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 landscape is mentioned first?: a wide plain – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the narrator, how does the tide affect the Floss at the meeting of tide and river?: The tide holds back the Floss, slowing the river's progress towards the sea. – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the description, how does the tide affect the river Floss at the point of meeting?: The tide rushes to meet the river Floss and slows the river Floss's passage. – 1 mark
• 1.4 What does the tide do to the river's passage?: checks it – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

66 world above. The rush of the water and the booming of the mill bring a dreamy deafness, which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene. They

71 are like a great curtain of sound, shutting one out from the world beyond. And now there is the thunder of the huge covered wagon coming home with sacks of grain. That honest

How does the writer use language here to describe the sounds and movement around the mill? 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 the onomatopoeic auditory imagery in the rush of the water and the booming of the mill, exploring the paradox whereby dreamy deafness which seems to heighten the peacefulness of the scene, and unpack the simile like a great curtain of sound with the participle shutting one out to suggest an enveloping, insulating barrier; it would also note the structural shift signalled by And now and the metaphorical thunder of the huge covered wagon, explaining how the flowing, multi-clause sentence mirrors continuous movement and the weighty dynamics around the mill.

The writer layers auditory imagery and onomatopoeia to immerse the reader in the mill’s soundscape. The “rush of the water” and the “booming of the mill” are phonetically vivid: “rush” hisses with sibilance while “booming” uses heavy bilabial plosives, so we hear both fluid motion and weighty resonance. This collision of textures produces a “dreamy deafness”—a striking oxymoron that paradoxically “heighten[s] the peacefulness of the scene,” suggesting the sounds become a soft, enclosing blanket rather than a disturbance.

Moreover, the simile “like a great curtain of sound” offers a synaesthetic, almost tactile metaphor: sound is visualised as fabric. The verb “shutting” personifies this curtain, actively excluding “the world beyond” and cocooning the listener inside the mill’s enclave. The definite article in “the world beyond” implies a known, wider reality from which we are deliberately sealed, intensifying the sense of sanctuary and gentle isolation.

Furthermore, the sentence opener “And now” functions as a temporal deictic shift, moving the scene from static hush to kinetic arrival. The “thunder of the huge covered wagon” blends metaphor with onomatopoeia; “thunder” conveys rolling power, while the adjective “huge” and the present participle “coming” emphasise mass and continuous movement. The phrase “coming home” anthropomorphises the wagon, imbuing the industrial action with homely purpose, as the “sacks of grain” anchor the noise in practical labour. Thus, syntax and lexis combine to render sound as motion, and motion as reassuring rhythm.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify sensory imagery and comparison: the rush of the water and booming create vivid sound, while dreamy deafness and the simile like a great curtain of sound suggest enclosure, shutting one out to heighten the peacefulness. It would also note a shift in movement with And now and the metaphorical thunder of the huge covered wagon, conveying heavy, purposeful motion as it comes home.

The writer uses auditory imagery to shape the soundscape around the mill. “The rush of the water and the booming of the mill” use vivid sound words to suggest constant noise, while the soft alliteration in “dreamy deafness” creates a lulling tone. This oxymoron shows the noise numbing the ears and paradoxically helping to “heighten the peacefulness,” so the mill’s power feels calming rather than harsh.

Furthermore, the simile “like a great curtain of sound” makes the noise feel physical and enclosing. Personification in “shutting one out from the world beyond” suggests protection, as if the mill’s sound wraps the listener, sealing the setting off and focusing us on its steady rhythm. This turns the mill into a self-contained space where sound defines the atmosphere.

Additionally, movement is conveyed through the metaphor “the thunder of the huge covered wagon.” “Thunder” evokes heavy, rolling motion, while “huge” stresses weight and presence. The detail “coming home with sacks of grain” adds purposeful, homely movement around the mill. The sentence opener “And now” marks a shift, quickening the pace and implying ongoing activity, so the reader senses both continuous sound and the dynamic arrivals that animate the scene.

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 identify sound words like rush of the water, booming of the mill, and the thunder of the huge covered wagon to show loud, constant noise and heavy movement around the mill. It would also spot the simile like a great curtain of sound and phrases dreamy deafness and shutting one out to suggest calm isolation, with And now signalling a change as the wagon arrives.

The writer uses verbs and nouns of sound to show the mill’s noise. The phrase "the rush of the water and the booming of the mill" creates a strong sense of the noise. The adjective "dreamy" in "dreamy deafness" suggests the noise becomes soft and links to the "peacefulness" of the scene.

Furthermore, a simile shows how complete the sound is: "like a great curtain of sound". This curtain is personified as "shutting one out from the world beyond", which makes the reader feel enclosed by the mill and adds to the calm mood.

Additionally, movement is shown by the phrase "And now", which shifts the scene. The "thunder of the huge covered wagon" suggests heavy movement and power. The words "coming home" make the movement feel steady and safe as it brings sacks of grain.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response identifies sound words like rush of the water and booming of the mill, and the simile like a great curtain of sound, with a basic comment that they make it loud and shut you off from the world beyond. It also points to dreamy deafness and the thunder of the huge covered wagon to say there is movement/noise and some peacefulness of the scene.

The writer uses sound words like “rush” and “booming” to show loud noise and fast movement around the mill. This makes it feel calm with a “dreamy deafness.” Moreover, the simile “like a great curtain of sound” suggests the noise blocks out the “world beyond.” Furthermore, the metaphor “the thunder of the huge covered wagon” makes the wagon seem heavy and powerful as it moves. Additionally, the phrase “And now” moves the action on and adds movement to the scene, showing things arriving and continuing around the mill.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Auditory imagery with dynamic, onomatopoeic lexis immerses the reader in a continuous soundscape → (booming of the mill)
• Paradox suggests noise that soothes, merging intensity with calm → (dreamy deafness)
• Juxtaposition shows noise paradoxically enhancing tranquillity → (heighten the peacefulness)
• Metaphor constructs sound as a barrier that encloses the space → (curtain of sound)
• Present participle in a non-finite clause conveys ongoing exclusion → (shutting one out)
• Temporal connective marks a structural shift, adding immediacy and movement → (And now)
• Powerful noun plus amplifying adjective convey weight and momentum → (thunder of the)
• Size detail emphasises mass and slow, forceful motion → (huge covered wagon)
• Purposeful trajectory and destination create a sense of returning resolution → (coming home)
• Qualifying relative clause adds tentativeness and reflective nuance → (which seems to)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace a structural zoom from the panoramic opening "A wide plain"/"Far away" through the shift to first-person reminiscence "I remember," then to the fixed vantage "I must stand a minute or two here on the bridge" and focal "Dorlcote Mill," explaining how the enclosing soundscape ("low, placid voice," "great curtain of sound") isolates the scene to create tranquility. It would also analyse how the brief kinetic disruption ("thunder of the huge covered wagon") is domesticated by "meek-eyed beasts" and quickly passed so that the viewpoint returns ("Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again") to a hearth-lit close ("very bright fire" under the "deepening gray of the sky"), deepening the serene mood.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create tranquility is through a panoramic opening that slows narrative pace. We begin with an expansive “wide plain,” the Floss and the tide, then a measured spatial progression toward “the town of St Ogg’s.” Cumulative syntax and polysyndetic listing—“ships—laden with…,” “and the broad gables…,” “and the patches of dark earth”—create a flowing cadence that mirrors the river. This wide-angle focus, with soft colouration (“soft purple hue,” “February sun”), establishes a calm, contemplative atmosphere before any human activity intrudes.

In addition, the writer deepens tranquility by shifting focalisation to a reflective first-person voice. After impersonal description, “It seems to me… I remember… I remember” functions as anaphora, creating a meditative rhythm. The narrator inserts a descriptive pause—“I must stand a minute or two”—which arrests story time. Temporal deixis (“this February,” “far on in the afternoon,” “Now…”) regulates pace in gentle increments, while the soundscape acts as insulation: the water’s “low, placid voice” and the mill’s “booming” form a “curtain of sound,” cocooning the scene.

A further structural feature is the controlled modulation of pace via a brief, homely interruption that resolves into quiet. The “thunder of the huge covered wagon” introduces movement, but attention narrows to reassuring detail—the “honest wagoner,” “meek-eyed” horses—before the wagon “disappears… behind the trees,” a diminuendo that restores calm. Deictic imperatives (“See… Look… Now”) guide our gaze, and the viewpoint zooms to domesticity: “that little girl,” the “queer white cur,” and finally “the red light.” The closing ellipsis acts as a soft fade, leaving the tranquility intact.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how the focus narrows from the panoramic "A wide plain" to the homely "And this is Dorlcote Mill" and intimate "That little girl", with first‑person intrusions ("It seems to me", "I remember") and temporal markers ("Now") guiding us through long, flowing description, while the insulating "curtain of sound" makes the calm deepen so that even "the thunder of the huge covered wagon" feels reassuring, before a tranquil close at the "very bright fire".

One way the writer structures the text to create tranquility is by beginning with a panoramic sweep and gradually narrowing the focus. We move from “A wide plain” and “St Ogg’s” along the Floss to “Dorlcote Mill.” This zooming-in creates a steady, unhurried progression, so the setting feels settled and continuous, calming the reader.

In addition, the writer shifts to a first‑person, reflective viewpoint and inserts a narrative pause on the bridge. Phrases such as “It seems to me,” “I remember,” and “I must stand a minute or two” slow the pace deliberately. Temporal markers like “Even in… February” and repeated “now” guide us gently, while the focus turns to sound—“the rush of the water… a dreamy deafness”—which cocoons the reader.

A further structural feature is the controlled contrast of movement followed by a cyclical return. The wagon sequence unfolds chronologically—“And now there is the thunder…”; “Now they are on the bridge”—briefly lifting the pace, then the focus quickly returns: “Now I can turn my eyes toward the mill again.” The closing focus on “that little girl” and the trailing ellipsis create a soft fade‑out that reinforces a lasting peace.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The text moves from a broad, calm opening with "A wide plain" and the river’s "placid voice" to a slower, personal viewpoint ("I remember", "I must stand"), briefly pausing for the gentle routine of the "covered wagon" before returning to "Dorlcote Mill". Ending on "red light" and "It is time" gives a homely close, so the tranquility builds as the focus narrows and the day winds down.

One way the writer has structured the text to create tranquility is by starting wide and then slowly zooming in. At the beginning we see “A wide plain” and the town, before the focus narrows to the river and Dorlcote Mill. This gradual change of focus and built-up detail slow the pace and create calm.

In addition, there is a shift to first-person perspective in the middle: “It seems to me”, “I remember”. This viewpoint and the narrator’s pausing create a reflective tone. Temporal references like “February”, “afternoon”, and repeated “Now” guide a gentle, chronological flow.

A further structural feature is a brief detour to the wagon and horses, then a return to the mill, the little girl and the “bright fire” at the end. This movement away and back, with a cyclical ending, gives closure and routine, reinforcing tranquility.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The text starts with "A wide plain" and a "soft purple hue", then moves in to "Dorlcote Mill" and a "little girl", using the river’s "low, placid voice" so the structure goes from a big calm scene to close, gentle details to create tranquility. Even when there is "the thunder of the huge covered wagon", it goes back to the "unresting wheel" and "the red light" of a "bright fire", keeping the peaceful mood.

One way the writer structures tranquility is by starting with a calm, wide view. The beginning focuses on the river and town, with ‘soft purple hue,’ which makes it peaceful.

In addition, the focus moves to the narrator and memories, shown by ‘I remember.’ This middle section looks at small details like ducks and water, slowing the pace and feeling gentle.

A further feature is time markers. The writer uses ‘Now’ to move slowly, and ends by returning to the mill and the little girl, so the ending stays quiet.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Panoramic opening situates the reader in a calm, expansive setting, establishing a tranquil baseline: A wide plain
• Early union of river and tide structures harmony by turning motion into affectionate calm: impetuous embrace
• Gradual zoom from distant landscape and town to a specific focal point deepens intimacy and stillness: And this is Dorlcote Mill
• Accumulative listing of pastoral details slows the pace and suggests gentle abundance: beehive-ricks rising
• Midway shift to first-person reminiscence creates a reflective, meditative rhythm: I remember
• Sensory pivot from sight to sound encloses the scene, muting the outside world to soothe the reader: curtain of sound
• Brief lively interlude (the wagon) is contained and passes, after which calm is re-centred, proving its steadiness: disappears at the turning
• Repeated temporal markers pace the scene in gentle steps, guiding unhurried progression: Now they are
• Movement toward domestic warmth against evening frames a quiet, comforting resolution: very bright fire
• Closing hesitation and lingering exit extend the calm beyond the page: leave off resting

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 41 to the end.

In this part of the source, the writer focuses on the horses as they pull the heavy wagon up the slope. The writer suggests that although they are incredibly powerful, they are also gentle and patient animals that deserve our sympathy.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the horses
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest sympathy for the horses
• 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 strongly endorses sympathy for the horses, analysing the juxtaposition of power and gentleness in the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts and the kinetic imagery of the patient strength of their necks, bowed under the heavy collar, and their mighty muscles, as well as the reader-directing imperatives See and Look that frame their effort as admirable. It would further evaluate how anthropomorphism (mild reproach), reward-focused diction (hardly-earned feed of corn, moist necks freed from the harness) and the critique of the wagoner who crack his whip as if they needed that hint! position the reader to empathise with the horses’ endurance and dignity.

I agree to a large extent that the writer focuses on the horses’ climb to suggest animals that are at once formidable and tender, and so deserving of our sympathy. The narrator’s lens zooms in on their labour and directs our gaze so that admiration for their power is constantly tempered by a humane, compassionate regard.

From the outset, sound imagery foregrounds strength: the approach is “the thunder of the huge covered wagon,” a metaphor that confers elemental force. The deictic shifts and imperative mood—“And now… See how… Look at”—create immediacy and a guided scrutiny, so the reader cannot help but witness the effort in real time. This orchestrated focus emphasises the sheer weight they haul “up the slope,” making their power palpable.

Yet the lexis describing the horses marries strength with gentleness. The tricolon “the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts” juxtaposes might with docility, a nuanced characterisation that complicates a merely brute reading. Through anthropomorphic projection—“looking mild reproach at him from between their blinkers”—the narrator imagines a gentle, almost courteous protest, and the exclamative aside “as if they needed that hint!” condemns the whip, inviting our sympathy by implying they obey without coercion. Even the human figure, “that honest wagoner,” is defined ethically by his care—he “will not touch” dinner until he has fed them—reinforcing that they merit kindness, though the very presence of the whip implies a system that asks too much of their patience.

Kinaesthetic and tactile details anatomise their exertion: “they stretch their shoulders,” their “grand shaggy feet… grasp the firm earth,” necks show “patient strength,” “bowed under the heavy collar,” while “mighty muscles” and “struggling haunches” thicken the semantic field of labour. The personifying “grasp” and the participles “bowed,” “struggling” sharpen our sense of burden; “patient strength” is a telling yoking, fusing endurance with fortitude. Such a catalogue directs us to admire their heroic capability even as we pity the constraints—“blinkers,” “heavy collar”—that bind it.

Finally, the narrator’s wish-fulfilment—“I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned feed of corn”—frames their reward as morally “earned.” The relief is sensuous: “moist necks freed from the harness,” “eager nostrils into the muddy pond.” “Freed” implies prior oppression; “eager” conveys need. Structurally, once “the arch… disappears,” the narrative returns to the mill and child, but the ethical afterglow remains.

Overall, I strongly agree: through imperative guidance, anthropomorphism, and vivid sensory detail, the writer crafts a portrait of animals whose immense power is matched by gentleness and patience, eliciting not only admiration but earned sympathy.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the writer balances power (grand shaggy feet, patient strength, mighty muscles) with gentleness (strong, submissive, meek-eyed) and invites sympathy through personification (looking mild reproach) and the implied harshness of crack his whip, reinforced by the deserving tone of hardly-earned feed of corn. They might also note the uplifting momentum in swifter pace and being so near home, which slightly tempers the sense of hardship.

I largely agree with the statement. In this section, the writer presents the horses as immensely powerful but also gentle and long-suffering, so that we admire them and feel sympathy for their effort.

The introduction of the team through sound immediately foregrounds strength: the “thunder of the huge covered wagon” uses powerful auditory imagery and the adjective “huge” to stress weight and force. Yet the wagoner’s care—he “will not touch” his dinner “till he has fed his horses”—positions them as deserving dependants. The triplet “strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts” deliberately juxtaposes “strong” with “submissive” and “meek-eyed,” balancing power with mildness. The suggestion that they cast “mild reproach” from “between their blinkers” is anthropomorphism that invites our sympathy, especially when set against the whip cracked in “that awful manner.”

The narrator’s imperatives—“See how they stretch… Look at their grand shaggy feet”—direct our gaze, creating a close-up that showcases both effort and dignity. Dynamic verbs and personification make their labour vivid: feet that “seem to grasp the firm earth,” necks “bowed under the heavy collar,” and the alliteration in “mighty muscles” emphasise sheer physical power. At the same time, the phrase “patient strength” characterises their endurance as calm and noble rather than brutal, encouraging respect and pity for the burden they bear.

Finally, the wishful tone in “I should like well to hear them neigh over their hardly-earned feed of corn” frames their reward as justly deserved. Sensory details—“moist necks freed from the harness,” “eager nostrils”—suggest relief and gentle eagerness, reinforcing the idea that they are patient creatures worthy of care. Structurally, the brief, intense focus before they “disappear” behind the trees creates a poignant vignette of toil within the larger peaceful scene.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer celebrates the horses’ power while highlighting their gentleness and endurance, leading the reader to admire them and to sympathise with their hard work.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, pointing out that the horses seem powerful in "mighty muscles" and "grand shaggy feet" but gentle in "strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts" and "patient strength". It would also say the writer makes us feel sympathy with phrases like "bowed under the heavy collar", "crack his whip", and "hardly-earned feed of corn".

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part of the source, the writer clearly focuses on the horses and shows them as both powerful and gentle, so we feel sympathy for them.

Firstly, the description “the strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts” uses contrasting adjectives to show power and calmness together. This makes the reader admire them but also see their patience. The idea that they give a “mild reproach” while the wagoner “cracks his whip… as if they needed that hint!” suggests they don’t deserve harsh treatment, which makes us feel sorry for them. The detail that the “honest wagoner… will not touch” his dinner until he has fed them also implies they deserve care because of their hard work.

Secondly, the writer’s imperatives “See how…” and “Look at…” direct our attention to their effort up the slope. The list of body parts — “grand shaggy feet,” “patient strength of their necks,” “mighty muscles” — highlights their power. Personification in “feet that seem to grasp the firm earth” and the image of necks “bowed under the heavy collar” show the burden and strain, which creates sympathy for their labour.

Finally, when they reach the bridge they move “at a swifter pace,” showing willing patience and eagerness to get home. The imagined reward — their “hardly-earned feed of corn” and “eager nostrils” dipping into the pond — uses emotive language to suggest they deserve rest.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Through adjectives, imagery, and direct address, the writer presents the horses as incredibly strong yet gentle and patient, encouraging the reader to feel sympathy for them.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree with the writer because the horses seem powerful in "grand shaggy feet" and "mighty muscles", but also gentle and patient as "strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts" with "patient strength". This makes me feel sorry for them when they are "bowed under the heavy collar" working for their "hardly-earned feed of corn".

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, the writer clearly concentrates on the horses as they haul the wagon up the slope toward the bridge. They seem very strong but also gentle and patient, and we are encouraged to feel sorry for them.

The writer uses strong adjectives and imagery to show power: “grand shaggy feet,” “patient strength of their necks” and “mighty muscles of their struggling haunches.” The verbs “stretch” and “grasp” show effort. The imperatives “See” and “Look” and the exclamation marks ask the reader to admire them.

At the same time, the list “strong, submissive, meek‑eyed” makes them sound calm and kind. The phrase “looking mild reproach … as if they needed that hint!” personifies them and suggests they don’t deserve the whip. This makes us sympathise.

We also hear they have “hardly‑earned” their feed of corn, and the wagoner “will not touch” his dinner until he feeds them, which shows they are patient and worthy of care.

Overall, I agree the writer shows the horses as incredibly powerful but also gentle and patient, and the simple language choices make the reader feel respect and sympathy for them.

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:

• I largely agree: the narrator foregrounds humane priorities to elicit sympathy, as the wagoner delays his own meal for the horses (he will not touch it).
• Anthropomorphism invites empathy rather than fear; the imagined mild reproach frames them as feeling, gentle creatures who don’t warrant harsh treatment.
• The balanced triplet fuses power with gentleness, shaping an admiring yet tender impression (strong, submissive, meek-eyed beasts).
• Dynamic movement conveys determined power without aggression; they stretch their shoulders up the slope, suggesting tireless effort.
• Burdened imagery stresses strain and earns pity: necks bowed under the heavy collar make their labour feel taxing and undeservedly harsh.
• Endurance is explicitly valorised; the phrase patient strength of their necks positions their power as disciplined and considerate.
• The narrator’s wish for their reward humanises their needs, underlining fairness and compassion (hardly-earned feed of corn).
• The text criticises needless severity, calling the whip-crack an awful manner, so our sympathy intensifies for already willing animals.
• Aural scale amplifies the task’s magnitude, heightening admiration for their effort (thunder of the huge covered wagon).
• Concrete detail shows controlled traction, not menace; their grand shaggy feet seem to grip the earth, reinforcing powerful gentleness.

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For History Week at your school, the English department is inviting creative pieces set around food in another era.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a Tudor feast hall from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a secret told over supper.

(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:

Under a roof of blackened oak, the great hall breathed—slow, smoky breaths that wound about the hammerbeams and teased the fringes of heraldic banners. Beeswax stippled honeyed light; lower down, tallow guttered and complained. Rushes strewn with sweet flag and rosemary released a crushed, green scent beneath boots and pattens—an antidote, almost, to the warm fug of meat and men. The fireplace—its mouth arched like a chapel—murmured with embers; sparks lifted and died. Leaded panes held night in small black diamonds as the door sighed and winter leaned in.

At the dais, beneath an oriel that hoarded the last shred of evening, the high table glittered with entitlement. A great salt—silver, turreted, absurdly splendid—stood between those who counted and those who did not; beyond it, rank arranged itself without argument. Pewter chargers shone dully; trenchers waited like tame moons. Rings flashed on authoritative hands; velvet sleeves slurred across linen as the lord bent to confer with his steward. Between goblets the candles stood to attention, thin flames bowing whenever servants ghosted past with careful dishes.

Down the length of the hall, abundance paraded: a boar’s head, lacquered and laureled with rosemary; a peacock re-dressed in its own impossible plumage; venison pasties, their fluted crusts pale as winter moonlight. Trenchers of yesterday’s bread drank gravies and swelled. Ginger bit; cloves sang; pepper pricked. There was hippocras—spiced, garnet, generous—passing from hand to hand. Knives raced; spoons shovelled; clatter rang like a smithy. Above, the minstrels’ gallery shouldered the noise into music—shawms braying, a sackbut answering, the tabor stitching a heartbeat through it all. A fool jingled past; laughter surged, then frayed. Pages, grey with concentration, slid among elbows; yeomen in livery set down dishes with practised choreography; the steward’s staff tapped—once, twice—a metronome. Under the benches, hopeful curs nosed for gristle, tails sketching commas through the rushes.

On the walls, the arras—forests stitched with hares and hounds—shivered perpetually in the draught; a stag’s flank seemed to quiver, mid-leap, forever almost escaping. Light turned pewter to pearl; it lay in buttery swathes across the table and slid—sly, obliging—over rings, scars, greasy fingers. Smoke laced itself into hair and wool, a faithful ghost that would follow them back to chambers. For a heartbeat the tumult dimmed: heads bent; the Latin of grace unfurled like slow ribbon; the hall held its breath. Later—time here moving with the authority of a procession—the candles will gutter into small amber lakes; fat will stiffen; the great salt will vanish; outside, frost will crust the yard while, inside, the hammerbeams cradle the last ember-red breath. The smell of cloves and smoke will wait—pertinacious, patient—as if the hall itself had feasted and, sated, chosen to dream on.

Option B:

Supper. The hour when the day loosened its collar; when steam lifted from the stew in soft, fugitive ribbons; when the tinny radio hummed; when conversation travelled in circular routes—how was your day, pass the salt, don’t feed scraps to the dog.

I palmed a slice of bread, the crust warm as a pocket; my secret sat behind my teeth like a small, stubborn stone. It had weight. I’d rolled it on my tongue all afternoon, tasting the iron of it, rehearsing openings that sounded glib in my head and graceless aloud. In my jacket—draped over the chair—the letter warmed as if it, too, had blood.

Mum ladled stew into bowls, her wrist deft, efficient, baring the tattoo of a faint flour-dust bracelet she never noticed. Dad cut the loaf with his engineer’s precision—three even arcs, knife squeaking on the board. My brother, Finn, drummed a fork on the underside of the table until Mum’s eyebrow hoovered it up in a glance. The dog—hopeful—vowed eternal love to whoever dropped a carrot. Ordinary. Blessedly ordinary.

By the time the gravy developed a skin, I had run out of opportunities to postpone it: the questions had been asked and answered; the room had settled into that low, companionable murmur that makes unpleasant disclosures feel like profanity. My fork found the plate with a treacherous little chime. Its sound—church-bell bright—startled me into the future I’d dreaded and designed.

How do you place a bomb so gently that no one notices until it blooms?

“I need to tell you something,” I said. The sentence landed in the middle of the table like a card face down.

Mum didn’t look up. “Now?”

“Now.” I swallowed. The radio fizzed; rain rehearsed its solo on the back step. “I found her: the woman who had me.”

Silence has textures. This one was elastic, a held breath that stretched. Mum’s ladle hung, dripping; a bead of stew slid and fell back with a soft, indecent plop. Dad’s mouth crooked towards a word that didn’t arrive. Finn said, inanely, “Your… what?”

“My mother,” I said, and the words, once said, were simpler. “I wrote to her in July. She wrote back. I went to meet her last week.”

Mum’s spoon clinked, shallow as a cymbal. “You went?” Her voice frayed at the edges, not angry yet, but thinning.

“I took the early train,” I said—partly sorry, partly relieved, wholly undone. “She makes lampshades out of maps. She…” I ran out of adjectives and courage simultaneously. “I should have told you. I know.”

The dog, bored with our theatre, sighed and lay down. Steam blurred the window into a soft pane of winter. Ordinary went on, remorseless, while our lives—our small lives—quietly altered their shape around a new, complicated truth.

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

Option A:

Candles lean like patient sentries, their flames folding in the low draught; beeswax breathes a honeyed smoke that softens the hard edges of oak and brass. The great hall stretches, rush-strewn and echoing, under a dark forest of beams; banners hang in tired colours, and a tapestry of hunters rides along one wall. Pewter cups catch the light as if hoarding it. The hearth roars; sparks lift and vanish. The air is thick, warm, generous.

At the high table, upon a small dais, the lord sits in brocade; rings blink on his fingers with each amused gesture. His voice carries — not loud, but inevitable. Below the salt, laughter is louder, easier; a servant in livery glides between elbows with a tilt of practised grace. From the minstrels' gallery a thin tune threads down — lutes, a drum, something reedy — and talk plaits itself around the notes. Knives skim across trenchers; blessings are murmured; at once, the room unfolds into appetite.

The first dishes are a procession: venison pies with lacquered lids, capons glazed and shining, a boar's head dressed with rosemary, oranges, and a grin. Steam rolls off in waves that smell of pepper and clove; the spice nips the nose, then sweetens. A peacock arrives re-feathered in its jewelled skin, ostentatious, almost absurd, yet everyone watches. The suckling pig crackles when sliced — crisp, then tender — and juices run in lines down to the bread. Wine comes, dark and spiced; the cup leaves a warming path.

The trenchers, brown and serviceable, drink everything offered to them. They are boats of bread, they are plates, they are sponges; each minute they grow heavier, richer. Gravy eddies, marchpane sheen clings, crumbs gather in small hills. Fingers are quick but not careless. A boy passes with a basin for hands; water gleams and is gone. Dogs nose the rushes for what falls — a splinter of bone, a rind, the lucky pearl of fat. Someone laughs twice, then coughs.

The light behaves as if it were water, pooling in hollows, running in bright rivers across the polished trestles, lifting to ripple under the gilded salt. Shadows tilt and bow whenever the door opens; they return, obedient. Smoke ladders up to the hammerbeam roof and settles there like a second ceiling. The hall breathes. It goes on — slice and share, pour and praise, again and again — until the music loosens and the edges blur, and the world beyond the tapestries seems far away.

Option B:

Sunday. The day of roast chicken and patience; of glass that fogs with breathing; of windows that hold amber light a fraction too long. The table had dressed itself in good intentions: the ironed cloth, the centred bowl of lemons we wouldn't eat, the cutlery polished until each fork reflected a bit of ceiling. Steam climbed from the casserole in disciplined ribbons as if secrets had weight and could rise; even the gravy boat seemed to hover, whale-like, at the end of the runner. Inside, everything waited. The clock ticked with a practical sort of heart. My napkin felt heavier than cotton.

Mum moved with ceremonial care, ladling spoonfuls of broth that smelt of thyme and old books; she had spent all afternoon making this, wanting it to hold us together. Dad's hands, usually sure, fussed with the breadbasket, aligning slices as if they were files on a desk. There was too much cutlery for soup, too many glasses for three people. That, more than the careful flowers, made the hairs on my arms stand up. We ate in measured sips. The first mouthful warmed my tongue and then cooled it; the second tasted different—metallic, anticipant. We did not talk about school. We talked around things. We arranged our words like furniture, leaving a space in the middle where something substantial might sit.

Dad put his spoon down; the tiny clink made the room flinch. He looked at his hands first, as though they were rehearsing the sentence, and then at me. 'I need to tell you something,' he said, and his voice had lost its usual lacquer. A pause opened, deep and exact, like the silence before thunder. 'I should have told you sooner,' he went on. 'This isn't—' He looked at Mum, and she nodded, her mouth a straight, brave line. He breathed in. 'I am not your father.'

The words did not fall; they settled, heavy as coins dropped into a pocket. I waited for anger to arrive like a siren, for the room to tilt or shout, but what came first was ordinary: the awareness of thyme again, the taste of metal on my tongue. Questions pressed against my teeth; they wanted to scatter across the cloth. I tried to choose just one.

'Then who—?' I began, but the doorbell chimed—once, precise, like a full stop—and the secret did what all secrets do: it opened into something larger.

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

Option A:

Candlelight puddles on the long oaken tables, every flame shivering with the sly draught that creeps beneath the great door. On the walls, tapestries of hunts and saints hang heavy and dim, their colours rubbed to dusk by years of smoke. The floor is strewn with rushes, mixed with rosemary and lavender; when feet pass, the herbs bruise and lift a clean, green perfume that struggles against the sweet tang of spiced wine and the blunt animal heat of roasted meat. It is warm, almost close, yet the fire snaps; sparks hop up the soot-dark chimney like startled gold.

At the far end, on the dais, the high table waits under a cloth as pale as milk. A gilded salt sits like a tiny tower, guarded by pewter trenchers and knives with slim, bright blades. There is a boar’s head, jaw pearled with cloves and orange, lips fixed in a grin that feels both merry and macabre; beside it a sugar subtlety rises—a castle no bigger than a cap, crenellations delicate as frost. Lords in velvet the colour of mulberries lean toward ladies whose ruffs bloom like white flowers. Their rings flash when they reach for marchpane; their words float out and down, light and clipped.

Meanwhile, along the lower tables, the world grows louder. Tankards knock, men laugh, a dog skitters under the benches, nosing at bones and being shooed by a quick heel. There is clatter and chatter, clatter and chatter; the rhythm sits in the ribs. Servants skim the aisle with practised grace—platters balanced, jugs braced against aprons, shoulders tilting just-so to avoid a lurching elbow. Steam bellies from bowls of pottage; the scent of nutmeg and pepper coils up, curious and rich. From the minstrels gallery, a lute lilts and a small drum taps; the tune threads the smoke and finds a place to settle.

Above, the rafters brood—hammerbeam arms black with years of breath and fire. Bunches of bay and tansy hang in dusty bundles, and somewhere a draft hums over them, setting their shadows to a slow, leafy wag. Leaded windows, diamond-paned, hold back the night; beyond them the cold presses its flat face to the glass, patient.

For a moment, a hush: a toast rises like a wave and breaks into cheers, the hall alive again. Everything flickers. Everything feasts.

Option B:

Steam lifted from the casserole in slow ribbons, stroking the low kitchen light. The table was set—mismatched bowls, the good knives, a jug of tap water sweating a ring into the varnish. Outside, dusk pressed its face to the window; inside, the radio murmured like a neighbour leaning in. We were hungry, talkative, ordinary—or pretending to be.

Mum ladled with her usual concentration, tapping the wooden spoon twice against the pot. Dad sawed gently at the bread until it surrendered a crusted heel. My brother drummed his fingers—tap tap tap—until Mum’s look folded his hands into his lap. Thyme breathed from the stew; steam fogged the glass; somewhere the clock pronounced each minute in deliberate ticks. But there was something else laid between the salt and the butter, as palpable as either: the secret I had been carrying all week. It sat in my throat, small and heavy, like a coin I couldn’t swallow.

When is the right time to ruin a meal? Before the first mouthful, mid-sip, once plates are scraped clean? I tried to time it like a cautious driver signalling, easing into the right lane of the evening. My spoon scraped porcelain; I lifted it, blew, set it back again. Not yet. Not yet.

“Pass the pepper?” Dad said, as if ordinary could be coaxed back by condiment.

I nodded, and the whole table wobbled as my hand knocked the jug. A clear arc washed into the ring it had been making, and Mum’s breath caught. The radio singer held a high note and then let it go; the kitchen seemed to relax—then hold itself taut again.

“I need to tell you something,” I said, and the words came out too fast, like birds escaping. “I applied to a university in Glasgow. I got in.” I swallowed. “I’m going. In September.”

The ladle hovered, a glossy drip hanging like a question mark. Dad set down the knife. My brother stared at me as if I’d spoken in code. For a heartbeat, all I could hear was the small, industrious boiling in the pot.

“You applied without telling us,” Mum said softly, not a question. The drip fell, a dark spot spreading on the cloth.

I had carried the secret like a hot coin, burning a circle into my palm; now it cooled between us, dull and undeniable. The room rearranged itself around it: chairs too close, light too bright, stew suddenly cloying. I kept my eyes on the pepper, on the little black flecks that sank and vanished, because it was easier than meeting theirs.

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

Option A:

Candlelight trembles along the oak beams, painting the high roof with wavering gold. The hall is long and close with heat; the great hearth roars, and sparks hop like fleas into the black throat of the chimney. Tapestries hang heavy on the stone, bright beasts and saints that seem to lean out to watch. At the far end, upon a raised dais, the high table waits under a canopy, glittering a little, important.

Down the trestles, trenchers crowd together, grease-soft wood darkened by years. Pewter gleams beside them; tall flagons sweat. Steam curls from pottage, thick and earthy; rosemary pricks the air; roasted capons lie with crackled skin, and a boar’s head smirks through glazed apples. The smell is crowded too—spice and smoke, hot tallow, wet wool. Rushes on the floor are crushed under boots, releasing a dry, hay-like scent that mixes with spilt ale. Dogs nose along the benches and sigh.

People fill the space like a tide. Gentlemen in dark velvet; ladies in stiff bodices that shine; servants threading the gaps with platters balanced, quick and careful. A jester’s bells twitch and chime as he bows; minstrels by the screen pluck at lutes and viols, their quiet tune tugging at the talk. Colours catch the eye—scarlet sleeves, gold-edged cuffs, the blue of a sash—and the flash of rings when goblets are raised.

The sound runs in layers. Knives scrape; trenchers thud; there is clatter, a cough, a burst of laughter that rolls along the boards. Someone calls for more ale, again and again, and a page stumbles with the brim-full jug, almost spilling it but not quite. Heat pushes at faces; candle flames shiver in a draught and then steady, steady. You could imagine staying here all night, listening, tasting, watching, until the smoke thins and the wax has burned low. It feels safe, and a little wild.

Option B:

The steam from Mum’s stew misted the window while rain drew silver lines on the glass. The table was laid in its usual way: mismatched plates, a jug of tap water, the salt clumped in its cellar. The bulb above us hummed as if it wanted to talk. We ate without saying much. The smell was warm and familiar, rich with garlic and thyme. It should have felt ordinary.

It didn’t. Dad cleared his throat, then let the words drown in his drink. Mum folded her napkin into a neat square, then made it smaller; she never did that when she was relaxed. Josh kicked me under the table and whispered sorry. The clock in the hall ticked, paused, and ticked again, as if it was waiting too. Their glances went back and forth like little paper boats.

Dad set his fork down with a small, deliberate clink. He didn’t look at us at first. “There’s something we need to tell you,” he said, quietly. His voice was steady, but it sounded like the start of a storm. “I lost my job last week.” He breathed out. “We’re going to have to move—soon.” Mum nodded, her eyes shiny. “Across to the coast, near Gran,” she added. “It will be smaller, but it will be okay.”

My mouth was full, and suddenly empty; the stew tasted like cardboard. Questions crowded, loud and clumsy: What about school? What about my friends? I didn’t say them. Mum looked down, she twisted her ring. Dad tried a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Rain kept writing on the window, and the secret, now spoken, sat between the salt and the jug like another place laid for supper.

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

Option A:

At the first push of the heavy oaken door, warm breath from the hall rolls out. Smoke and sweet grease hang low; candles tremble in their iron arms like tired stars. The rafters are high and blackened, cross-hatched like ribs, and banners droop with bold lions and faded red. Rushes crackle under boots, and the stone floor has a sheen of spilled ale. The candles lean and drip, wax pools at the base.

On the long trestle tables, trenchers of bread sit like small round plates, already soaked at the edges. Meat glistens: a boar’s head with an apple absurdly bright, geese browned and split, trenchers piled with pottage, saffron-yellow and steaming. Servants hurry, sleeves rolled and eyes quick; they pour from flagons and set pewter goblets straight. At the raised dais, the lord leans back beneath a carved canopy, ring catching the light, his laugh booming. The great salt stands like a small tower between him and the rest, important and shiny.

Music scrapes from a corner, lutes with a thin pipe, a drum thudding like a steady heart. Men in fur-trimmed coats argue softly, women in stiff bodices tilt their heads, and dogs nose under benches for bones. The hall is noisy, people shout, cups strike wood, someone sings the chorus again and again. Heat swells—smells of cinnamon, pepper, and smoke—pushed about by thin winter draughts that creep under the door.

Fire gnaws the logs; sparks leap and die. Above it all the huge tapestries seem to watch, hunters and stags frozen mid-chase. Who could ignore such a feast? Even the shadows feel full, for tonight at least.

Option B:

Supper. Steam climbed from the stew; the smell of garlic stitched itself into the curtains, and the old clock beat its slow tick. Plates clinked. Outside, rain worried the windows. The table was scratched with old evenings. The room felt warm, ordinary, almost safe.

Mum ladled carefully, the spoon shaking in the thin light. Dad read the same line on the paper again and again. Tom flicked peas until Mum saw. I watched gravy slide into a dark lake on my plate, a small moon of potato floating like a boat that didn’t know which shore to choose.

All day I had carried it—the secret—like a stone in my shoe, tiny but brutal. It made me walk strangely; it rubbed every thought until it felt sore. How do you tell the truth across a table where knives shine and everyone is hungry? Mum asked if school was fine, I nodded. My mouth felt full of feathers. The room seemed to lean closer.

“Eat,” Dad said, folding the paper. “You look pale.”

I put my fork down. The clatter sounded louder than it should; even Tom froze. My tongue was a stubborn door. Then it opened.

“I didn’t go to the exam,” I said. “I…I missed it.”

The secret left me like steam. The air thickened—like sauce left too long on the hob. Mum’s spoon paused mid-air. Dad’s face tightened into a different shape, a shape I couldn’t quite read yet.

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

Option A:

The Tudor hall glows with thick candlelight that floats like warm honey. Heavy oak beams cross the ceiling, dark with years of smoke and stories. At the high end, a raised table is dressed in white cloth; beneath the rafters hang heraldic banners. The great hearth roars and pops, sending sparks that smoulder in the air. Shadows crawl up the wood, the smell of tallow and spice holds the room.

On long boards sit trenchers, rough and brown, holding meat that glistens. A boar’s head with an apple, steaming pies, capons glazed in honey. Thick bread is torn by hands; gravy pools, sticky and savoury. There is nutmeg in the air, roasted onion, and a hint of ale. My mouth waters because the feast feels endless.

Meanwhile the noise builds like bees in a hive. Laughter rises and drops, clatter and clink, clatter and clink, of pewter cups. Music echos from a lute; a drum thuds underfoot. Servants—red-cheeked and quick—rush between benches, spilling a little, bowing a lot. The lords lean back in velvet, rings bright; ladies in stiff gowns watch with cool faces which hide their smiles.

In the corner a tapestry shows huntsmen chasing a green deer. Outside is cold and black; here is bright, hot, alive.

Option B:

Steam curled from the soup bowls as if it wanted to escape. The kitchen light hummed above us; it was a steady sound, like a bee in a jar. We sat around the table with our spoons ready, watching butter melt on the potatoes. Supper was simple: carrot soup and bread. The clock ticked harder than before. Mum kept glancing at Dad—then at me—and her spoon barely touched the surface.

After a while, we started to eat, because you have to. Warmth slid down my throat and made my hands less stiff. Dad cleared his throat so loud the porcelain plates trembled. "I need to tell you something," he said, not looking up. He laid his knife flat. "I lost my job last week." The words dropped into the soup, into the quiet, like stones. For a second even the clock stopped.

I stared at the steam, which was fading now; the broth had gone cool at the edges. My chair scraped back. I wanted to ask why, how, what now, but the questions tangled, they wouldn't come out. Mum reached for my hand. We waited again, together, while the sky turned late blue beyond the window.

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

Option A:

The hall is long and dark. Candles sit in iron rings, their flames shake and drip like little stars. Thick wood beams over my head, they look old and they creak. Smoke hangs near the roof. It smells of meat and wet wool and a kind of sweet spice.

The fire is big at the end, it spits and pops like it is angry.

On the tables there are trenchers, rough bread plates with gravy soaking in. There is pork and chicken and pies piled high. Red apples shine in the light, like coins. Cups are metal and cold, when they bang on wood it makes a clack clack and a cheer goes with it. At the same time a boy with a jug goes up and down the hall, up and down the hall.

I stand near the wall and look, the whole place feels like a ship with candles for stars.

Option B:

Supper was on the table. Steam went up like breath in cold air. Mum sat on one side, Dad on the other.

Over supper we didn’t talk much, the TV whispered in the corner. The beans was shiny. The chips were soggy. The butter went soft. It smelt like onions and wet coats.

I had a secret.

It was in my throat like a stone. I chewed and chewed, it wouldn’t go. We ate and the sauce ran, I looked at the plate and not at them.

Mum said eat your supper first love. Dad said, hurry up.

I couldn’t.

So I said it: I took the money from the jar, I needed it, Im sorry. The words came out small, like a mouse.

The fork scraped the plate.

What did you say, Dad goes.

Nothing, I said. I took it and I cant put it back.

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

Option A:

the hall is big and dark with smoke and candels. There is long tables all the way, the wood is scraped and sticky, plates and trenchers and big gobblets are there. Meat steams and fat runs, it smells heavy and sweet. People talk, shout, laugh, the sound hits the roof. A fire roars at the end and sparks jump, red light shakes on banners and shields. Dogs nose the rushes and bite bones. Wax drips on my hand and it is warm. I hear a slow song and a drum. Outside it rains on the yard, the moon is like a coin.

Option B:

Supper. The soup is hot, steam goes up like a little cloud. I blow on the spoon and my hands shake, the table is sticky from last night. I got a secret and it sits in my mouth like a stone, heavy, heavy. Mum says eat, Dad says hurry, the TV talks on and on. My shoelace broke at school today. I say it over supper because I cant hold it, I lost the money. The jar money. It fell, it went. Plates bang and no one talks. I look at the bread and it dont look back.