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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 What was in mid-heaven?: The moon – 1 mark
• 1.2 What did the narrator and the adjutant do?: Hastened out – 1 mark
• 1.3 How is Vixen described by the narrator?: The most painfully magnificent animal – 1 mark
• 1.4 How are Vixen's forelegs positioned?: Stretched out and wide apart – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 and stertorous breath,--every vein swollen and throbbing in the moonlight. De Grandèle, our quiet veterinary surgeon, had been called while it was yet time to apply the lancet. As the hot stream spurted from her neck she grew easier; her eye recovered its gentleness, and she laid her head against my breast with the old sigh, and seemed to know and to return all my love for her. I sat with

11 her until the first gray of dawn, when she had grown quite calm, and then I left her with De Grandèle and Rudolf while I went to my duties. We must march at five o'clock, and poor Vixen could not be moved. The thought of leaving her was very bitter, but I feared it must be done, and I asked De Grandèle how he could best end her sufferings,--or was there still some hope? He shook his

How does the writer use language in this section to show Vixen’s pain and the narrator’s affection for her? 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 typical Level 4 response would analyse visceral medical lexis and sensory imagery — stertorous breath, every vein swollen and throbbing in the moonlight, the clinical lancet and violent hot stream spurted — to foreground Vixen’s agony, then contrast it with tender, intimate diction — her eye recovered its gentleness, she laid her head against my breast with the old sigh, returning all my love for her — to reveal the narrator’s deep affection. It would also explore sentence forms and techniques: the easing cadence after the semicolon, the compassionate evaluation poor Vixen could not be moved, and the dash-framed, desperate rhetorical question --or was there still some hope? exposing his helpless conflict.

The writer opens with visceral sensory imagery to render Vixen’s agony: "stertorous breath,—every vein swollen and throbbing in the moonlight." The specialised adjective "stertorous" (medical lexis) makes us hear her laboured breathing, while the participles "swollen" and "throbbing" suggest ongoing pain. Hyperbole in "every vein" and the caesural dash slow the line, forcing us to dwell on her suffering.

Moreover, violent diction in "the hot stream spurted from her neck" shocks the reader. The tactile "hot," the sibilance of "stream" and the plosives in "spurted" convey brutal release, yet paradoxically "she grew easier," implying bloodletting’s grim mercy. The calm epithet "our quiet veterinary surgeon" and precise "lancet" extend a medical semantic field of urgent, compassionate care.

Furthermore, tender, intimate imagery reveals the narrator’s affection. Through synecdoche, "her eye recovered its gentleness" makes the eye a barometer of trust. "She laid her head against my breast" offers tactile closeness, and the nostalgic "old sigh" recalls shared history. Anthropomorphism in "seemed to know and to return all my love" grants Vixen reciprocal understanding. The vigil "until the first gray of dawn" underlines devotion.

Additionally, sentence forms and modality crystallise his conflict. "We must march" uses deontic modality to impose duty, but "poor Vixen could not be moved" (passive and pitying epithet) stresses helplessness. The metaphor "very bitter" gives his grief a gustatory edge. The em-dash before the rhetorical question "—or was there still some hope?" enacts hesitation, while the abrupt "He shook his" leaves dread unspoken.

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 clearly explain that visceral sensory imagery and violent verb choices like "stertorous breath", "every vein swollen and throbbing" and "hot stream spurted from her neck" emphasise Vixen’s acute pain and urgency. By contrast, tender, emotive details—"her eye recovered its gentleness", "laid her head against my breast", "the old sigh", "seemed to know and to return all my love for her", and "poor Vixen"—along with the hesitant dash and interrogative "or was there still some hope?" show the narrator’s deep affection and anxious uncertainty.

The writer uses sensory imagery and medical lexis to show Vixen's pain. The adjective "stertorous" suggests harsh, laboured breathing, while "every vein swollen and throbbing in the moonlight" gives a visceral picture of suffering. The clinical "apply the lancet" and dynamic verb "spurted" in "the hot stream spurted from her neck" emphasise severity, before the contrast "she grew easier" hints at brief relief.

Moreover, the writer presents the narrator's affection through emotive language and tender, tactile imagery. Personification in "her eye recovered its gentleness" suggests a return to trust, while "she laid her head against my breast with the old sigh" uses first person pronoun and touch to show closeness and history. The affectionate epithet "poor Vixen" and the claim she "seemed to know and to return all my love" make his devotion explicit.

Additionally, sentence forms and modality heighten pain and care. The clause "I sat with her until the first gray of dawn" emphasises duration, while the declarative "we must march at five o'clock" and modal "must" introduce duty that clashes with love. Taste imagery in "very bitter" and the dash with a rhetorical question, "or was there still some hope?", reveal anxiety and reluctance to leave her.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would typically identify that the writer uses strong describing words and verbs like “stertorous breath,” “every vein swollen and throbbing,” and “hot stream spurted” to show Vixen’s pain, while emotive, tender details such as “her eye recovered its gentleness,” “laid her head against my breast,” the phrase “poor Vixen,” and the rhetorical question “was there still some hope?” show the narrator’s affection and worry.

The writer uses vivid adjectives and verbs to show Vixen’s pain. Words like “stertorous breath” and “every vein swollen and throbbing” create strong sensory imagery of her suffering, making the reader pity her. The violent phrase “hot stream spurted from her neck” also suggests how serious it is, but the verb “spurted” shows the treatment working as she “grew easier”.

Furthermore, the writer shows the narrator’s affection through emotive language. When “she laid her head against my breast” and gave “the old sigh”, this suggests comfort and a long bond. Also, “I sat with her until the first gray of dawn” shows his patience and care.

Moreover, the phrase “poor Vixen” and the emotive phrase “very bitter” for leaving show his love and pain. Additionally, the question “was there still some hope?” and the dash show his worry and hesitation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive, descriptive words like stertorous breath, every vein swollen and throbbing, and hot stream spurted to show Vixen’s pain. His affection is shown by phrases like poor Vixen, laid her head against my breast, and all my love for her, which suggest comfort and care.

The writer uses adjectives and verbs to show Vixen’s pain. Words like “stertorous breath” and “swollen and throbbing” and the verb “spurted” make her suffering seem harsh and physical.

Furthermore, the writer uses emotive language to show affection: “poor Vixen”, “her eye recovered its gentleness”, and she “laid her head against my breast”, which sounds caring and tender.

Additionally, the writer uses a question, “was there still some hope?”, to show his worry, and the phrase “I sat with her until the first gray of dawn” shows devotion.

This shows her pain and his love.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Harsh physiological diction conveys acute suffering; the obstructed sound suggests laboured pain (stertorous breath).
• Visual focus underlines the body’s strain; pallid light makes her condition starkly visible (in the moonlight).
• Appositive epithet frames help as calm and trusted, highlighting the narrator’s care for Vixen (our quiet veterinary surgeon).
• Violent medical imagery plus causal syntax shows pain releasing into relief as treatment takes effect (hot stream spurted).
• Tender personification shifts tone from agony to affection; her character seems to return (her eye recovered its gentleness).
• Intimate physical gesture embodies a long bond; habitual comfort deepens the sense of love (laid her head against my breast).
• Temporal marker and colour imagery emphasise devoted vigil; he stays through exhaustion until calm (first gray of dawn).
• Modal necessity introduces conflict between duty and care, heightening emotional tension (We must march).
• Evaluative adjective expresses pity and affection, foregrounding her vulnerability (poor Vixen).
• Rhetorical question after a dash, and the clipped close, lay bare desperation and uncertainty about her fate (still some hope).

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would track the temporal progression from "Late in the night" through "first gray of dawn", "Four days after", and "At nightfall" to "The setting sun", showing how this arc paces Vixen’s decline, juxtaposing brief reprieves ("she grew easier", "Vixen seems to be better and stronger.") with cruel reversals ("with one kick laid open her hock joint"), before narrowing to an intimate leave-taking ("a little neigh of farewell") and an abrupt, elegiac close ("a single shot was fired", "Die Kapelle"), which seals the pathos.

One way the writer structures poignancy is through controlled chronology and pace. From “Late in the night” to “the first gray of dawn,” “Four days after,” “At nightfall,” and “Finally, one lovely Sunday morning,” temporal markers chart a path from crisis to fragile reprieve, before closing on “the setting sun.” Early urgency (the lancet, the march) accelerates pace, then slows into lingering stillness (“sitting on her haunches,” “refusing food”). The repeated lift-and-drop — “she grew easier,” “seems to be better,” then “with one kick” — raises and breaks expectation, sharpening pathos.

In addition, the writer manipulates focus and delay. Perspective narrows from communal, clinical detail to intimate contact (“laid her head against my breast,” “rubbed her nose”), then shifts outward as “the adjutant led me into my tent,” displacing the narrator from the death. An analeptic reminiscence — they “talked of the old days” — is placed immediately before the laconic climax, “a single shot was fired.” This juxtaposition of tender memory with an offstage killing makes the poignancy dignified; understatement and withholding compel the reader to feel the loss.

A further structural feature is the elegiac coda. After the abrupt clause, the prose widens into tableau — “the setting sun… bare November branches,” and the band that “breathed softly” Kreutzer’s “Die Kapelle.” This shift from violence to ceremony, reinforced by pathetic fallacy, functions as denouement and leaves a resonant after-echo. The sustained first-person focalisation ends with “one of the very sad days of my life,” framing the episode as remembered elegy and concentrating poignancy in the final lines.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer structures a rise-and-fall to intensify poignancy, using time markers (Four days after, At nightfall, Finally) to pace a shift from fragile hope — Vixen seems to be better and stronger — to sudden setback — an infernal brute broke into Vixen's enclosure — and quiet decline (all the old fire and force gone out of her). This builds to the blunt climax a single shot was fired and a slow, reflective close with the setting sun and Die Kapelle, which slows the ending and deepens the sense of loss.

One way the writer has structured the text to create a sense of poignancy is through patterned temporal references that chart a downward arc. The narrative moves from “Late in the night” to “the first gray of dawn”, “Four days after”, “At nightfall”, and “one lovely Sunday morning”, closing on “The setting sun”. This chronological sweep, from moon to sunset, foregrounds inevitability and makes the reader feel the waiting and the approaching end.

In addition, the writer engineers contrast and shifts in pace to intensify pathos. Brief reprieves—“her eye recovered its gentleness”, “Vixen seems to be better”—are immediately overturned by the “one kick” that undoes hope. This rise-and-fall pattern sustains tension. The understated climax—“As we talked, a single shot was fired”—is almost offstage, a deliberate withholding that slows the moment and leaves a resonant, aching silence.

A further structural feature is the sustained first-person perspective with a final shift in focus from action to ritual. The writer zooms in on intimate detail—her “little neigh of farewell”—then widens to the elegiac denouement: the band “breathed softly” and the sunset through “bare November branches”. This closing tableau, capped by the reflective verdict “one of the very sad days of my life”, consolidates poignancy.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might note the chronological structure from "Late in the night" to "At nightfall" and "The setting sun", showing a shift from brief hope ("Vixen seems to be better") to final loss ("a single shot was fired, and all was over") to create poignancy. It would also spot simple contrasts like the tender "little neigh of farewell" followed by the funeral music "Die Kapelle", showing a clear change in mood.

One way the writer structures poignancy is by clear time order. At the beginning of the extract, Vixen suffers “brain fever.” In the middle, temporal markers like “Four days after” and “At nightfall” raise hope. By the end, “Finally” and “a single shot” make the loss hit harder.

In addition, there is a change in focus and mood. The focus moves from action (marching, moving camp) to quiet, personal care: “I stroked her velvet crest.” This softer tone makes the sudden ending, “all was over,” more poignant for the reader.

A further structural feature is the closing image at the end. The “setting sun” and the band’s “Die Kapelle” give a slow, funeral ending. The first-person perspective and final reflection, “one of the very sad days of my life,” leave a lingering sadness.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The text gets sadder towards the end, moving from hope like "There was now hope" and "Vixen seems to be better" to the final loss in "a single shot was fired". Time markers such as "Finally" and the closing image "the sun went down" help create a poignant ending.

One way the writer structures the text is by moving through time. It starts late at night, then dawn, then “Four days after,” and “Finally,” and ends with sunset. This shows the story heading to the end, so the poignancy builds.

In addition, the focus and mood change. At first there is pain, then some hope when Vixen returns, then the injury and the last farewell. This rise and fall makes the ending feel sadder.

A further feature is the ending image. “A single shot… all was over” and the sun going down give a simple, final, poignant close.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• In medias res night-time crisis plunges us into immediate jeopardy, establishing vulnerability and pathos (Late in the night)
• A brief medical reprieve reverses the pressure, kindling fragile hope before later loss (recovered its gentleness)
• Duty interrupts tenderness at dawn, forcing a painful separation that deepens the emotional stakes (We must march)
• A time jump and hopeful message raise anticipation of recovery, heightening the impact of what follows (Four days after)
• The reunion undercuts expectations through frailty and silence, a structural reversal of the hopeful build (feeble whinny)
• Sudden violent intrusion shatters fragile stability, a jarring turn from convalescence to catastrophe (with one kick)
• Prolonged caregiving and refusal to yield sustain tension, binding us to his love and denial (I could not give her up)
• A still, day-long tableau slows the pace into quiet endurance, preparing acceptance through gentleness and pain (patient and gentle)
• The death is withheld and offstage, delivered in one stark beat for maximum pathos (a single shot)
• An elegiac coda closes with time and ritual, fading light and music sealing the grief (setting sun)

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, where the narrator has to be led away from Vixen, this could be seen as an act of kindness from his friends. The writer suggests the narrator’s love for his horse is so strong that he is unable to face the moment of her death.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the narrator and his reaction to Vixen's death
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey the narrator's intense grief
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, evaluating how the writer positions the friends’ intervention as compassionate through the simile "as he would have led me from the bedside of a dying friend" and the tender narration "told it very tenderly", while showing the narrator’s incapacitating love in "I could not give her up" and the anthropomorphic "a little neigh of farewell". It would also acknowledge nuance by analysing the euphemistic finality "a single shot was fired, and all was over" and the elegiac framing of "The setting sun" and "Die Kapelle", arguing that the writer’s viewpoint invites readers to see the friends’ act as humane because he cannot face ending Vixen’s suffering himself.

I largely agree that the adjutant’s leading the narrator away is an act of kindness, and that the narrator’s love is so strong he cannot face the moment of Vixen’s death; however, the writer also shows him moving, with help, from denial to compassionate consent. From the outset an elegiac first‑person voice foregrounds tenderness and care: De Grandèle bends his “head mournfully, like a kind-hearted doctor,” and the narrator confesses he is “so fond of her,” framing the episode within a humane, consolatory register that prepares us for his friends’ gentle intervention.

The intensity of his attachment is rendered through a consistent semantic field of tenderness and the anaphora of refusal. He insists, “I could not let her die now” and “I could not give her up,” the repeated modal “could not” crystallising his loving obstinacy. Sensory imagery heightens pathos: Vixen’s “feeble whinny” and “stepping slowly and timidly” use adverbs to signal fragility, while tactile detail—“I stroked her velvet crest… she rubbed her nose against my arm”—creates intimate reciprocity. The horse is softly anthropomorphised as “patient and gentle, and wondering at her pain,” and later gives “a little neigh of farewell.” These choices invite us to read their bond as quasi-human, making the prospect of witnessing her death unbearable and thereby justifying his removal. Even earlier, “In vain they told me that she was incurable,” the adversative structure casting his love as a barrier to reason.

The moment of being led away is explicitly framed as merciful. The adjutant “led me into my tent as he would have led me from the bedside of a dying friend.” This simile both elevates Vixen to the status of a human loved one and recasts the adjutant as a compassionate guardian. The diction of reassurance continues: “they told me very tenderly… they wanted me to give her over to them.” The euphemistic phrasing and gentle imperatives respect his agency, and the inclusive “we… agreed that her trouble ought to be ended” signals a careful shepherding from denial to acceptance. Structurally, the death is elided: “As we talked, a single shot was fired, and all was over.” This understated, laconic clause and the offstage action spare both narrator and reader the spectacle, confirming his inability to face it directly.

Finally, the closing pathetic fallacy—the “setting sun” through “bare November branches”—and the band that “breathed softly” a funeral piece confer dignity and communal sympathy. Overall, I agree to a great extent: his friends act with exquisite kindness precisely because his love blinds him to the end; yet the writer equally honours his consent, shaping a death that is merciful, not merely avoided.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: At Level 3, a response would mostly agree, explaining that the friends act kindly to shield him—led me into my tent as he would have led me from the bedside of a dying friend, told it very tenderly, and a single shot was fired—because his love is overwhelming, shown by I could not give her up, the little neigh of farewell, and the poignant close as the sun went down.

I largely agree with the statement. The writer presents the adjutant’s leading the narrator away as a considerate act, precisely because the narrator’s love for Vixen has grown into a grief he can hardly endure.

At first, the language builds their bond and the narrator’s refusal to let her go. Emotive description such as “the poor old creature” and her “feeble whinny” foregrounds vulnerability and prompts our sympathy. The repeated negation in “I could not let her die” and later “I could not give her up” clearly shows his denial; his love makes him cling to unrealistic hopes that she “might be slung up” and become “my pet.” The simile “sitting on her haunches like a dog” and the tender detail that Vixen was “patient and gentle, and wondering at her pain” humanise the horse, intensifying the narrator’s attachment. His actions—“I stroked her velvet crest, and coaxed her with sugar”—create a soft, intimate tone that suggests he cannot imagine life without her.

Against this, the friends act with kindness. The simile “the adjutant led me into my tent as he would have led me from the bedside of a dying friend” casts the adjutant as a compassionate guide. The adverb “tenderly” in “they told it very tenderly” emphasises their sensitivity. Structurally, the writer removes the narrator from the decisive moment: “a single shot was fired, and all was over.” The passive construction and euphemism avoid graphic detail, protecting both narrator and reader. The closing imagery—“the setting sun… bare November branches,” and the band that “breathed softly” Kreutzer’s “Die Kapelle”—creates an elegiac, respectful atmosphere, suggesting a dignified farewell.

However, the narrator does face the truth emotionally: “we… agreed that her trouble ought to be ended,” and Vixen’s “little neigh of farewell” shows a painful, conscious parting. Overall, I agree to a large extent: his love is so intense he cannot witness the act, and his friends’ gentle intervention is clearly portrayed as an act of kindness.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 answer would mostly agree, saying the friends are kind because they 'told it very tenderly' and 'led me into my tent' so he didn’t witness the end marked by 'a single shot was fired', and the writer shows his overpowering love through emotive details like 'stroked her velvet crest' and the 'little neigh of farewell'.

I mostly agree with the statement. The friends lead the narrator away out of kindness, and the writer shows that his love for Vixen is so strong that he cannot face the exact moment of her death.

Earlier in the passage, the narrator’s devotion is clear. He says, “I could not let her die now,” and even “forced from De Grandèle” a plan to save her. Emotive language like “the injured limb dragging behind her” and tender details such as stroking her “velvet crest” and coaxing her “with sugar” create imagery of deep affection. This builds hope (“There was now hope that she would recover”) which makes the later despair stronger, a contrast that heightens his grief.

When the adjutant “led me into my tent as he would have led me from the bedside of a dying friend,” the simile shows gentle guidance and respect, suggesting a deliberate act of kindness. The friends “told it very tenderly,” which makes their care explicit. The “little neigh of farewell” gives Vixen a human-like response (anthropomorphism), emphasising their bond. Structurally, “As we talked, a single shot was fired, and all was over” is abrupt and passive; this distances the narrator from the death itself, showing he cannot watch. Finally, the “band” playing “Die Kapelle” and the “setting sun” work as solemn ceremony and symbolism, marking an ending and his “very sad” loss.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: his friends act kindly to spare him, and his overwhelming love means he cannot face the final moment, even though he bravely stays with her up to that point.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, saying the friends are kind because they "led me into my tent" like "from the bedside of a dying friend" so he doesn’t witness "a single shot was fired." It would simply note his strong love in "I could not give her up" and "she gave me a little neigh of farewell."

I mostly agree with the statement. The narrator’s love for Vixen is very strong, and his friends lead him away to be kind to him.

At first, he refuses to give her up, saying “I could not give her up” and even “she could be my pet.” This shows simple devotion and he cannot accept her death. The writer uses a simile when Vixen is “sitting on her haunches like a dog,” which makes her seem weak and helpless, so we understand his grief. The narrator strokes her “velvet crest” and she “rubbed her nose against my arm,” which shows their close bond.

When the adjutant “led me into my tent as he would have led me from the bedside of a dying friend,” this simile makes the friends seem gentle and caring. They speak “very tenderly,” so it feels like kindness. The moment of death is offstage: “a single shot was fired, and all was over.” This suggests the friends take responsibility because he can’t face it.

The band playing “Kreutzer’s… ‘Die Kapelle’” also shows respect. Overall, I agree that being led away is a kind act, and the writer shows the narrator’s love is so strong he cannot watch Vixen die.

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:

• Gentle intervention by comrades as an act of kindness; the adjutant steers him away to shield him from witnessing the end (led me into my tent)
• Narrative comparison to a human deathbed elevates the gravity and friends’ empathy, strengthening the kindness reading (dying friend)
• Euphemistic, tender delivery of the truth shows sensitivity to his feelings; kindness in communication (told it very tenderly)
• Structural choice to have the killing occur offstage underscores protection and his inability to face it directly (a single shot)
• Repetition of determined refusals signals overpowering love and denial; he cannot surrender Vixen (I could not give her up)
• Reciprocal bond and farewell intensify pathos; her conscious-seeming goodbye deepens his grief (neigh of farewell)
• Caring tactile details show devoted love, heightening the loss’s impact (stroked her velvet crest)
• Reasoned consent complicates “unable to face it”: he accepts ending her suffering, suggesting love enables mercy (ought to be ended)
• Ceremonial respect from the troop frames the act as compassionate, not brutal; communal kindness softens the blow (Die Kapelle)
• Charged diction demonizing the attacker channels grief into blame, amplifying our sympathy and the need for kindness (infernal brute)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your grandparent has asked you to write a short piece to place in a time capsule being buried on the village green.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an ancient oak beside a river from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about four seasons changing one place.

(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:

Stooped over the slow river, the oak braces the bank with a hand of roots spread wide. Its crown is tattered yet tremendous; its patience feels older than the path that skirts it. Sunlight filters through a thousand green planes and stipples the water; the river, indolent, takes the pattern and lets it go. The air is resinous with tannin and damp leaf-mould, a mineral tang rising from silt; gnats spin their tiny planets above the shallows and hum. Here, everything is unhurried; even the shadows move as if remembering how.

Beneath the canopy, bark furrows into itself, a palimpsest of seasons: frost-bite and drought-crack. Lichen stipples the corrugations in chalky constellations; moss pads the ledges; a pale seam runs like lightning frozen the day it struck. There is a cicatrix where a great limb once tore free and healed; buds now cluster at its edge, pertinacious. Ivy tests the trunk; knotted shoulders rebuff it; the roots—great, gnarled knuckles—punch into the bank and hold fast. The ground is granular with husks and caps, acorns spilled and split; the smell is loam and leaf-sugar and rain remembered.

Meanwhile, the river moves with a soft-mouthed persistence. It writes and rewrites itself around the anchored roots, draws filigree whorls, smooths the same stones again and again, as if the gesture might one day complete the sentence. Dragonflies hawk in iridescent zigzags; a water boatman ticks across the surface like a skater upon burnished glass; minnows flare and vanish. The oak gazes at its reflection—creased, darkened—then lets the breeze discompose it. The river remembers the tree; the tree remembers the river; both remember more than we can.

Signs of us persist, faint as echoes. At shoulder height initials gnaw the bark; a hesitant heart encloses two letters and a date bleached to nothing. A rusted nail protrudes; a frayed rope dangles, the ghost of a summer swing; a copper coin, hammered into a seam for luck, has grown a blister of verdigris and half-vanished into the wood. The path is a brown ribbon strung with footprints; a dog shakes a constellation of droplets over the roots, and a child’s bright chatter passes, brightens, fades.

And yet, as afternoon tilts, the oak gathers itself and the world quietens. Leaves turn to coin-light; the river turns to foil; breeze and branch enter their old conversation. An acorn drops—a tap; another—then silence. Sometimes a leaf loosens, pirouettes and becomes a miniature coracle, gliding between reflections until it snags on a reed. The tree seems to hold its breath (if trees can), a cathedral of wood and shadow; then it exhales with a long, soughing susurration. It holds; it endures; it stays.

One day, even this stalwart will surrender to time’s patient increments; it will fall, soften, feed the river’s rootwork, return to earth. Not today. Today the ancient oak stands beside its slow companion and names each hour as it passes—lambent, radiant—and the river replies in the only tongue it knows: slide, hush, shine.

Option B:

There is a small square of world by the pond where time does not so much pass as turn—like a page, like a wheel—returning, revising, revealing. The willow keeps the minutes in its trailing handwriting; the bench listens. On still mornings, the surface becomes a tardy mirror, teeming with clouds and the occasional dragonfly; by evening, ripples write their own hurried annotations. And through it all, the place holds its breath and then exhales: spring, summer, autumn, winter; again.

In spring, the air smells of petrichor and possibility. Catkins dangle like punctuation from the willow’s green sentences; daffodils pierce the damp soil, yellow as careful optimism. Nila sits on the bench with a notebook balanced on one knee, her handwriting undecided, her hair still damp from a recent shower. Two columns bloom beneath her pen—Stay and Go—neat at first, then messy with parentheses and arrows, contingencies and caveats. A moorhen skates along the reeds; a reed warbler, hidden but insistent, pours out a solo. Meanwhile, a child in a red coat throws bread the ducks disdain; the world is articulate, abundant, almost too loud. Nila folds the page but not the decision. She tucks the notebook under her thigh and whispers into the willow: I’ll know by summer. The leaves, obligingly, flicker assent.

Then summer arrives, silken and shocking. The pond wears a lacquer of sunlight; gnats wreathe the air in shimmering commas. The bench is warm to the touch—sun-burnished, accommodating, old. Nila returns with a punnet of strawberries and Arun, who sits at one end, respectful of her rituals and the space they take up. They share the fruit slowly; juice stains their fingertips an improbable crimson. Laughter rises—hers, his, the children’s, the blackbirds’—and for a while the noise of the road recedes to a distant, domestic hum. “You’ll hate the cold up there,” Arun says, trying for lightness he doesn’t quite achieve. She wants to answer with certainty; instead, she throws a flat stone that skitters—one, two, three—across the water’s patient grammar. For mischief (and with instant regret) they start to scratch a small heart into the bench’s peeling paint—then stop, contrite, smoothing with their thumbs, as if apology could sand away impulse. By dusk, dragonflies flicker like blue-green thoughts you can almost, but not quite, catch.

Autumn edits the place with a coppery hand. Leaves loosen, twirl, capitulate. The willow, once umbrageous, thins to a lace of branches; conkers arrive with glossy, astonishing weight. Nila takes a letter from the pocket of her coat—heavy paper, university crest, the kind of envelope that means both a door and a precipice. She reads it once more, though she could recite it, and feels a draft of exhilaration, equal parts terror and relief. A dog nosing among the reeds finds a crumpled receipt with her name on it; the world seems to conspire in small, uncanny affirmations. Consequently, she slides the letter under the bench (just for now), a talisman hidden in ordinary wood. “I’ll know by winter,” she tells the pond, as a heron lifts itself with prehistoric patience.

By winter, everything is distilled. The pond holds its breath so completely it freezes; the bench wears a delicate rime, as if sugared for a celebration no one has yet planned. Breath becomes visible, then vanishes; sound is muffled; even time feels attenuated, turned crystalline. Nila arrives with a suitcase whose wheels object to the gravel. She perches on the cold slats, the letter reclaimed and tucked inside her coat, her fingers in gloves that do not quite convince. Snow begins—tentative at first, then unapologetic. She looks at the willow, at the skim of ice, at the place that has, in four acts, become a palimpsest of her own indecision. “I’ll come back in spring,” she says—to Arun, to the bench, to herself (perhaps to all of them at once). And the first snowflake lands exactly in the centre of her open palm, a small, vanishing answer.

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

Option A:

The ancient oak leans over the slow river, its reflection tattered by the unhurried current; leaves pattern the light like scattered coins. The air is cool and damp, carrying a faint, tannic sweetness from the water, a breath of loam and moss. Sound is careful here: a soft lick of ripples against roots, the discreet creak of wood, the whisper of gnats (the sort of hush that makes you lower your voice). Sunlight freckles the bark, moves, pauses, moves again, as if the day itself were thinking. The water slides on and on, on and on, taking sky with it; the tree holds its ground, absorbing the hours. They keep company, the restless and the rooted.

Its trunk is wide, furrowed, deeply ridged; each groove is a ledger line. The bark carries archives: pale crusts of lichen, a soot-black seam where lightning once grazed, a swallowed pair of initials that have almost disappeared. At the base, buttressed roots heave out of the bank like the ribs of a vaulted hall; they grip the muddied edge with slow, deliberate strength. Touch the surface and it is both tough and friable, flaking in small, curled scales that reveal a warmer heartwood beneath. Here and there are burls - knotted, whorled swellings - like old knuckles. The smell close to it is resinous, cool, undeniably ancient.

Above, the canopy spreads in a generous, asymmetrical crown; it is not tidy, yet it is balanced. Fine twigs make a filigree against the open sky, and the leaves - half-gloss, half-olive - turn and show their paler backs when the breeze threads through. Sun strokes the river into a shifting mosaic. Dragonflies stitch brief, electric lines over the surface; somewhere upstream, a heron lifts, slow and precise, and then is gone. The water speaks to the overhanging branches in a quiet tongue; sometimes it leans toward them, sometimes it draws away. Light, leaf, flow: the same conversation, reframed, repeated.

Floods have come and gone; their brown signatures remain in faint bands on the trunk. Frost has bitten; summers have crackled; the oak remembers without moving. Who taught a tree to lean so sympathetically toward a river? Perhaps the river taught it patience. Perhaps the bank subsided and the oak adapted, obstinate, obdurate, refusing collapse. Time here feels elastic: years spool past like underwater weeds, then stillness returns. To call the tree a guardian is almost a cliché, yet it stands, witness-like, attentive and composed. Evening will fold into the valley; the current will persist; the oak will wait - steady, watchful.

Option B:

The field did not move, but the year did. At the top of Ferris Field stood an oak; halfway down sat a splintered bench that remembered other summers. It was not grand; you could pass without a second glance—until you watched a while. The seasons wrote over this patch of earth in small, insistent script, layering notes like a palimpsest; nothing fully erased. Leah came because she needed something that kept time honestly. After a winter that had dragged and snarled, she wanted proof that change could be gentle. She carried her father’s camera—leather strap, rain-smell—and chose the bench as her anchor, the oak as her mast, and the sky as whatever it chose to be.

Spring arrived with a tremor, not a fanfare: catkins shimmered in a low breeze, fat buds glossed the twig-ends, blackbirds tasted the lawn with neat beaks. Dew lacquered Leah’s trainers; the air breathed petrichor and possibility. She lifted the camera, squared the frame—bench left, trunk right, horizon level—and felt a small knot loosen. What could change about a bench and a tree? Everything, if you looked long enough. She made a quiet promise to return at each turn: midsummer, last leaf, first frost. It sounded grand, almost ceremonial, but it was only this—stand here, press the button, hear the shutter’s polite click—that steadied her.

By summer the grass had thickened and bleached at the edges; midges drifted in constellations; the oak’s canopy was a green cathedral trading shade for hush. Children threaded daisies, a dog panted like an engine, and beyond the hedge a barbecue breathed rosemary into the afternoon. Heat softened the lane. Leah stood where she had stood—by the pebble she’d placed, the knot in the bark like an eye—and felt the camera buzz to life. She tasted salt on her upper lip. She clicked as a dragonfly stitched light over the pond in the dip, and the year seemed, for once, obedient.

Autumn shouldered in quietly, a slow turning of coin on every branch. Leaves ignited then loosened; conkers thudded; spider-silk strung the bench’s slats and turned rain into sequins. Leah came back with a scarf and a note folded into a thin, cautious square. She slid it into a flake of bark and pressed the camera to her cheek. When winter arrived—bone-white, breath-biting—the field held its breath. Frost rimed the fence; the oak showed its patient bones; the bench was an iron-cold sentence. Leah reached for the crack, expecting paper; she found only a dark seam. On the snow-powdered path lay prints not hers, crescent and close together. She steadied the frame. She clicked, and the sound carried.

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

Option A:

It stands at the crook of the river, an ancient oak propped against the sky like a patient sentinel. Sunlight falls in patches through its leaves; the water gathers those fragments and gives them back as broken coins. The air smells of damp earth and green things, and, though the day is warm, the shade under the tree is cool, a small cave of breath.

Closer, the trunk is a map. Furrows run north and south; knots rise like islands; the lichen is pale handwriting that no one reads anymore. When I touch it the bark catches my skin. There are scars—old lightning perhaps, or the thoughtless cut of a knife years ago—filled with a soft velvet of moss. On its skin: silver crusts of lichen, a smear of amber sap, ants in a busy line that don't seem to notice me.

Above, the limbs stretch and stretch, thick, tired arms that still hold their own. Leaves whisper and flicker; a pigeon's coo sinks through them, and somewhere a wagtail stitches itself along the water's edge. Wind touches the crown and the whole tree answers, not loud, but like somebody saying yes, quietly. Every so often an acorn drops—plunk—and rings the river with small circles.

Meanwhile, below, the roots clutch at the bank. Some dive straight into the silt, others snake out like ropes, keeping the soil where it should be; the river has chewed here for years and years, over and over, and still the oak holds. The current is slow, brown-green, with small mirrors here and there where the sun sits.

It has stood through frost that iced its toes and summers that cracked the mud; through storms that bent it double and through afternoons like this one, when time feels looser. Who first tied a swing to that limb? The tree knows, or it would if trees knew things. However, it simply continues, as trees do, as rivers do. When a cloud covers the sun, the oak turns to dark lace against the pale sky; then the light returns and the shade brightens, and the river moves on while the oak stays, steady, old, still.

Option B:

Spring. Small things begin again: shy buds push at brown bark, the pond loosens its skin. On the village green, the old bench—planks worn smooth by years of coats and conversations—sat as if listening. Dew threaded the grass and birds rehearsed songs with hesitant bravado. Mrs Patel paused to rest her grocery bags and breathe in the damp earth. The bench took her weight without complaint; she looked across the water and thought of May.

By summer, the green was a painting in broad strokes. Heat pressed on slate roofs; dragonflies stitched bright lines above the pond; children unwrapped lollies that dripped onto their wrists. The bench warmed like bread, giving back the day. Lia lay with her feet on the seat and her head on her bag, trying to finish a book, though the air buzzed—a mower, bees, a sudden shout. She underlined a sentence because it sounded true, she wanted a place that could hold a year without breaking.

Then autumn arrived almost politely, at first, and then all at once. The chestnut let go leaf by leaf; conkers thudded; the pond gathered crescents of rain. Smoke drifted; apples and damp wool hung in the air. Lia came back in a blazer now, shoes scuffing kerbs, and hesitated at the bench. Someone had carved initials into the arm, clumsy and hopeful. Mrs Patel swept leaves into a patient heap. 'It will all blow through,' she said, although the wind crumbled her words.

And finally winter. The sky lowered its grey ceiling, and frost stitched the edges with pale thread. The pond was a hard coin; the ducks slipped and complained; the bench wore a thin glitter that cracked under a palm. Picture how quiet it can be when everyone goes inside. Snow arrived softly, flattening footprints; the green looked innocent, almost blank. Yet the place was not empty. Under the bench, careful as a gift, a red woollen glove waited. When the thaw began and the first drip tapped the armrest, Lia noticed it. She picked it up, damp and vivid, and wondered whose winter had come undone.

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

Option A:

Beside the slow river stands an ancient oak. Its trunk is broad as a doorway; the bark is cracked and grey, a map of long journeys scratched into it. Patches of pale lichen and dark moss cling to the grooves like old stories that will not let go. The tree leans over the water a little, as if listening. Its roots clutch the bank like knuckles, sinewy, holding the earth when the river swells. The smell is damp and green, a cool breath from wood and soil.

The river slides past, brown glass in the shallows; it carries leaves and twigs. Sometimes it whispers, sometimes it chuckles against a stone. Dragonflies stitch blue lines in the air; a water boatman skims like an arrow. Light drops through the oak’s canopy in small coins, shaking on the skin of the stream. Now and then a fish turns, a sudden wink, then it is gone again.

In wind, the oak answers. Its leaves scrape and whisper together, a dry choir; its branches lift and settle, slow. You can see where storms have torn at it - a limb cut back, a hollow dark as a mouth. Still, the tree endures. Inside, the rings tighten year by year: a calendar of drought and frost, of blossom and quiet summers. It feels older than the town beyond.

Close to the roots, acorns sit like small helmets. Nettles crowd the edges; a snail writes a silver sentence across a stone. The bank smells of silt and leaf rot, not unpleasant, just true. Once someone tied a rope swing to that branch; the scar is there. Now only the wind plays here, and the dim hum of insects. The oak keeps watch, a guardian by the water. The river keeps going, round the bend, round the bend, round the bend.

Option B:

The bench by the pond didn't move, even when the year turned and people did. In spring the park woke early. Damp earth smelt sweet; daffodils pushed up their bright faces; ducklings scribbled wakes across the water. The willow combed out its green hair and I sat beneath it, my hands on the wood. You had promised you would meet me here, after exams, when the rain softened to a whisper. I waited. I counted the ripples. I believed. All afternoon, and then the next.

In summer the air grew heavy and lazy. The pond became a slow mirror and dragonflies flashed like sparks above it; children shouted, ice creams dripped down wrists, bikes clattered over the path. The sky felt close. I shifted to the shady end of the bench and watched the light crawl along the stones. My phone had no signal, so I watched the water instead and pretended not to mind. The place held what I couldn't say—my worry, my hope, your name.

In autumn the park spoke another language. Leaves let go, one by one—copper, tawny, brown—and the wind chased them in little races along the path. Conkers thudded like small drums. The smell turned sharp, almost smoky, and the days slanted earlier. I brought a coat and brushed the seat clean with my sleeve. It was quieter; people hurried through. I told myself I wasn't waiting anymore, but my feet still found the bench without thinking.

In winter everything held its breath. Frost pinned the grass; the pond wore a thin skin of ice that cracked at the edges like sugar. My breath came out in ghosts. I wrapped my scarf twice and counted to keep my fingers warm. The bench stayed. So did I—until footsteps finally slowed on the path behind me.

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

Option A:

The oak leans over the slow river like a tired guardian, its trunk swollen and scarred where years pressed their marks. Bark peels in plates and ridges; under my hand it feels dry, then damp, then velvety with moss. Roots snake from the bank, knuckles gripping silt as if the whole tree might slide away. A broad canopy sifts light into green shade. Sun squeezes between leaves – it flickers on the water. Acorns lie bruised at the base, a small hoard for hidden creatures.

Beside it, the river moves at its own patient pace, almost silent, though the surface swirls around the roots. It reflects the oak and breaks it to pieces; I see the same branches twice. Reeds whisper. A dragonfly hangs, blue and electric, then zips off like a dart. The smell is wet earth and cold bark. The sound is steady, a murmuring slip of water that carries leaves away, then back again, back and forth.

Now and then the wind arrives and the oak shivers; a soft rain of dust drifts from its arms. It feels older than the broken wall across the field, older than the path and the village. It has seen boots and bare feet. Who can count its years? The oak is stubborn, it will not fall, even though the bank wears thin. By evening the river turns bronze and the tree becomes a black silhouette, patient, watching.

Option B:

Spring. The pond woke again; thin ice cracked like sugar at the edges. Reeds poked through brown water and the grass pushed up bright green. The bench waited by the willow, patient as a dog. A boy in a red scarf came most mornings, retying his laces; ducklings stitched small ripples.

By summer the place was louder. Heat pressed on the path, and the sky stretched. Bees stuttered in the lavender; the willow made a trembling shade. The boy came with friends—laughs bounced off the water. Ice cream dripped down their wrists, sticky stars on the bench. The sun hovered, heavy and yellow, it felt close.

Then autumn arrived, slow and sudden at once. Leaves let go like burnt paper. The pond hardened in colour. J + L, carved in July, made the bench whisper promises. The boy walked alone, hands in pockets, kicking copper leaves into a tide around his ankles. A cold apple smell rose and clung.

At last, winter. The pond turned to a pane; the world sounded small. Frost stitched white along the fence, and the bench wore a silver coat. Breath made clouds. People talked less—words felt brittle. The boy came again with a crumpled envelope; he slid it under the bench, wrapped in plastic. The place held its breath.

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

Option A:

The oak leans over the slow river, its trunk gnarled and dark, like a tired giant resting a heavy arm on the bank. Wide as a doorway, rough as rope, the bark holds strips of moss and insect paths; a map no one can read. At first it looks still, but the whole tree is breathing — leaves shiver a little, whispering to each other.

Meanwhile, the river slides past, green-brown and sleepy. Small eddies spin round and round, catching light. Sunlight drops through torn leaves like coins, and shade wobbles on the water. The roots twist into the clay like fingers; they drink; they grip. There is a smell of damp earth and leaf-rot. Listen. A low creak, a soft plop, a bird clicking somewhere in the crown.

Sometimes the wind comes and the oak shifts, it groans as if remembering winters and storms. Beyond, a path, a dog splashes, the world moves on. I touch the bark and my palm tingles. It feels solid, patient, ancient. The river keeps going, always; the tree keeps watching. Together they make a quiet place, old and calm, even when clouds slide over and the first drop of rain lands like a small, cool bell.

Option B:

In spring the park woke up. The pond wore a thin skin of light and the willow combed green hair over the water. Daffodils poked through soil like yellow beaks, and damp earth steamed in the shy sun. The old bench by the path creaked, as if stretching.

By summer everything was louder. Midges spiralled above the pond, children crashed past on scooters, and ice cream dripped slow on the boards. The bench grew hot to touch — its paint flaked like fish scales. A boy shared lemonade with his grandad. How could one place hold so much?

After that, autumn rolled in. Leaves turned copper then crimson and made a crunchy carpet. The wind told long stories; it pushed the willow and made the pond shiver. Someone left a folded note on the bench. By morning it was soggy, the ink disapearing into blur.

At last winter arrived. Frost drew pale ferns on the bench and the air felt sharp. Snow muffled the geese and kept the pond still as glass. A girl in a red coat paused at the gate. She was waiting, or maybe deciding. The place kept its breath.

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

Option A:

The old oak is by the river.

It is big, big, like a giant that never walks. The bark is rough and grey and brown, it peels a bit, it looks tired. The branches is long and twisty and they reach out over the water like arms.

The river moves slow - like a sleepy snake. It makes a soft sound, shh, shh, and it keeps going. Light flickers on the water and the leaves make shadows that swim. A root sticks in, it drinks, or it looks like drinking, and mud is stuck to it.

When the wind comes the tree creaks, a tired door noise. Sometimes it don't move at all. I stare and think it knows stories, but it wont say them. It feels strong but also alone, standing there for years and years. Back and forth the river goes, the oak stays, and the day gets slow.

Option B:

Spring: the park wakes up. The same bench by the pond. Little flowers come up like buttons. Birds are loud. I sit with my coat open and watch the water move.

Then summer comes, hot, the sun sits on my neck and the path shines. Children run past, a boy drops his ice cream. The pond is like glass and flies draw small rings, ring after ring. I think this place is mine and it will not change.

After that, autumn. Leaves fall and spin like fire, they crunch under my shoes. The bench is wet and cold, I still sit there, I dont mind.

Winter comes quick.

The pond freezes like a window and the wind bite my hands. Trees look like bones. Snow makes a white sheet over the grass. The bench stays - I wait for spring again, the place will change but also it dont.

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

Option A:

The old oak stands by the slow river. The bark is rough and dark and it feels like a old coat, it is cracked and hard. I touch it and it is cold, the tree is tired, it groans a bit in the wind. Leaves hang low and shake, like little hands waving, they make soft sounds. The river moves along, not fast, not loud, just going, going. The tree throws a long shaddow on the water. A bird jumps out then gone. It's roots is like ropes in the bank and in the water, they grip on. I think it is strong for a long time.

Option B:

Spring comes on the street, same bench, same shop, same tree. I stand there and the grass is wet and small flowers come up. Winter is there too in my head I think of the cold and how the pond goes hard. Summer is hot and the tar sticks to my shoe and the sun is big I squint and I wait. Autumn has leaves and they fall and the trees is tired. A boy kicks a ball and someone shouts about dinner, I look. I want the bus home, my phone is dead. The place is the same place, I just keep looking.