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 had warned Lily to go slowly?: Judy Trenor – 1 mark
• 1.2 What did Lily mean to use?: the accident of his presence – 1 mark
• 1.3 What had Lily promised to do with Mr. Gryce?: To walk with Mr. Gryce – 1 mark
• 1.4 Who had warned Lily to go slowly?: Judy Trenor – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

1 Lily smiled also: his words were too acute not to strike her sense of humour. It was true that she meant to use the accident of his presence as part of a very definite effect; or that, at least, was the secret pretext she had found for breaking her promise to walk with Mr. Gryce. She had sometimes been accused of being too eager—even Judy Trenor had warned her to go slowly. Well,

6 she would not be too eager in this case; she would give her suitor a longer taste of suspense. Where duty and inclination jumped together, it was not in Lily’s nature to hold them asunder. She had excused herself from the walk on the plea of a headache: the horrid headache which, in the morning, had prevented her venturing to church. Her appearance at luncheon justified the

11 excuse. She looked languid, full of a suffering sweetness; she carried a scent-bottle in her hand. Mr. Gryce was new to such manifestations; he wondered rather nervously if she were delicate, having far-reaching fears about the future of his progeny. But sympathy won the day, and he besought her not to expose herself: he always connected the outer air with ideas of

How does the writer use language to show Lily’s appearance and Mr Gryce’s response? You could include the writer’s choice of:

• words and phrases
• language features and techniques
• sentence forms.

[8 marks]

Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)

Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how free indirect discourse and complex syntax with asides frame Lily’s self-conscious performance—seeking a 'very definite effect' through metaphorical, sensory lexis ('taste of suspense'), a semantic field of fragility ('languid', 'scent-bottle'), and sound patterning in 'suffering sweetness' and 'horrid headache', with ironic narration ('justified the excuse'); meanwhile, Mr Gryce’s response is revealed by formal, reproductive diction ('new to such manifestations', 'delicate', 'far-reaching fears about the future of his progeny'), culminating in the yielding effect that 'sympathy won the day'.

The writer presents Lily as consciously staging her effect. 'Meant to use the accident of his presence as part of a very definite effect' sets up antithesis between 'accident' and 'definite', exposing artifice, while 'secret pretext' foregrounds duplicity. This invites the reader to relish her performance. The repeated modal 'would' in 'would not be too eager… would give her suitor a longer taste of suspense' signals calculated control, and the gustatory metaphor 'taste of suspense' renders manipulation sensual. Personifying 'duty and inclination' that 'jumped together', and the archaic 'asunder', give ironic moral grandeur.

Moreover, her appearance is sculpted to fit the lie. The euphemistic 'plea of a headache' becomes the 'horrid headache' that 'prevented her venturing to church', and 'her appearance at luncheon justified the excuse'. Adjectives like 'languid' and the oxymoron 'suffering sweetness' create a semantic field of frailty; the sibilance softens her image. The 'scent-bottle' functions as a prop, the semi-colon letting this finishing touch unfurl, as if she is arranging a tableau of delicate invalidism.

Furthermore, Mr Gryce’s response is framed through medicalised lexis and anxious register. He is 'new to such manifestations', and 'wondered rather nervously if she were delicate'—a genteel euphemism that aligns with 'far-reaching fears about the future of his progeny', the archaic noun exposing his preoccupation with lineage. Personification in 'sympathy won the day' casts his caution as a battle he loses, while the archaic 'besought' and phrase 'the outer air' suggest timorous chivalry. Thus, the writer gently satirises his gullible protectiveness.

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 explain that adjectives and noun phrases like "languid," "suffering sweetness," and "scent-bottle" present Lily’s fragile allure as part of a "very definite effect" to keep him in a "taste of suspense," while verbs and evaluative language show Mr Gryce’s anxious protectiveness as he "wondered rather nervously" if she were "delicate" and "besought her not to expose herself," so **"sympathy won the day."
It would also note how colons and semi‑colons link balanced clauses, reinforcing Lily’s control and Mr Gryce’s fretful concern for his **"progeny."**

The writer crafts Lily’s appearance as a deliberate performance. The evaluative adjectives “languid, full of a suffering sweetness” create a soft, fragile image; the sibilance in “suffering sweetness” smooths the sound and romanticises her frailty. Moreover, the concrete noun phrase “a scent-bottle in her hand” acts like a prop, reinforcing an ‘invalid’ persona. The alliteration in “the horrid headache” and the colon in “on the plea of a headache: the horrid headache” foreground and amplify her excuse, while the ironic statement that her “appearance at luncheon justified the excuse” hints that she has staged this look “as part of a very definite effect.”

In contrast, Mr Gryce’s response is shown as anxious and protective. The euphemistic adjective “delicate” and the adverb “nervously” suggest he fears for her health, and the formal noun “progeny” reveals practical, even calculating, worries about the future. Furthermore, the personification “sympathy won the day” shows his emotion overruling caution, and the archaic, pleading verb “besought” presents him as solicitous and old-fashioned. Additionally, the phrase “outer air” carries a lexical field of exposure and illness, implying fussy caution. Thus, language presents Lily’s carefully fragile appearance and Mr Gryce’s cautious, sympathetic reaction.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses adjectives and emotive language like languid, suffering sweetness, and details such as the scent-bottle and horrid headache to present Lily as delicate and faint. Mr Gryce’s response is shown through verbs/adverbs and phrases like wondered rather nervously, far-reaching fears, and besought her not to expose herself, making him seem anxious and protective.

The writer uses adjectives to present Lily’s appearance. The description “she looked languid, full of a suffering sweetness” uses the adjective “languid” to suggest tired and fragile, while the phrase “suffering sweetness” makes her seem ill but attractive, creating sympathy. The prop “she carried a scent-bottle” emphasises her delicate image.

Furthermore, Mr Gryce’s response is shown with adverbs and nouns. “He wondered rather nervously” shows he is worried, and the word “delicate” suggests he thinks she is weak. The formal noun “progeny” highlights he is already thinking about future children, so her health matters to him.

Additionally, the personification “sympathy won the day” shows his feelings overcome his fears, and the verb “besought” makes his request sound polite and pleading. This language presents Lily as carefully fragile, and Mr Gryce as anxious and protective.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses adjectives like 'languid' and 'suffering sweetness' to show Lily looks weak, with the detail of the 'scent-bottle' making her seem delicate. Mr Gryce is shown as worried and caring through the adverb 'nervously' and the phrase 'besought her not to expose herself'.

The writer uses adjectives to show Lily’s appearance. The words "languid" and "suffering sweetness" make her seem weak and gentle, so the reader sees her as delicate. Also, the detail "she carried a scent-bottle" suggests she is refined and fragile.

Furthermore, the writer uses an adverb for Mr Gryce’s response: he "wondered rather nervously", showing simple worry that she is "delicate".

Additionally, verb choices show his feelings. "Sympathy won the day" and he "besought her not to expose herself" make him sound caring and protective. This shows his response is anxious but kind.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening action and evaluative lexis present a poised, socially responsive exterior; Lily’s visible amusement masks calculation (Lily smiled also)
• Theatrical/metatextual diction frames her look as a crafted performance, not mere happenstance (definite effect)
• Contrast and pacing (reinforced by dash) show self-restraint to control impression and delay availability (go slowly)
• Sensory metaphor makes her manipulation enticing, as if he must be fed her absence in stages (taste of suspense)
• Legalistic “plea” and alliterative intensifier dramatise frailty, crafting a convincing invalid persona (horrid headache)
• Structural assertion links claim to evidence, implying she aligns her look to match the story (justified the excuse)
• Oxymoronic/sibilant description aestheticises weakness, inviting protective sympathy through soft, appealing fragility (suffering sweetness)
• Concrete prop as visual cue of delicacy signals faintness and sustains the staged appearance (scent-bottle)
• Abstract noun suggests outward “signs” he reads literally; his naivety and anxieties (about “progeny”) shape his reaction (such manifestations)
• Personified compassion and elevated register make him protective and cautious, fearing harm from environment (not to expose herself)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how intimacy 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 whole-text shift from calculated performance to candid connection: Lily’s strategic restraint (she would not be too eager in this case) removes others so that The house was empty, and the pacing dilates (the whole afternoon before them, mental vagrancy). It would also note the move from external observation (Selden had watched her manoeuvres) to call-and-response dialogue (Success—what is success? / My idea of success is personal freedom) and mirrored gestures (She leaned forward with a responsive flash, I know—I know), narrowing focus and shifting tone to intimacy.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create a sense of intimacy is by narrowing focus while expanding time. Early on, Lily’s plan removes Mr. Gryce—'had taken her advice and departed... as the motor-car plunged down the avenue'. The pivot 'The house was empty... at length he heard her step... the whole afternoon before them' shifts from society to seclusion. This contraction and stated duration ('at least four hours') slow the pace and create a protected interval, preparing a private exchange.

In addition, the text moves from external narration to live dialogue, heightening proximity. After free indirect discourse ('she would not be too eager'), rapid turn-taking follows: echoing interrogatives ('Success—what is success?' / 'Success?') establish reciprocity. Stage directions ('took a side-glance'; 'He sat up'; 'She leaned forward') chart converging proxemics, while dashes and repetition ('Freedom? Freedom from...') mimic hesitation and intensification typical of confiding speech. The alternation of short exchanges with reflective pauses calibrates pace so the intimacy seems to deepen naturally.

A further structural strategy is subtle focalisation and shared history that foster complicity. Selden’s aside—'had watched her manoeuvres with lazy amusement'—shifts viewpoint so we see Lily as he does, while the retrospective 'the other day' recalls prior confidences. The arc runs from ironic performance ('baffled beetle') to vulnerability ('I certainly haven’t succeeded') and resolves in a mutual credo ('a kind of republic of the spirit'), climaxing with Lily’s synchronous assent, 'I know—I know.' Ending on this echoing affirmation seals the intimate circle.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that intimacy is built by narrowing the focus and removing others: after Mr. Gryce leaves, The house was empty and The excursionists would be gone at least four hours, giving them the whole afternoon before them and a sense of leisure and safety that slows into dialogue. It would then show how the shift from social performance to shared reflection (so free from ulterior motives) culminates in physically and emotionally close moments—She leaned forward, I know—I know—as their talk aligns on personal freedom, drawing the reader into their private connection.

One way the writer structures intimacy is by narrowing the focus and maintaining a close third-person perspective on Lily’s thoughts. We begin inside her private motives ("she would not be too eager"), so the reader is taken into her confidence. The sequence then removes others: Mr Gryce is sent off, the party departs, and "the house was empty", leaving only Lily and Selden. This isolation prepares a private space.

In addition, the text shifts from narrative summary to direct dialogue. The short, alternating exchanges ("I don't know...", "Ah, but I don't...") slow the pace and create immediacy, as if we are eavesdropping. Their talk moves from playful accusation to self-revelation ("I certainly haven't succeeded"), drawing them, and us, closer.

A further structural choice is the handling of time and tone. Temporal references ("at least four hours", "the whole afternoon") create a protected time-frame, and the relaxed pace ("a sense of leisure and safety") deepens the mood. The ending is a small climax: the tone turns sincere and Lily "leaned forward... 'I know - I know'", signalling shared understanding.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 answer might note a clear progression from distance to closeness: at first Selden watched her manoeuvres, but once The house was empty and they have the whole afternoon before them with a sense of leisure and safety, the focus narrows to just the pair. The shift into close dialogue, with questions like Success—what is success? and Freedom? Freedom from worries?, leads to a shared moment—She leaned forward with a responsive flash, I know—I know—and agreement on personal freedom, creating a growing sense of intimacy.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create intimacy is at the beginning, by clearing the scene. Mr. Gryce “departed mournfully” and then “the house was empty”, so the focus narrows to just Lily and Selden. The time reference that they have “the whole afternoon before them” shows they have private time.

In addition, in the middle the writer shifts from description to dialogue. Phrases like “the sense of leisure and safety” slow the pace, and the long exchange (“I don’t know…”, “Ah, but I don’t suppose…”) makes us feel we are listening in, which deepens closeness.

A further structural feature is the change in tone at the end. The talk moves to beliefs: “My idea of success…is personal freedom,” and Lily answers, “I know—I know,” showing agreement. This change of focus, and the way the focus stays on just these two, makes the ending feel intimate.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts with Lily’s plan and horrid headache to set up her manoeuvres. Then, once The house was empty and they have the whole afternoon before them, the close dialogue about personal freedom and Lily’s I know—I know makes it feel intimate.

One way the writer creates intimacy is by starting with Lily getting Mr Gryce to leave, so the house is empty. The focus moves from the group to just Lily and Selden, making a private space.

In addition, in the middle the pace slows with “the whole afternoon” and “leisure and safety”. This shows they have hours together. The back-and-forth dialogue feels personal.

A further structural feature is the ending, when the focus is on their talk about “freedom” and Lily says “I know—I know”. This change to agreement makes it feel close.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening with Lily’s strategic delay creates anticipatory focus on a private encounter, priming closeness through controlled pacing (longer taste of suspense).
• The cast is deliberately thinned so privacy can bloom; others depart and the setting quietens to a two-person stage (house was empty).
• Temporal expansion builds unhurried closeness; the scene promises extended, pressure-free connection (whole afternoon before them).
• A brief external viewpoint aligns the pair; Selden’s knowing observation signals mutual awareness rather than misunderstanding (watched her manoeuvres).
• Shift from narrated setup to tight, alternating dialogue increases immediacy, letting us overhear their private thinking (what is success?).
• Withheld response delays the union; the pause heightens expectancy before they come together to talk (made no reply).
• Tonal progression from playful accusation to earnest self-scrutiny deepens emotional proximity (accusing me of premeditation).
• Ideational convergence structures the climax of intimacy as values align in a shared definition of life’s aim (personal freedom).
• Body-language beats punctuate the deepening bond; he sits up, she leans in, signalling reciprocal engagement (leaned forward).
• The scene closes with echo and assent, a mutual seal that leaves them in harmony rather than debate (I know—I know).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 16 to the end.

In this part of the source, the description of Mr. Gryce as a 'baffled beetle' makes him seem ridiculous. The writer suggests that Lily sees him as pathetic rather than as a serious suitor.

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 deliberately ridicules Gryce through the insectile metaphor 'baffled beetle' and the comic bathos of his 'dust-hood and goggles', while Lily’s 'languid gratitude', professed 'disinterestedness', and Selden’s view of her 'manoeuvres' position her as amusedly superior, treating him as a pitiable diversion rather than a serious suitor. It would also evaluate the writer’s viewpoint by tracing the irony that she denies 'premeditation' even as her 'plan unfolded itself', and by linking her alignment with Selden’s 'personal freedom'/'republic of the spirit' to a critique of her calculated self-deception.

I largely agree that the “baffled beetle” simile renders Mr. Gryce ridiculous, and that the writer positions Lily to view him as pathetic rather than as a serious suitor; however, Wharton threads a faint pathos through the scene that complicates a purely derisive reading.

The simile itself is pointedly belittling. Casting Gryce as a “baffled beetle” compresses him into an ungainly, armored insect: the entomological imagery is dehumanising and comic. The visual detail of his “dust-hood and goggles” works metonymically to complete the carapace, the goggles suggesting bulbous, compound eyes. Even the dynamic description of the machine—“as the motor-car plunged down the avenue”—emphasises his passivity; he is borne away while Lily, controlling the perspective, merely “smiled at his resemblance.” The adjective “baffled” carries connotations of flustered incompetence, reinforcing the simile’s derisive tone. In this moment, he is not a commanding suitor but an absurd, scuttling figure whom Lily observes with cool amusement.

Yet the set-up of his departure injects nuance. Lily receives his concern with “languid gratitude,” a performative languor that suggests social poise rather than sincerity, and she “urges” him to go, an active verb that exposes her agency. He is “touched by her disinterestedness”—an ironically loaded noun, given that she is anything but disinterested—and he “departed mournfully.” These choices of diction invite a flicker of sympathy: he is earnest and easily manipulated. Selden’s phrase “her manoeuvres,” and his “lazy amusement,” frame the encounter as a game Lily choreographs, intensifying the sense that she sees Gryce not as a partner but as a piece to be moved off the board. The effect is double: Gryce appears ridiculous, and Lily’s smile acquires a faintly merciless edge.

Crucially, the structure sharpens this evaluation. Once Gryce is dispatched, the prose opens into a lexical field of “leisure,” “safety,” and the “rare joys of mental vagrancy,” signalling relief. Lily feels “free from ulterior motives,” a revealing antithesis to the calculated courtship Gryce represents. In dialogue, Selden’s credo—“My idea of success is personal freedom… from all the material accidents”—elicits Lily’s “responsive flash” and repeated “I know—I know,” a spontaneous intimacy absent from her exchanges with Gryce. Her “sudden note of weariness” at talk of her “genius” for “converting impulses into intentions” registers fatigue with the very strategy required to secure a Gryce. The juxtaposition implies that, ideologically and emotionally, she cannot take him seriously.

Overall, then, the writer’s simile, ironic focalisation and structural contrast encourage us to see Gryce as a slightly pitiable object of ridicule, and to recognise that Lily regards him as inadequate material for serious romance.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the metaphor 'baffled beetle' and the comic detail of the 'dust-hood and goggles' render Gryce ridiculous, while Lily’s 'smiled' and 'languid gratitude' show amused detachment rather than real interest in him as a suitor. It might also note he is 'touched by her disinterestedness' and leaves 'mournfully', suggesting sincerity, so the belittling tone is largely Lily’s viewpoint as presented by the writer.

I largely agree that describing Mr. Gryce as a “baffled beetle” makes him seem ridiculous, and that the writer suggests Lily regards him as pitiable rather than a serious romantic prospect. The animal imagery reduces him to something small and comic: “she smiled at his resemblance to a baffled beetle.” The noun “beetle” connotes scuttling awkwardness and a hard, unappealing shell, while “baffled” implies confusion and helplessness. This is reinforced by the visual detail of his “dust-hood and goggles,” a costume that dehumanises him and makes him look absurd. Even his exit is bathetic: he “departed mournfully,” while the motor-car “plunged down the avenue,” so the energetic verb is attached to the car, not to him, emphasising his passivity. Lily’s “languid gratitude” and her “manoeuvres” (a term that suggests calculated strategy) further imply she is managing him rather than engaging with him seriously.

As the passage develops, structural contrast underlines that Lily does not treat Gryce as a suitor. The moment he leaves, Lily and Selden have “the whole afternoon before them,” and “the sense of leisure and safety” suggests relief at Gryce’s absence. The tone becomes light and intimate as she tastes “the rare joys of mental vagrancy,” aligning her with Selden’s ideal of “personal freedom.” Through dialogue, the writer shows genuine intellectual sympathy between Lily and Selden—“that’s just what I’ve been feeling today”—which implicitly sidelines Gryce. This juxtaposition positions Gryce as the dull obligation and Selden as the authentic choice.

However, there is a faint note of pathos: Gryce is “touched by her disinterestedness” and leaves “mournfully,” which invites a degree of pity. Overall, though, the simile and comic costume make him appear ridiculous, and Lily’s private smile signals amused condescension. I therefore agree to a great extent that she views him as a rather pathetic figure rather than a serious suitor.

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, using the comparison 'baffled beetle' and simple details like 'dust-hood and goggles' and 'departed mournfully' to show Mr. Gryce as awkward and a bit ridiculous. It would also note Lily 'smiled' and he was 'touched by her disinterestedness', suggesting she doesn’t see him as a serious suitor and that he comes across as naive/pathetic.

I mostly agree with the statement. The description of Mr. Gryce as a “baffled beetle” clearly makes him look silly, and the writer shows Lily treating him as someone to be managed rather than a real romantic choice.

The simile “baffled beetle” uses animal imagery to belittle him. “Baffled” suggests he is confused and slow, and the visual detail of the “dust-hood and goggles” turns him into a comic figure. Lily “smiled at his resemblance,” which shows a mocking tone. Even Mr. Gryce “departed mournfully,” so he seems weak and easily led. She receives his sympathy with “languid gratitude”, and Selden watches her “manoeuvres,” a word that implies Lily is tactically pushing Gryce away. This all supports the idea that she does not take him seriously as a suitor.

After he leaves, the structure of the passage shifts to Lily and Selden enjoying freedom: “the house was empty,” and a “sense of leisure and safety” lifts her mood. This contrast makes Gryce feel irrelevant. Lily wants “mental vagrancy” and responds warmly when Selden says success is “personal freedom,” saying, “that’s just what I’ve been feeling today.” This dialogue suggests she values freedom and connection over Mr. Gryce. However, the phrase “Mr. Gryce was touched by her disinterestedness” hints he is sincere, not cruelly mocked.

Overall, I agree to a large extent that Lily sees him as slightly pathetic, not a serious suitor.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree because the phrase 'baffled beetle' and Lily 'smiled at his resemblance' make Mr. Gryce seem silly, and the detail that he leaves 'mournfully, in a dust-hood and goggles' suggests she doesn’t see him as a serious suitor.

I mostly agree that the “baffled beetle” simile makes Mr. Gryce look ridiculous and shows Lily sees him as pathetic rather than a serious suitor. The writer uses the simile “baffled beetle” to compare him to a small, confused insect. The word “baffled” makes him seem puzzled, and Lily “smiled” at this, which makes her sound mocking rather than impressed.

The description “departed mournfully, in a dust-hood and goggles” creates a comic image, like a costume. This makes him look awkward. Also Lily has “languid gratitude” and “urging him ... to join the rest” shows she wants him to go away. Selden watches her “manoeuvres,” which suggests she is planning to get rid of Gryce so she can be with Selden.

When Lily and Selden talk, the dialogue about “no ulterior motives” and “personal freedom” shows she enjoys time with Selden and likes freedom, not a formal courtship. She does not treat Mr. Gryce as a serious choice.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Mr. Gryce comes across as slightly pathetic, though the phrase “was touched” shows he is kind. But the writer mostly makes him ridiculous in Lily’s eyes, so he does not seem like a serious suitor to her.

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:

• Metaphor miniaturises and ridicules Mr. Gryce, casting him as comically confused rather than romantic (baffled beetle)
• Visual costume details make him look awkward and insect-like, undercutting any allure of a suitor (dust-hood and goggles)
• Emotive diction invites pity yet signals passivity, so he appears more pathetic than compelling (departed mournfully)
• Lily’s amused reaction shows disdain, implying she cannot take him seriously as a partner (she smiled)
• Strategic framing of Lily’s conduct suggests deliberate dismissal, not interest in courtship (her manoeuvres)
• External viewpoint treats the episode as trivial entertainment, further diminishing Gryce’s status (lazy amusement)
• Structural shift to carefree freedom with Selden sidelines Gryce, reinforcing his insignificance (mental vagrancy)
• Dialogue characterises Lily as controlled and purposeful, weakening Gryce’s viability as a suitor (converting impulses)
• Emotional and intellectual rapport with Selden is foregrounded, displacing Gryce’s claim on her attention (responsive flash)
• Irony makes him seem naive—moved by what is really her calculated detachment—hence faintly pitiable (touched by her disinterestedness)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A TV programme about food markets around the world is asking for short creative pieces for its website.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a picnic laid out 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 about a meal that changes everything.

(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:

Wind corrugates the chequered blanket where the headland ends, a red-and-cream square stitched to the precipice by four pale stones; the cloth breathes with each gust, then holds, as if the cliff itself were steadying its pulse. Below, the Atlantic heaves in slow, muscular sheets, its skin a pewter sheen that seizes light and renders it into shivers. Salt vitrifies on my lips. The wicker hamper yawns, its lid flapping like a hinged wing; cotton napkins—defiant yet beleaguered—twitch at the corners. Sunlight combs the grass; thrift nods in frugal tufts (eavesdropping on our audacity). A kittiwake scythes the air and scolds. Still, the spread persists.

Meanwhile, on the blanket, civilisation: porcelain plates crazed with hairline maps; a blue enamel teapot exhaling lambent steam; a jar of marmalade bruised with rind; a heel of sourdough, torn not sliced; strawberries lacquered, their seeds glinting like Braille. There is cheese with a sullen rind; there are olives—ink-dark, brine-glossed—huddled in a bowl like river stones. A lemon gleams: a small sun we can hold. The knife handles are warm from my palm; the butter yields with a sigh. I taste the sea in everything, a fine seam of salt threading through grape and bread alike.

Beyond the chequered edge, the world goes vertiginous. The drop is not a distance but an idea, a lavish nothing that tugs at shoelaces and thought. Gorse noses the air with coconut; heather whispers in a dry little susurration; lichen freckles the rocks like old constellations. The ocean is a metronome—inhale, exhale, inhale—uttering its identical verdict on stone. Who sets a table in the wind’s dining room? Yet here it is: cutlery glinting with minuscule suns, cups chiming faintly, the blanket an island—no, a flag—declaring a ridiculous republic of crumbs.

However composed, the picnic is never still. A napkin lifts, flutters, surrenders, is caught—rescued—by a quick hand. A fulmar shears past, indifferent; a bee (judicious, hornet-striped) assays the marmalade, then thinks better of it. The tea grows tannic as it cools; the jam turns viscous in the sun. Somewhere behind us, the land continues, hedged and hedged, but up here the world is pared back to elements: salt, light, wind, appetite. Even the conversation (when it comes) is spare, vowels eaten by air.

Afterwards, we close the hamper and the lid clicks shut like a small decision. The stones are lifted one by one; the blanket shivers, releases its private geography of creases, and becomes a banner for a moment before subsiding into the basket’s mouth. Crumbs take flight; a gull, an opportunist, stitches them from the sky. A damp ring where the teapot stood darkens, then evaporates, leaving only flattened grass and a faint citrus tang on the hands. The cliff holds its counsel. The sea goes on. In and out. In and out.

Option B:

Evening. The hour when kitchens glow; pans whisper; hunger pads to the table. Windows become mirrors; the street recedes; inside takes centre stage. Steam scribbles punctuation in the air—question marks from the soup, exclamation points from the kettle. The table, newly dressed, impersonates a stage: cutlery aligns like battalions, glasses stand at attention, and the clock—officious as ever—ticks out a tempo. It was only dinner; and yet the air trembled with that low, electrical expectation you hear before a storm. Even I, who trusted recipes more than people, could taste it.

As the garlic surrendered to oil, I rehearsed the sentence that would unspool the evening. I will keep my secret through the starter; I will say it with dessert. Meanwhile, saffron bled gold into the rice; the chicken bristled in the oven. The envelope—thin, treacherous, absolute—warmed against my hip. Its single page had already redrafted my future in ink, though no one else knew it yet. Mother drifted in and out, straightening forks already straight (as if a fork could unbend a decade). “Smells wonderful,” she said—meaning: are you sure? What if they tasted the difference?

Because there was a difference. I had taken Nani’s never-to-be-tampered pilaf and dared a revision: pomegranate seeds like rubies, a scatter of mint, a squeeze of lemon that lifted the dish into a brighter register. Tradition is a kind of map—we pretend it is a destination. I told myself the change was culinary, but it was also a rehearsal for the larger sentence waiting in my mouth. By the time the doorbell rang, the rice had become patient, and I had not.

They arrived with weather: Father a gust of sawdust and rain; Aria a breeze of notifications; Nani her own soft climate of stories. Chairs scraped; greetings overlapped; the dog reconnoitred under the table as if seeking contraband. “Sit, sit!” Mother sang, and the room obeyed. However, my pulse refused to. The last time we ate without argument felt like a fossil; tonight would either excavate us or crack what remained. I plated the chicken, lacquered and obedient, willing my hands to be steady.

I carried the pilaf to the table. The grains loosened like conversation; steam rose; lemon and rosemary braided in the air. “This is new,” Father said—not unkindly, not quite kind. Nani’s eyebrows knitted. Aria lifted her phone. Then—because every meal requires a first bite—I served them. For a beat, silence: a small auditorium awaiting the conductor’s hand. “It’s good,” Father allowed. Relief, thin as paper, fluttered. Not yet. The envelope burned. “There’s something I need to tell you,” I said. “I—”

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

Option A:

The picnic sits where no picnic quite should: on the lip of a cliff, where the land gives up and the sea begins. The headland drops away in a clean, chalk-white gasp, and the waves far below cough and glitter and chew at the rock as if the whole coast were a crust they mean to finish. Wind scours the heathered turf, combing it backwards and forwards; salt stings; somewhere a bell-buoy mourns, patient and hollow.

On the chequered cloth—red a little too bright against the sere greens—everything is both ordinary and absurd. We have anchored the edges with pocketed pebbles and a shoe; the wicker hamper gapes politely; cutlery glints. There are soft rolls, a hunk of crumbly cheddar, bruised plums, a jar of raspberry jam, and a lemon sliced into moons: small suns trembling in a plastic tub. Steam lifts from a dented flask, a thin grey ribbon; the tea smells smoky and sweet.

Napkins flutter like frantic birds and the knife—stubborn, serrated—saws through bread with more enthusiasm than grace. Grit sneaks everywhere: in the butter, on our tongues, under the plate that wobbles at the mercy of a mischievous gust. When a grape escapes and beads towards the edge, my heart is in my mouth; a palm claps it, comic and desperate, and we laugh, too loudly, as if to convince the cliff we are not rattled.

Around us the world is enormous. The sea is a moving sheet of beaten metal, opaline where the sun pricks through a roving scrim of cloud; the cliffside wears tufts of sea thrift and lichen like old jewellery. Gulls tilt and carp, insolent judges in white wigs. Behind, the path threads back towards the safe geometry of the town—brick, hedgerow, window—while here, on this precarious stage, our picnic performs a small act of civility against the weather.

It is an odd ceremony, laying out china on a stern lap of stone (and a little foolish). Yet the foolishness feels deliberate; bread, fruit and cheese taste wilder here, sharper, as if the edge has seasoned them. We are ordinary in an extraordinary place; perhaps that is why the moment swells. When we pack away, leaving only a confetti of crumbs, the cliff does not thank us. It waits, patient and ancient, while the sea keeps tugging at its hem, and we step back from the lip, a little braver, carrying the taste of height with us.

Option B:

It began with heat. By four o’clock the kitchen had turned into a small, bright weather system: windows fogged, the lamp over the table a pale sun, steam braiding itself into the light. The tagine sighed on the hob, releasing a cautious sweetness—cinnamon and orange peel, the shy earthiness of cumin. Mum held her wooden spoon like a conductor’s baton; Dad, at the table, scored the potatoes with a deliberation that made the knife look ceremonial. Plates waited in their places like pale moons. Cutlery lay in tidy ranks. Even the salt cellar seemed expectant. Outside, a gull wheeled; inside, the radio murmured about travel and the clock pushed its seconds on.

In our house, eating together had always been a kind of liturgy: the same chairs, the same creak at the turn of the stair, the same chorus of polite questions—How was your day? Did you finish that book?—that partly hid and partly healed whatever the day had done. Arguments cooled over soup; triumphs were applauded with spoons; silence, when it came, was gentle, like a cloth drawn soft across a spill. Tonight, the silence had edges. Mum chopped parsley too finely. Dad polished the wine glasses as if he was trying to see the future in them. Sam drummed his fork against the table, that small metallic heartbeat that usually makes Mum laugh. It did not.

The meal arrived as a composition: bronzed potatoes, the burnished dome of the tagine lifted to release a confession of steam, salad as green as new leaves. We served ourselves. We pretended we were hungry (or brave). The first mouthful was lush—apricot, lemon, a slow, warm hush of spice—and then Dad cleared his throat; the room shrank to his voice.

“We need to tell you something,” he said. The knife in my hand hovered, caught between plate and air. “An opportunity has come up,” Mum added, and her smile wobbled. “It’s good. It’s huge. We’ll be moving—across the world.”

The words dropped into the middle of the table like a stone into soup; everything rippled. The gravy gathered a skin. The clock turned tyrant in the corner. I noticed absurdities: the pattern on the napkin (tiny lemons), the small pale scar on Dad’s knuckle, the way the steam still tried, valiantly, to make a cloud of comfort between us. In my head, the map redrew itself: streets bent away, friends blurred, the sycamore outside my window shrank to a pin. What of the dog? The mural on the underpass? The smell of our damp hallway in November? All the trivial, crucial things.

I tasted the tagine again. It had not changed—sweet-savoury, tender, sunlit—but I had. The meal was now a threshold; each bite a step. Mum watched me as if my face held permission; Dad gripped his glass; Sam had stopped drumming. Somewhere a gull cried again, and the radio spoke the name of a city I had never heard before. I set down my knife, and, calmly, I breathed in the steam. If we were going, I thought, I would learn the recipe by heart.

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

Option A:

Spread on the flat top of the lighthouse at the cliff’s edge, our chequered blanket looks impertinent: a bright laugh against iron-grey stone. The lighthouse shoulders the wind with old patience; metal fittings clatter, then settle, as though adjusting a stiff coat. Below, waves pluck at the cliff’s foot and fling ribbons of foam. The air tastes of brine and tar. I tuck a corner beneath the basket and pretend this roof is a meadow, even while the world tilts.

We unpack with stubborn ceremony: peaches, a warm, squashed loaf, a wedge of blue-veined cheese, two hard-boiled eggs, a squat jar of jam, paper cups, cloudy lemonade that fizzes like whispered mischief. The jam glows in the thin sun, a stain of summer held in glass; the knife stutters against the lid. The wind noses at the crusts, it lifts napkins like small white sails. I bite and the peach drips down my wrist, sticky as sap. We laugh, though the gusts steal the sound and carry it seawards.

Below us the water works itself backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, hypnotic as breath. Far out, a cargo ship creeps; nearer, black rocks show their spines when the swell sinks. The height is vertiginous. I lean, then shrink back; the parapet is crusted with salt and warning paint. My plate skitters an inch and we all still our hands. The blanket’s red squares quiver, matching the little flags that mark the cliff path. Here, a simple picnic becomes a negotiation between comfort and risk, between our tame cutlery and the wild edge.

Later, when the cloud thins, the sea settles into pewter and the wind learns some manners. We pour lemonade and listen for the steady thud of waves inside the rock; it is a heart we do not own. Around us the world continues its work—ropes hum, a single bee debates the jam—and we become small, content. When we pack, the chequered print leaves a faint pattern in the salt grit. Afterwards the roof looks bare, as though the place had tried on a tablecloth and remembered itself.

Option B:

Sunday evening. The hour when the house softened and the day exhaled; when light turned to honey across the table and the kitchen clock spoke louder than it should. Steam curled up from the pot in pale ribbons that caught on the ceiling, fragrant with garlic and orange peel. I stirred until the sauce thickened and the spoon left a slow river behind it. The table waited—white plates like moons, glasses placed with cautious symmetry—while my heart fidgeted under my ribs.

I had chosen this menu on purpose: Grandma Lina’s saffron stew, the one that coloured everything it touched; blistered flatbreads; salad with pomegranate jewels. Tonight I would tell them. The envelope lay under the tea towel, heavy as a small book. I practised sentences in my head, the way you test a door before walking through it. Meanwhile, onions surrendered to the heat and the kitchen filled with a warm, citrus brightness, not quite enough to settle me.

Mum entered first, brisk and floral, rearranging napkins that were already straight. She asked if I needed help, I said no. Dad hovered in the doorway, tie loosened, expression difficult to read—as if someone had smudged it. Connor bounced behind him, drumming the table with chopsticks he’d rescued from the drawer; the beat ricocheted around the room. Our Sundays had their choreography: Mum poured water, Dad checked the news on his phone, I served, Connor made a mess. Ordinary, dependable. Yet the room felt newly balanced on a pin.

I carried the pot through to the table, careful, ceremonial. The lid lifted with a soft gasp and the air was suddenly crowded with it; saffron, citrus, a low hum of cumin. The stew shone a deep, hopeful gold. Dad smiled, the smallest crease, and said it smelled like summer somewhere else. We ate. Spoons clicked, bread tore, conversation began to loosen. I could feel the envelope through the cotton, burning a rectangle on the sideboard.

Say it, I told myself. Just say it now. But when I opened my mouth the front door clicked, footsteps rose from the hallway—unfamiliar—and a shadow leaned into the kitchen light. The meal had already started to change us; by the time we looked up, everything had.

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

Option A:

Balanced on the narrow balcony of the old lighthouse, our picnic looked both ridiculous and perfect. The tower sat on the cliff like a stubborn tooth, its rail biting cold even in sunlight. Wind worried at our sleeves and tugged the edges of the checked blanket as if trying to fold it for us; the fabric caught on rough bolts, lifted, fluttered, and then lay still. Below, the sea breathed and heaved, dragging itself backwards and forwards against the black ribs of rock.

The basket yawned open: crusty rolls, glossy strawberries, a hunk of cheese sweating politely, and a tin of sardines we opened carefully (just in case the gulls noticed). A flask of tea steamed a faint curl; porcelain cups clinked—thin, fragile in such a wild place. We had apricot jam, butter wrapped in greaseproof paper, and a lemon to squeeze on the fish. Knives; napkins; a pinch of salt in a twist of paper. Ordinary things arranged on iron, bright as coins.

Smells gathered and mixed: brine and tar, metal, tea, the sugary smell of fruit. The wind brought a taste too, metallic and clean, that made the strawberries sharper. Gulls wheeled above us, shrieking like door hinges, claiming the air. The waves below did their work—hammering, then resting, then hammering again. Crumbs chased along the grating; napkins threatened to escape. We held cups with two hands. Who has jam on a ledge like this? We did, grinning, even as vertigo nibbled at our shoes.

The lens above turned in a slow, glassy circle, snipping our reflections into slices; time felt cut up too. Afraid but calm, hungry but dazzled, we ate—careful, delighted—while the horizon sharpened into a straight, silver line. When we packed away, the blanket left a faint check on the rust, a shy memory, as if the lighthouse might keep it.

Option B:

The table was laid like a stage; knives and forks lined up, shiny, waiting for their cue. Steam curled from the pot in the middle and clung to the light, making a halo that wasn't holy at all. Outside, sirens murmured far away; the window was cracked open, and a chill slipped in like a thought I couldn't quite catch.

Mum had polished the glasses until they winked. She circled the table, adjusting napkins as if they might get nervous too. Dad wore a tie, which he never did at home. Ben, my brother, tapped his spoon—tap, tap, tap—until Mum gave him the look. Even the salt cellar stood up straight. We never did this; not properly. The whole thing felt careful and ceremonial.

The curry was thick and golden, dotted with tiny green seas of coriander. A slice of lime perched on each plate, neat and sharp. When I lifted the lid the smell rolled out: garlic, coconut, something sweet underneath. It warmed my face. My stomach fluttered like small birds; I hadn't eaten all day, even though it was Friday.

We sat. Chairs scraped. The clock ticked louder, or pretended to. “So,” Dad said, and the word sat there like stale bread. Mum cleared her throat and folded her hands. She had a speech—you could tell. I took a sip of water to buy a second more time. I waited for the taste of the first mouthful to fill the silence, but it didn't.

This felt different, like the pause before thunder. The curry tasted bright—lemon, heat—but another flavour was there too: metallic, slow, the edge of a truth I didn't want. Maybe that sounds dramatic, but the meal was doing something to us. It drew us in, it drew words out. Mum lifted her eyes. “We need to tell you...” she began, and the spoon stopped trembling.

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

Option A:

The blanket looked ridiculous up here. On the roof of the old car park, the concrete was pitted and warm, arrows leading nowhere. The red-and-white checks lay between shallow puddles that held a bruised sky. Rusty railings boxed us in while cranes stood like stiff-necked birds along the horizon; the city clattered below. It smelt of petrol and hot tar, but also of oranges we had peeled and the sweet steam of a loaf still wrapped in its crackly paper.

We set out our awkward feast: pale lemonade sweating in a bottle, a tub of olives that clicked like marbles, sandwiches in a neat row. Napkins flapped like sails and a plastic cup jittered across the checks, jittered, until my palm stopped it. Ants found us, tiny explorers crossing the cloth, crossing the crumbs, crossing a thin rain seam. Meanwhile, below, sirens threaded through the traffic, and a bus stopped, opened, closed, moved. A gull came low—bold—and the wind snatched a crisp from my fingers.

At the edge, the painted rail was cold and sticky with old rain; the air tugged at my hair and the paper plates. It was an odd peace, the kind that hides inside a busy day. I watched a grape roll, roll toward a crack, and I caught it, laughing, like catching the city before it went over. Around us the skyline made its own picnic: towers balanced on a long grey loaf, clouds spread like cream. It shouldn't work—picnic on a roof—its upside down, but it did, for a while.

Option B:

Steam curled from the pot, slow and white, like a ghost that didn't know where to sit. The table was set: four porcelain bowls, the good forks, the candle that always guttered and leaned. Tomato soup shone thick and red; garlic and basil climbed the air. The front door was shut; still the house felt open to something. It was only dinner, I told myself. Just bread and soup and talk: ordinary, safe. But the clock ticked too loudly, every second a tap on my ribs.

Mum sliced the loaf with careful, almost delicate, strokes, as if bread could bruise. Dad kept his tie on, which meant he was hiding or he was formal. My brother's knee bounced under the table. When I lifted my spoon, it shook a little. The soup tasted of summer and metal, rich and a bit sharp. It was only dinner. The words repeated like a drum, then turned thin.

Dad cleared his throat, no sound came out at first. He raised his glass - water, not wine - and looked at us in turn. "To new things," he said. Cream slid across my spoon and, somehow, everything slid with it. "I have to tell you something," he went on: "there's been a change." A pause, and then the words that tipped the room. "I'm leaving." The soup went cold while we tried to be brave; while the meal went on and on.

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

Option A:

The checkered blanket is spread on the flat roof of the old clock tower. It doesn’t feel normal to sit here, above the chimneys, but it feels daring too. The stone is warm under my legs; the wind is not. Behind us the clock face waits like a serious eye. Cars below look like toys, people are dots. Who puts a picnic up here? We do, careful and nervous.

On the blanket we line up: a wicker basket, two tin plates, grapes, cheddar, shortbread, a small knife. Lemonade swirls in a flask, fizzing; the bubbles bite my nose. Napkins act like little flags, flapping to escape. The air taste like coins and salt, mixed with butter and old metal. A strawberry slips toward a crack, I grab it in time, my heart jumping, silly but true.

Meanwhile the town keeps buzzing, buses and a siren, all quiet from up here. The clock ticks, slow, patient. We sit close, so the blanket doesn’t lift; it tugs anyway. Hold it—hold it, we say, and the laugh is snatched away. A gull tilts and glides. The picnic is simple, but up here it feels precious. At last we fold everything, careful, careful, like packing a secret back into the basket.

Option B:

Steam curled from the pot like a thin ribbon. The smell of garlic and tomatoes sat heavy in the air, warm and sweet. The table looked more formal than usual, like a small ceremony: the good plates, candles Mum said were for special nights. My phone blinked on the side, bright as a warning, I looked away. While the sauce simmered, I practised my line in my head - word after word, then silence. The plates waited; my hands shook.

That evening we sat down: Mum, Dad, Liam, me. The stew glistened, and the bread tore, and I could hear the tick of the kitchen clock under all our conversation. "This looks amazing," Dad said, but his eyes kept flicking, like he knew. I picked up my spoon. Put it down. Picked it up again. The soup smelt like comfort, like Sunday, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t be.

"I have something to say," I said. My voice was small. The steam seemed to pause - waiting for the consequence. Before the bread cooled, before the first mouthful, I told them. The place, the course, the train ticket already booked; leaving next week. The meal stayed hot, and everything else changed.

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

Option A:

The blanket is red and white checks and it sits too close to the edge. The cliff is high and the sea is loud and it moves, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Wind keeps tugging at the corners like little hands. My stomach flips because it's a long way down.

There is a basket with the lid open like a mouth. On the cloth we put bread and jam, grapes, crisps and a egg roll.

A bottle of lemonad bubbles and the bubbles tickle my nose. The plates wobble and a napkin slides away, it skates to the edge and stops.

This isn't a park. The rock is our floor and our table - hard and cold. Seagulls shout like they are arguing with us. I hold the cup with two hands so it don't blow of. The sky feels big. We eat and look, eat and look.

Option B:

The table was set. Plates and forks and the big pan in the middle with steam. It smelt like Sundays in winter, like a warm blanket that you can carry. Mum said its just dinner, but she kept looking at the door. Dad came late, his coat wet. We was all quiet.

The stew tasted like home.

But he cleared his throat and the room went small. He put down his spoon, and then he smiled but it wasn't a real smile. I seen that smile before at the hospital. We waited. we waited, waiting for the words.

This meal is going to change everything, I definately knew it like when the sky goes black before rain. My hands felt big, my mouth dry and I chewed even when there was nothing to chew because I didnt know what to do. He said we might move, or we might split, he didnt finish.

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

Option A:

The blanket is red and white on the cliff like a table in the sky. It is loud wind. Our basket is open with bread, crisps, juice. We sit careful, the rocks are sharp. Seagulls shout, they go back and forth, back and forth. I pour orange drink and it spills, the cup rolls to the edge, my hand shake. It smells like salt and grass. We eat the sandwiches, they taste fine. A car horn from the road, maybe a bus, I think about school dinner. This place is weird but nice and we was happy, my coat keep flapping all the time.

Option B:

Evening. Tea time, the kitchen light is yellow and the table is sticky. Mum puts the pot down and the steam goes up like a little cloud. It smelled strong, onion and gravy, my tummy twist, I dont know why. I poke the meat with my fork and it looks like a dark boat. The clock tick tick tick and I think about school tomorrow, I dont want to do maths. Then the door knocks and Uncle Ray walks in, we was not ready for that. Mum says we are moving, she says it quiet, my fork fall, the dog bark at the wall.