway—yet I still hear the rhythm of her warnings.

Hunger is a tidy instrument; it tunes the world. Every sound becomes a note: the staccato click of a gate; the liquid shiver of a bicycle chain; the elastic sigh of a bag as it falls open. I cross the road where the night has left a silver skin of damp. A car sighs by, a breath too close. The lights smear themselves on the wet and for a moment my reflection—thin, alert—flows beneath me like a second fox.

By the takeaway, the ground is a feast in fragments. A filigree of chicken bone. A constellation of chips. The salt stings my tongue and wakes my thirst; I lap from a puddle. Footsteps. Laughter. I hold still, as still as a thought. Your voice lands near me (soft, surprised), then hardens into shooing. I do not snarl; I am polite. I step back, sideways, into the shadow of a wheeled bin, and let your noise wash over me.

There is a garden beyond this street with a fence that sags and a pear tree that drops green moons in late summer. I have measured it already with my whiskers. I will go there when the light leans warmer and the crows are elsewhere. For now, I eat the last of the chips, swallow grit and gratitude, and turn for home—if an untidy hole in the bramble can be called that. The day lifts its pale lid. I vanish into its hinge.

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

Option A:

Amber blinks, patient and warm, and inside that single eye she has tucked her small life; the casing smells of dust and heated plastic and hums like a hidden bee. Balanced on a ledge where no branch ever grew, the starling crouches, shifting, arranging stolen twigs with a careful beak. Below her, buses breathe and brakes squeal; above, wind nags at the metal pole. She settles. She listens.

At the crossroads the city thinks of itself as important. People pour past with coffees and briefcases; cyclists slice the light; a dog tugs. Nobody looks up; nobody guesses that a nest beats inside the amber. She has woven unlikely things: balloon ribbon, a rain-soft receipt, a shoelace, a thread of cassette tape, a square of crisp-foil that flashes when the signal changes. It is a scruffy crown, but it holds.

By midday the pole radiates a faint warmth. When the light sighs to amber—her hour—the glow cups the eggs in honey. Green washes over them like pond water; red is heavy and certain. She presses closer and feels the tiny turning inside; it is not silence, it is waiting. Traffic flows and halts and flows, as if the road were a river with rules.

Once, a man in hi-vis clambered up a ladder and peered into the lens. Her chest hammered; she made herself thin as shadow. The light stutters, she startles. He frowned, muttered about wiring, lowered his hand. The world held its breath, then he climbed down. Rain came later, blunt and cold; the casing rang softly, a tin drum.

Morning arrives grey and rinsed. A crack scribbles along an eggshell, then another. Beaks prise at paper-thin walls; sound spills out, bright, insistent. Her throat answers—one thread of song, small but stubborn—though sirens wail and a bus kneels and a cyclist curses at the held line of red. She feeds them crumbs of city: bread from a bench, a shred of apple skin, dew caught on the metal lip. Amber blinks again, steady, steady. Above the junction, in the oddest cradle, home holds.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour when the city exhales: steam from grates, breath from buses, the thin metallic tang that leaks from the river. Light slides over brick and glass; it shivers on puddles; it finds me in the cut of hedge and shadow. My world is scent before sight—fishbones and engine oil, damp bread, fox, dog, rat; a map written in perfume and rot.

I move low along the fence, tail held like a question mark. The black-lidded bins are stacked like drums; I drum them anyway. Last night’s feast—fried salt, sweet peel, coffee grounds—clings to their rims. Paper rasps like dry leaves, a bottle rolls, the lid complains, and I pause; stillness is a skill learnt when ribs stitched their staircase under my fur last winter. My nose decides: push; my shoulders slide; whiskers measure the gap before the rest of me dares it.

Behind the warm door, someone coughs. A pan hisses; a radio murmurs. On the upstairs sill a boy leans, his small face pressed to the glass. He sees me, or thinks he does. We hold our breath across the little garden. His hair is a halo in that first pale light; my ears are points of flame. I blink first. I am not a storybook; I am hungry.

Street by street the day straightens its spine. Vans grumble awake, pigeons clap themselves together, a siren threads the air. I slip towards the canal where water wears yesterday’s sky. Geese scold; a terrier strains its lead and spills a bark that skitters over the towpath. A car noses too close—tyre breath hot, metal glinting like a knife—so I melt into nettles and wait out the impatience of humans.

Then, a different note: sharp, clean, wrong. Under the usual chorus there is bait—meat velveted with something bitter, a hospital smell. Metal and meat. I know that flavour of trouble. The white nick on my ear remembers it; the scar on my knee agrees. I should turn away; it is wiser, safer, sensible. Yet the wind turns, and the wind carries promise as well as threat. Hunger answers before I do. I step forward.

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

Option A:

In the hollow mouth of the traffic light, a small bird has stitched a home. Metal shoulders hold a tinny box above lanes that snarl and sigh. Fumes coil in the cool air, a faint taste of petrol and rain. The light blinks an obedient sequence: red, amber, green.

Who would expect a nest here? Yet behind the cracked lens sits a woven bed, a patient jigsaw of city scraps: fine twigs, a strip from a crisp packet that glitters like water, straw from a café cup, stray feathers. The bulb warms the hollow; at amber, its gentle heat is like a tired sun. A steady thrum lives in the casing, a small mechanical heartbeat. It isn’t neat—but it is shelter.

She arrives at dawn and grips the lip of the light, claws careful on metal. With her beak she tucks and turns, fussing at the rim; below her, the day rushes. Buses cough; cyclists weave; a leaflet lifts and flaps down again. Red asks the road to stop, and in that hush she dares to sleep. Green washes the nest in a ghostly glow; her feathers flicker, shadow and shine.

Rain slicks the pole, wind rings in the wires, grit sticks to the frame. Still, the inside stays warm, humming. One brittle morning there is a sound like a bead cracking; a shell parts. Then another. Soft heads push through and gape, blindly hopeful, small mouths pulsing like tiny bells. A lorry idles beneath; a driver glances up; someone points, someone smiles, someone doesn’t see. For a moment, the city leans towards them, then it roars again. She lifts, a blur; she returns with a pale grub, with dust on her breast. The nest shivers under the green eye but holds. In a place built to order people around, something fragile refuses to obey.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour when hedges whisper; the road rests; the sky leans low over our burrow. The air tastes clean and metallic, sliding over my whiskers. My pads press the soil and it gives, cool and damp. I breathe, and everything arrives at once: bread, rain, foxglove, cat.

I am not big, not yet. My legs are long but not steady; my tail is too proud and sweeps the dust. Hunger nudges, soft but constant. Behind me, Mother is a ring of warmth around my brothers and sisters. I take one step, then another, out of the mouth of home.

The garden we borrow is patchwork—fences, shadows, dew on grass like tiny moons. My ears flick at the clatter of a train, the mutter of a bin, the high argument of magpies. Beyond the hedge waits the black river called road; it hums even when nothing moves. I have watched its lights sliding like eyes. Today, I will cross.

Belly low, I follow the hedge. A bottle cap shivers under my paw; I freeze. The blue door opens: a man steps out, mug steaming, keys chattering. He smells of coffee and soap and something sharp. I am stone. He looks past me and goes—my heart jumps when the door thumps shut.

On the far side there is treasure: a tower that rains seed, a low wall where birds line up, a silver dish that tastes like pennies. My nose whispers of a chicken bone, old but still shining with fat. The wind turns; the road sighs. I place one paw on the tarmac, then another. A glow grows round the bend and a growl wakes; I decide whether to dash or wait.

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

Option A:

At dawn, a small bird claims the red lens of the traffic light and turns it into a room. Wires hum under her claws; the curved shell of plastic holds her scraps: straw, string, a feather, a crumpled sweet wrapper like ribbon. The light, blinking and blind, becomes a window. She tucks and fusses; she knows what she wants, though it looks wrong to everyone else.

By noon the junction shakes itself awake. Buses sigh, brakes squeal; taxis nose forward; feet hurry. Red, amber, green: the order of the day, again and again. The smell of hot oil mingles with fresh coffee drifting from the corner kiosk. She watches through coloured glass that stains her chest a faint glow. Above the reach of cats and curious hands, she has chosen this strange perch, this industrial nest, because it is high and it is warm—almost safe.

Inside the neat cup lie three pale eggs, freckled like rain on stone. When the red swells, they blush; when amber breathes, they mellow; when green returns, everything looks calm, cool. The bulb purrs a steady heat; the city’s rhythm becomes a lullaby. Stop. Wait. Go. She dozes; then startles at a horn, at the sharp siren, at a cyclist’s shout. A scrap of graffitti flickers opposite, and so does her courage. It is not perfect—thin draughts sneak in, there is dust, there are risks. Still, she settles, wings folded neatly, and the light keeps time for her odd little home.

Option B:

The night is a damp coat on my back, smelling of rain and fried food. Streetlamps hum like sleepy bees; puddles hold tiny moons. I step from the hedge with careful paws, nose first. The air is busy with stories I can read.

I am a fox, thin but quick, and my tail is my balance and my flag. Between the bins and fences, I know the paths, the gaps, the easy shadows. Meanwhile, the humans sleep; their square caves flicker blue behind curtains. Sometimes they leave bread that is hard as stone. Sometimes meat, shining with fat. I take what I can, but I also listen, always listening. My mother said, Listen twice, move once. I try to remember her voice, warm as milk, though the winter took her early.

Suddenly, a car rolls round the corner and its eyes blaze at me. The road hisses under its weight and my fur lifts. I freeze, then I run, pads hitting the tarmac like soft drums. Through nettles, under a cracked gate—I slide and breath out. On the other side: feathers, damp straw, the rich, salt smell of hens.

However, a chain clinks. A shape uncurls in the dark and growls, low and certain. Do you hear it? I do. I hold still, very still, measuring the night, and I decide whether hunger is worth the teeth.

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

Option A:

It shouldn’t be here, but it is: a bird has tucked its messy, clever nest inside the hood of the red traffic light. The round lamp blinks like a slow, tired eye, and straw pokes out in crooked lines. Warmth pools under the glass; warmed dust drifts down. The bird shuffles and turns, quick and neat, like a hand folding paper. One pale feather clings to the rim, trembling every time the colour changes.

Firstly, there is the city. It is grey and busy. Red to amber, amber to green, the rhythm never stops. Secondly, there is this tiny home. Eggs, no bigger than buttons, lie together, shining a little. The city is loud; the nest is quiet. She pecks at a thread from someone’s dropped scarf, she pats it flat, and then she sits. She looks brave and scared.

People notice. A cyclist points, a child laughs, a traffic warden shields the pole. I stand under the post, I feel the tick of the timer through metal. There is a strange peace here. When the light turns red she settles, when it turns green she watches, and life keeps going above the road.

Option B:

Dawn. The time of empty streets and bins. I slide from the hedge and pad along the fence, my belly cold with dew. Smells roll over me: stale bread, fried fat, fox musk, wet metal; I sort them like bones. The road hums. A bus sighs. In gardens, houses blink, dull. I am small but my ears are big; they catch every scrape.

Today I search for more than food. In the night I heard a new sound, a thin, bright call, so I want to find it. Curiosity is a tight collar round my neck. I hop the low wall—claws click—into a garden. Flowers crowd me with sweet and bitter perfume. I nose a plastic bag, a shoe, a child's ball. Then I hear it again, a shiver of noise from the shed. Is it a bird? Or a baby?

I creep closer. The door is ajar, like a mouth. My heart taps, as quick as rain on a tin roof. I could turn away, run back to the dark lane, but I don't. The cry comes again, louder now. I push my head inside; dust dances. A pair of eyes glimmer in the gloom and I freeze.

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

Option A:

The bird sits in the traffic light, right in the red circle like a warm cave. Cars hiss and grunt under it, the light blinks on and off on and off. It smells like petrol and chips, the air is hot and dusty.

The nest is a messy bowl. Twigs and peices of string and shiny wrappers are pushed together, it looks soft, it looks safe. The small bird puffs its belly, tiny eggs like white buttons are under it's wing. The green eye glows beside her, she dont care, she just watches with a bright black bead.

People walk past and stare, a boy points and laughs, a van honks. Wind shakes the light and the nest jiggles but it holds, it holds. It feels brave, making home in a hard place. The city keeps moving and the light keeps blinking, on and off, on and off...

Option B:

Morning. The time of bowls and grass and the gate that clicks. The sun comes up like a slow orange. I smell wet dirt, I hear birds. I am a dog.

I sit by the door, my nose on the crack. The house is quiet then Sam moves, the kettle hisses and I know it is soon. My paws tap and I try to be good, good.

Sam ties laces, says wait, wait. The lead hangs, red and old, it smells like rain. When it touchs my coller my heart jumps. We go out, it is cold and bright and my paws are cold like little stones.

I pull and pull and the world is big today, I want to smell every fence, I want to run, I definatly want to run.

The gate clicks and opens. A cat looks at me. I freeze, is it friend, is it chase, I dont know.

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

Option A:

Up in the traffic light there is a nest, right inside the red circle. You look up and see a small bird there, it blinks and its beak pecks at string and dry grass. The glow make the nest kind of orange and warm like toast. Cars hum and beep, a bus sigh, people walk and they dont even look. I hear wings flutter, soft like paper. It is a weird place but the bird dont care, it fits under the plastic and looks out. The green light shines and it looks like sea. It smells dusty. I am late for school and the wind is cold!

Option B:

Morning. I am a small dog and I wake up when the light is on the floor. I smell food and dust and grass, my nose is busy, I lick my tounge. My bowl is there but it is empty, I look at the door, you are still asleep, I wait, I wait. The cat walks on the wall and I want to run, I pull the lead but it is not on me. i hear a bus and the bin bangs, it makes me jump. I think about the park and then the cold table at the vets, I don't like that. My tail beats. Open the door!