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 item does Mr Murdstone lay down before Mr Murdstone picks up the book?: a cane – 1 mark
• 1.2 Which item does Mr Murdstone place beside him before taking up his book?: The cane – 1 mark
• 1.3 After finishing the preparation of the cane, what did Mr. Murdstone do next?: laid it down beside him – 1 mark
• 1.4 After Mr Murdstone finishes getting the cane ready, what does Mr Murdstone do next?: Mr Murdstone sets the cane down and picks up a book – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 11 to 25 of the source:

11 This was a good freshener to my presence of mind, as a beginning. I felt the words of my lessons slipping off, not one by one, or line by line, but by the

16 entire page; I tried to lay hold of them; but they seemed, if I may so express it, to have put skates on, and to skim away from me with a smoothness there was no checking.

21 We began badly, and went on worse. I had come in with an idea of distinguishing myself rather, conceiving that I was very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake. Book after book was added to

How does the writer use language here to show David’s struggle to remember his lessons? 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 perceptively analyses the extended personification/metaphor of uncontrollable motion: the words “slipping off” escalate to “not one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page,” while the dynamic “put skates on” and “skim away” and the smoothness there was no checking convey helpless loss of control. It also evaluates sentence form and contrast, noting the curt We began badly, and went on worse., the ironic reversal I had come in with an idea of distinguishing myself... but it turned out to be quite a mistake, and the cumulative Book after book was added to, to show mounting pressure overwhelming memory.

The writer personifies David’s memory as treacherously mobile. He feels the “words of my lessons slipping off,” a dynamic verb connoting loss of grip, before they “put skates on” and “skim away,” an extended metaphor that gives the words agency and velocity. The tactile attempt to “lay hold of them” contrasts with the “smoothness there was no checking,” whose phrasing suggests an unstoppable glide, rendering his recall something he cannot arrest.

Moreover, the anaphoric tricolon “not one by one, or line by line, but by the entire page” escalates the failure. Its crescendoing structure creates hyperbole that mirrors the acceleration of forgetting, moving from small units to a whole “page,” which intensifies his panic.

Furthermore, sentence form sharpens the decline. The terse declarative “We began badly, and went on worse” compresses the ordeal into a bleak aphorism, while the comparative “worse” signals deterioration. This is juxtaposed with his prior confidence: he came to “distinguish” himself, “very well prepared; but it turned out to be quite a mistake.” The semicolon and adversative “but” enact the rupture; the understated “quite a mistake” ironically magnifies his humiliation.

Additionally, the self-conscious aside “if I may so express it” and the metaphor “a good freshener to my presence of mind” reveal a narrator straining to articulate loss, even as that “presence of mind” evaporates. Finally, the accumulative syntax in “Book after book was added” evokes mounting pressure, piling tasks as his memory slips away. Thus, language choices vividly dramatise David’s struggle to remember.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses metaphor and personification to show memory escaping control: the words are "slipping off" not just individually but "by the entire page" (hyperbole), as if they had "put skates on" to "skim away," suggesting speed and helplessness. Structure reinforces this struggle: a long, flowing sentence contrasts with the short verdict "We began badly, and went on worse," while the contrast between "very well prepared" and "quite a mistake" and the cumulative "Book after book" show confidence collapsing under mounting pressure.

The writer uses extended metaphor and personification to show how memory slips away from David. He says the “words of my lessons” were “slipping off… by the entire page”, which exaggerates the loss; the dynamic verb “slipping” implies lack of grip. He “tried to lay hold of them”, but the words “put skates on” and “skim away… with a smoothness there was no checking.” This personification makes the words evasive, emphasising his loss of control.

Furthermore, the sentence form supports his struggle. The long multi-clause line with semicolons mimics his racing thoughts, while the short, balanced sentence “We began badly, and went on worse” delivers a blunt verdict. The comparative “worse” and parallelism highlight the rapid decline in performance, reinforcing his inability to remember.

Moreover, contrast and repetition add to the effect. He enters “conceiving that I was very well prepared”, but this is undercut by “quite a mistake,” conveying disappointment. Additionally, the repetition in “Book after book was added” suggests a piling-up of tasks, increasing pressure and making his recall harder. Altogether, these choices present David’s struggle to remember his lessons.

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 simple imagery and personification to show the memory escaping, as "slipping off... by the entire page" exaggerates how much he forgets and the words "put skates on" and "skim away" suggest they move too fast to catch. The short negative sentence "We began badly, and went on worse" and the contrast between "idea of distinguishing myself" and "quite a mistake" show his confidence fading and his struggle to keep up.

The writer uses metaphor and personification to show David’s struggle. He says the words were “slipping off… not one by one… but by the entire page”, which suggests his memory is failing quickly, not slowly. The image that the words “put skates on, and… skim away” makes the lessons seem alive and out of control, so the reader sees how he cannot catch them.

Furthermore, the short sentence “We began badly, and went on worse” emphasises the steady decline. The simple comparative “badly… worse” shows his confidence dropping.

Additionally, repetition in “book after book was added” builds pressure, as if the work keeps piling up. The contrast between “very well prepared” and “quite a mistake” shows his hope turning into disappointment. Overall, these choices present his forgetfulness as fast, slippery, and overwhelming.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might spot words like 'slipping off' and the metaphor 'put skates on' so the lessons 'skim away', showing he can’t remember them. It might also mention the short sentence 'We began badly, and went on worse.' and the repetition 'Book after book' to show things keep getting worse.

The writer uses metaphor to show David’s struggle. The words “slipping off… by the entire page” suggest the lessons are falling away quickly, which shows he can’t remember them. The personification “put skates on” and “skim away” makes the words seem alive and fast, so he cannot catch them. Furthermore, the phrase “We began badly, and went on worse” shows it keeps getting harder. Additionally, the phrase “quite a mistake” and the repetition “Book after book” show his confidence fails and the pressure grows.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Extended personification turns the words into skaters, making his memory feel uncontrollable (put skates on)
• Kinetic verb choice suggests rapid loss and lack of grip (slipping off)
• Escalating structure magnifies the scale of forgetting from parts to whole (entire page)
• Tactile metaphor of grasping knowledge emphasises the struggle to retain what keeps evading him (lay hold)
• The unstoppable glide is stressed by a collocation that denies any resistance, conveying helplessness (no checking)
• Long, multi-clause sentence with semicolons creates a breathless, cumulative rhythm that mirrors his mounting panic (but they seemed)
• Blunt, balanced sentence with comparative shows decline and demoralisation as the situation worsens (went on worse)
• Deflated expectation contrasts hope with failure, underlining embarrassment and surprise (very well prepared)
• The curt correction makes the failure explicit and final, tightening the tone (quite a mistake)
• Incremental repetition conveys piling pressure as demands build beyond his capacity (Book after book)

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 isolation?

You could write about:

• how isolation deepens 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: Perceptively tracking the whole-text trajectory, a Level 4 response would show how isolation escalates from cumulative pressure — 'We began badly, and went on worse', 'Book after book was added to the heap of failures' and the cane’s 'preparation of it' — to literal confinement with 'the door was locked outside', isolating David physically. It would analyse contrasts and pacing (from 'Above all the noise' to 'unnatural stillness', from 'It had begun to grow dark' to 'Long after it was dark') and the turn to interiority — 'the guilt I felt', 'Whether I was at all in danger of being hanged?' — to explain how shifts in sound, time and focus deepen his isolation by the end.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create isolation is by shifting from a crowded lesson to an enclosed upstairs room, using thresholds and a lock to sever contact. The passage opens amid multiple voices and the cane, but the hinge comes with the paratactic clause, "Then he was gone; and the door was locked outside." This change of setting and the decisive locking re-focus the narrative from public conflict to confinement, immediately isolating David.

In addition, temporal markers and pace deepen his isolation. After the violent crescendo, the narrative decelerates into lingering stillness: "How well I recollect ... what an unnatural stillness seemed to reign," then "I sat listening for a long while" and "It had begun to grow dark ... Long after it was dark." This elongation of time and the shift in soundscape from clamour to "not a sound" foreground absence itself, making his solitude feel extended and oppressive.

A further structural feature is the narrowing of perspective into interiority, which isolates him psychologically. Dialogue falls away into interior monologue and self-accusation: the anaphora "How well I recollect... How well I remember" and the final tricolon of questions—"Whether... Whether... Whether..."—leave only his voice. Even the brief visit from Miss Murdstone is mute: she enters "without a word" and exits "locking the door after her." Positioned late, this silent interruption paradoxically intensifies his separation, so by the close isolation has become consuming guilt.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures the extract as a clear progression: from the tense opening where the cane is laid it down beside him, through escalating failure (We began badly, and went on worse; Book after book was added to the heap of failures), to a turning point of confinement (the door was locked outside), followed by a shift into silence and fearful introspection (unnatural stillness, Long after it was dark, thoughts of being hanged), which deepens David’s isolation.

One way the writer structures the extract to build isolation is by opening with surveillance and control, then narrowing to David alone. The scene begins in a communal space under authority: he "sought Mr. Murdstone’s eye", the cane is prepared, and Miss Murdstone is "firmly watchful". As the lesson collapses, the focus shifts from the group to David’s failing memory and panic, foreshadowing his separation.

In addition, a clear turning point isolates him physically and slows the pace. After the noisy confrontation—"crying out"—"Then he was gone; and the door was locked outside" seals him off. The narrative then lingers, using temporal markers—"It had begun to grow dark", "Long after it was dark"—to show time stretching. The contrast between earlier commotion and "unnatural stillness" intensifies his solitude. Even Miss Murdstone’s silent visit—‘without a word’ and ‘locking the door’—confirms his exclusion.

A further structural choice is the shift from external action to interiority at the end. The sustained first-person perspective narrows into self-scrutiny—mirror "swollen, red" and heavy "guilt"—ending with unresolved questions about prison and "hanged?", which emphasise his deepening mental isolation.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies that the text moves from a tense beginning with Mr. Murdstone’s cane and failure (“We began badly, and went on worse”) to David being shut away (“the door was locked outside”). Notes a change in mood to silence and darkness—unnatural stillness, “there was not a sound”, “Long after it was dark”—so isolation is stronger by the end.

One way the writer has structured the text to create a sense of isolation is by moving from a busy beginning to a locked room. At the start the focus is on the group, but it shifts when 'he walked me up to my room' and 'the door was locked outside.' This change in setting separates David, making the reader feel cut off with him.

In addition, in the middle, time markers slow the pace and deepen isolation. 'It had begun to grow dark' and 'Long after it was dark I sat there' show time passing with 'not a sound'. This pacing makes his loneliness feel longer.

A further structural feature is the move at the end to inner perspective. The narrative narrows to David’s questions—'Whether I... be sent to prison? ... be hanged?'—creating a solitary, fearful mood. Ending on this thought leaves the reader in his isolation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start he is with others and watched—Miss Murdstone being firmly watchful—but by the end he is shut away in silence with the door was locked, there was not a sound, and Long after it was dark I sat there, which simply creates a sense of isolation.

One way the writer creates isolation is by beginning with dialogue and focusing on David being singled out. Mr Murdstone says 'Now, David', picking him out. This opening shows him alone under pressure.

In addition, the focus shifts to his room upstairs. The door is 'locked outside' and there is 'not a sound'. This change of setting and silence make him physically alone.

A further feature is the ending with time and questions. 'Long after it was dark' and his fearful questions show a long, lonely end. His isolation deepens, and first-person view keeps us inside it.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Foregrounded ritual of authority at the start foreshadows punishment and pre-isolates the boy under threat (the cane another poise)
• Restrictive first-person tracking of senses encloses us in his solitary viewpoint, heightening his separateness (I felt apprehensive)
• Signposted deterioration from “beginning” to worse structures an inexorable slide away from support and success (We began badly)
• Cumulative failures under constant surveillance amplify pressure and self-alienation within the room (heap of failures)
• Adults align against him (the wink) to form an opposing unit, structurally excluding him from the family group (I saw him wink)
• Shift from group scene to removal “upstairs” narrows space and enacts physical separation from others (go upstairs, boy)
• Violent climax followed by an abrupt lock pivots pace from struggle to confinement, sealing his aloneness (door was locked)
• Soundscape collapses from noise to silence; the auditory void makes isolation palpable (not a sound)
• Time dilates into darkness, extending his solitary vigil and making rescue increasingly unlikely (Long after it was dark)
• Closing triad of fearful questions leaves him trapped in inward isolation and imagined punishment (in danger of being hanged)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 51 to the end.

In this part of the source, where David is locked in his room, his feeling of guilt is shown to be even worse than his physical pain. The writer suggests that the Murdstones’ real cruelty is making David believe that he is the one who has done wrong.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of David and his feelings of guilt
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the cruelty of the Murdstones
• 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 typical Level 4 response would agree to a great extent, arguing that Dickens’ methods show psychological cruelty outweighing physical pain: the contrast “My stripes were sore and stiff... but they were nothing to the guilt I felt,” the metaphor “It lay heavier on my breast than if I had been a most atrocious criminal,” and details like “the door was locked outside,” Miss Murdstone’s “exemplary firmness,” and fearful questions about being “taken into custody” or “hanged” reveal how David internalises blame.

I largely agree with the statement. While Dickens makes the beating horrifyingly vivid, the narrative arc of this section shifts from bodily suffering to an internal, corrosive guilt; crucially, he exposes the Murdstones’ real cruelty as their self-righteous “justice” that coerces David into seeing himself as the offender.

At first, the physical violence is foregrounded through visceral imagery and loaded irony. Mr Murdstone’s “delight in that formal parade of executing justice” presents punishment as moral spectacle; the elevated diction (“executing justice”) satirically masks sadism as principle. The simile “my head as in a vice” conveys mechanical, inescapable force, while “he beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death” employs hyperbolic simile to register extreme brutality. Even David’s retrospective aside, “It sets my teeth on edge to think of it,” keeps the sensory memory raw. Yet as soon as “the door was locked outside,” the structure pivots from noise to silence, signalling a deeper kind of suffering.

Dickens marks this pivot with anaphora and tonal contrast: “How well I recollect… How well I remember” ushers in reflective, interior narration. The “unnatural stillness” personifies the house as complicit in his isolation, and as “my smart and passion began to cool,” guilt rushes in: “how wicked I began to feel!” The mirror scene—his face “swollen, red, and ugly”—moves from external hurt to self-loathing, a psychological bruise. Most decisively, the comparative clause “my stripes… were nothing to the guilt I felt” confirms the statement; guilt “lay heavier… than if I had been a most atrocious criminal.” The semantic field of crime (“atrocious criminal”) reframes a child’s resistance as felony, showing how the Murdstones’ rhetoric has colonised his conscience.

Miss Murdstone’s conduct intensifies this moral coercion. Her “exemplary firmness” is a chilling oxymoron: “exemplary” virtue weaponised into cold discipline. She brings “bread and meat, and milk” “without a word,” then “locking the door after her” enacts literal imprisonment. As darkness falls—a muted pathetic fallacy—David’s mind spirals through escalating rhetorical questions: “Whether it was a criminal act… taken into custody… prison… hanged?” This climactic tricolon traces how their performance of “justice” has made him internalise criminality. Even the window is “shut,” a symbolic narrowing of hope and perspective.

Overall, to a great extent, Dickens makes David’s guilt eclipse his bodily pain, and he portrays the Murdstones’ most insidious cruelty as moral indoctrination. Their blows hurt his body; their language and ceremony of “justice” teach him to condemn himself.

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, clearly explaining that Dickens prioritises David’s moral anguish over his injuries through "nothing to the guilt I felt" and the hyperbolic simile "heavier on my breast than if I had been a most atrocious criminal", and using relevant examples to show the Murdstones’ psychological cruelty—his isolation ("locked outside", "unnatural stillness") and Miss Murdstone’s "exemplary firmness"—which manipulates him into self-blame and fear of punishment ("taken into custody", "hanged").

I agree to a large extent that David’s guilt is shown as worse than his physical pain, and that the Murdstones’ real cruelty is to make him feel he has done wrong. At first, the writer foregrounds pain through violent imagery: Mr Murdstone holds David’s head “as in a vice” and beats him “as if he would have beaten me to death.” These similes and the sensory description of his face “swollen, red, and ugly,” with “stripes… sore and stiff,” emphasise the severity of the injuries. Yet Dickens undercuts this by the narrator’s clear judgment that these hurts were “nothing to the guilt I felt.” This explicit comparison supports the idea that the psychological harm outweighs the physical.

Structurally, there is a shift from the noisy beating to an “unnatural stillness” that “seemed to reign” through the house. The personification of stillness and the locked door work symbolically to trap David inside his own self-accusation: “how wicked I began to feel!” The reflective narrative voice (“How well I recollect… How well I remember”) shows how deeply this shame has been internalised over time. The lexical field of crime—“criminal,” “custody,” “prison,” “hanged”—intensifies through anaphora in the triple “Whether… Whether… Whether…,” suggesting spiralling, irrational fear. The hyperbole that guilt lay “heavier on my breast than if I had been a most atrocious criminal” makes the moral burden feel crushing.

The Murdstones’ cruelty is presented as calculated and performative. Mr Murdstone takes “delight in that formal parade of executing justice,” an ironic phrase exposing sadism dressed up as righteousness. Miss Murdstone’s coldness—bringing food “without a word,” “glaring… with exemplary firmness,” and relocking the door—shows institutional, emotionless punishment designed to isolate rather than correct.

Overall, I strongly agree: while the beating causes immediate pain, the writer’s use of contrast, symbolism, and a crime-laden lexis shows the more devastating cruelty is making David believe he is the offender, not the victim.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Mostly agrees, pointing out that David says his 'stripes were sore... but... nothing to the guilt I felt', that it 'lay heavier on my breast', and he feels like a 'most atrocious criminal'. Notes simple details of the Murdstones’ cruelty—Mr Murdstone’s 'formal parade of executing justice', the 'door was locked outside', and Miss Murdstone 'glaring... with exemplary firmness'—which make him fear being 'taken into custody' or 'hanged'.

I agree to a large extent that David’s guilt is worse than his physical pain, and that the Murdstones’ main cruelty is making him think he has done wrong. At first, the physical suffering is described strongly: Mr Murdstone 'beat me then, as if he would have beaten me to death', and afterwards David lies 'fevered and hot, and torn, and sore'. This imagery and the simile show the violence. However, he then says the 'stripes were sore and stiff... but they were nothing to the guilt I felt.' The metaphor that the guilt 'lay heavier on my breast' suggests a weight pressing on him more than the blows.

The writer also presents the Murdstones’ cruelty as psychological. Mr Murdstone has a 'delight in that formal parade of executing justice,' which shows he enjoys the ceremony of punishment. After the 'noise' of the beating, there is an 'unnatural stillness', and Miss Murdstone 'put down' food 'without a word... locking the door'. This contrast, from chaos to silence, traps David with his thoughts, making the guilt grow. Her 'glaring' and 'exemplary firmness' suggest cold control rather than care.

Finally, David’s language shows he blames himself. He 'began to feel wicked' and asks rhetorical questions: was it a 'criminal act'? would he be sent to 'prison' or even 'hanged'? This criminal semantic field shows he has internalised their judgment. Overall, I agree: though the beating is brutal, the deeper cruelty is making David think he is guilty.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Level 1: Simply agrees that the writer shows guilt is worse than pain, using basic references like “nothing to the guilt I felt,” David calling himself a “most atrocious criminal” who might be “hanged,” and noticing Miss Murdstone “glaring” and “locking the door” as simple signs of cruelty.

I mostly agree. David is hurt, but his guilt feels worse, and the Murdstones make him think he is the criminal.

At first the focus is on the beating. Mr Murdstone holds his head “as in a vice” and “beat me… as if he would have beaten me to death.” This simile makes the pain sound very strong. However, when he is locked in his room, he says, “My stripes were sore and stiff… but they were nothing to the guilt I felt.” This shows the guilt is heavier than his injuries.

The writer also shows the Murdstones’ cruelty in a quiet way. The house has an “unnatural stillness,” and Miss Murdstone, “glaring… with exemplary firmness,” brings food and locks the door. The adjective “unnatural” and the locked door make him feel alone. Then he asks, “Whether it was a criminal act… in danger of being hanged?” These rhetorical questions show he starts to believe he has done wrong.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer shows the pain, but the real cruelty is making David feel guilty and frightened, as if he is the bad one.

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:

• Explicit contrast (pain vs guilt) → elevates psychological torment above physical suffering, strongly supporting the claim (nothing to the guilt)
• Crime imagery and hyperbole → makes David internalise blame and feel morally monstrous, intensifying reader outrage (atrocious criminal)
• Structural contrast from noise to silence → the sudden quiet forces inward reflection and magnifies guilt and dread (unnatural stillness)
• Performative “justice” and irony → Mr Murdstone’s self-righteous pose legitimises punishment, pressuring David to accept guilt (executing justice)
• Manipulative blame-framing before his mother → casts David as the cause of her distress, planting the notion that he is at fault (we can hardly expect)
• Imprisonment imagery → literal confinement echoes a penal system, making David see himself as a criminal (the key was turned)
• Silent moral condemnation → Miss Murdstone’s wordless severity functions as punishment that shames rather than teaches (exemplary firmness)
• Anxious rhetorical questions → the escalating possibilities of punishment show how fully he has absorbed their narrative of his wrongdoing (in danger of being hanged)
• Graphic violence as counterpoint → the savagery is extreme yet presented as less crushing than the induced guilt, heightening the critique (beaten me to death)
• Self-loathing mirror image → seeing himself as frightening compounds shame, aligning with their goal of making him feel wicked (swollen, red, and ugly)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A magazine that specialises in remote and challenging travel is seeking creative entries.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an isolated airstrip from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a journey to a remote destination.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

The runway lies like a bone-white scar stitched across the shoulder of the mountain. Paint once brave has paled; the chalked numerals at the threshold bleed through a skin of rime. Wind brushes it clean and then powders it again, a fidgeting hand that cannot decide. Above, the sky is a crystalline bell—brittle, lucent, almost colourless—and sound is a thing held back at its glassy rim.

Beyond the apron a corrugated hangar squats, its roof buckled by winters that never quite ended. The sliding door shudders when the gusts prise at it; a chain bites its own links and clinks, clinks, clinks. The windsock—an obstinate comma of red—points rigidly at nothing in particular, a tongue stuck out at the thin air. Icicles bead the guttering like a row of glass teeth. Inside, a cage-lamp hums with an anaemic filament; dust hangs in the cold as if reluctant to fall.

Underfoot the snow is not pure. It is stippled with grit and ground quartz, with black commas of rubber left by a bolder summer landing; the runway remembers. The gusts abrade the cheeks and bring a taste of iron; they smell faintly of old aviation fuel (long evaporated) and the sour resin of pines far below, a ghost of forest exhaled into this white loneliness. Every so often a raven arcs overhead, banking, barbed wings sleeking the air; it is so quiet you hear its feathers unknit the wind.

There is one of everything here: one windsock; one squat hangar; one brittle fence laced with frost; one line of cat’s eyes set into the edge like milky beads. The warning signs have been gnawed by weather until their letters look hesitant. A radio on the bench coughs once, then relapses into a static that is barely more than thought. The worktop bears the brown ring of a long-cold mug; a calendar curls at the corner—wrong month, wrong year. Four chocks sit marooned in the hangar’s throat, still square with the memory of a fuselage. A spare propeller blade leans against a wall like a giant’s matchstick, lacquer dulled, edges feathered with rime.

And yet the strip waits. It waits when sun spills weakly over the ridge and makes the runway glow as if lit from within; it waits when cloud stoops so low it bastes the stones and sews off the world. At noon, light is surgical and indifferent; by three, a bruise of shadow smears from the pines; by five, the amber beacons begin their timid metronome. The mountain inhales, exhales; spindrift drifts backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.

You imagine approach lights stuttering awake, a propeller coughing, catching, the syllables of a climb-out written on the air. You imagine it—and the silence answers; not hostile, exactly, but absolute. The hangar broods like a sleeping beast (perhaps too obvious a comparison, yet it stands). Here, absence thunders. Here, the idea of departure is sharper than the knife of cold. And here, on this wind-scoured strip, the world’s great distances feel nearer than the nearest voice.

Option B:

Dawn: the hour when the map looks honest, all pale distances and the promise of edges. The city, chastened by night rain, steamed; buses sighed; gulls argued on the roofline. Kit tightened the straps of a storm-yellow rucksack, checked the old compass (more charm than tool), and closed the door; the latch sounded like a held breath.

He had not applied so much as been summoned: a letter from a cousin he half-remembered—The lighthouse needs hands; the island needs a voice. Come before the weather turns. The imperative lodged under his ribs; that, and the blankness along the map's rim. Besides, the city had become threadbare: the same corridor, the same desk, the ineluctable hum. So he went.

On the bus, flyovers loosened into lanes and then into hedges; the palette shifted—brick to gorse to chalk. Houses slumped into fields. The river glimmered beside them, tidal and sullen, carrying twigs and an entire door as if offering up excuses. How far do you have to travel before the past stops jogging beside you?

By the time the bus emptied, the driver had started humming. 'End of the line at the slipway,' he said—then, softer—'and you'll want your hood up: wind's a right opinion out there.' Kit smiled—gratitude was easier than admitting fear. The last passengers dispersed like commas into the salt marsh; Kit stepped down, and the air altered—salt-sour, iodine-bright, with that clean, metallic thrum only big spaces make.

The ferry was no more than a square of steel with a stubborn engine, chained to a timetable the tide disregarded (as though the sea had ever respected a spreadsheet). Still, it came—canted, purposeful—and the skipper waved them aboard with an economy that implied survival. 'You'll be fine,' he said, which sounded less like reassurance and more like a rule.

As the ferry pushed out, rain arrived in a hiss so fine it felt like a change in texture. The harbour fell away; the mainland thinned to a palimpsest. Kit tasted salt, tucked the letter deeper, thought of hands that had smelled of oil and tide until they didn't. Yet the thought did not bolt; it held pace, as if open water enforced a gentler etiquette for grief.

Near the island, the water darkened into that deep-teal certainty peculiar to the littoral; beneath, it muscled and shrugged. The lighthouse lifted from the mist, austere and astonishing—a bone-white column stippled by weather; the island lay low and obstinate, a dark hyphen between horizon and sky. Kit's stomach lurched—swell or anticipation, he could not tell. This, then: the remote destination, the far edge, the place he had been walking toward since before he could articulate wanting. He tightened his grip on the rucksack and stepped forward.

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

Option A:

The airstrip lies like a pencil mark on a blank page, a thin, stubborn line in snow that returns, returns, returns. Beyond it, the mountains stand attentive, their shoulders glazed and indifferent; the sky is washed-out porcelain, pale and brittle. Wind moves without hurry through firs, a dry hiss that scratches at the ears. It feels as if the place is holding its breath.

Underfoot the runway is packed grit and ice; tyre grooves fossilised by cold, each ridge a record. Along the perimeter, wire fencing leans into the weather — staples loosened, nails the colour of rust — while the windsock, sun-faded and thin, flutters, then sags, then flutters again. Light ricochets from blown crystals; eyes narrow; everything telescopes into a clarity that is almost unkind.

A low corrugated hut hums when the gusts pass; a padlock hangs from the door like a blunt tooth. Inside (if the door were open) you would smell aviation fuel and damp wool; you would hear a radio muttering, its consonants cut short by static. A map curls on a nail; a mug leaves a ring of tannin; a logbook waits with a stubbed pencil. Evidence of hands, of planning, of patient maintenance — and yet no voices.

Sometimes the place vibrates into life. A speck grows in the wide air; the propeller unravels the silence; snow lifts in ragged banners as the little plane commits. The engine’s thrum, steady but strained, is a kind of vow. Who would choose to land here, where the margins are so narrow? Bush pilots, perhaps, and medics; postmen with sacks of letters; a tired family. The strip receives them with the same scant ceremony: a grinding of tyres, a plume of frost, the relief in your chest.

Then the world redraws itself. The engine note fades, the horizon swallows it, and the airstrip settles back into its role — an intention, a promise, a pause. Snow creeps to the edges and over them. The fencing ticks in the cold. Listen long enough and you hear the small life of the place: a raven croaks; a shutter chatters; ice relaxes with a crack like a snapped ruler. It is lonely, yes, but not empty; it remains, precise, waiting for the next thin wing to cut the winter open.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of thin light; streets emptied of hurry, breath blooming into ghosts. A beginning you could smell: cold iron, diesel, a smear of pastry sweetness. The bus stop was slick with last night’s rain, the timetable imperfectly taped, curling like a dried leaf. In the stillness, the city felt like a held breath — as if all that concrete might exhale and let me go.

My rucksack lay open on the bench, a small geography of leaving. Not much: a map worn soft as cloth; a dented flask; the scuffed compass my father gave me before the summer he vanished into a fog I was too young to name. At the bottom, folded like a secret, the letter that had found me. Come to Wren Isle, it said. I had tried to ignore it; work filled days and screens filled nights, but its ink persisted, dark and oddly calm.

I left on the first bus, then the train, each leg a loosening, like knots nosing apart. The city’s grid gave way to suburbs, then to fields scrubbed dull by frost; the sky widened. Past the river, a migration of light across wetlands; then a salt-bright estuary, gulls scissoring the air. What would I say when I arrived? Who was I to walk back into a story I had stepped out of — or been pushed from — years ago?

People talk about remote as emptiness, but I had come for the space it made. Silence is not nothing; it is room enough to think. Still, the idea of an island at the edge of a map — and beyond the edges of the apps on my phone — tightened something in me. No signal bars; no quick escape. Only the ferry and the weather. I pressed my palm to the window. The glass was cold and slightly greasy; my reflection looked like someone else’s, details smudged into a soft mistrust.

By the time I reached the harbour the day had turned the colour of pewter. The sea breathed restlessly; the ferry’s deck shone with a thin rind of spray. I bought a ticket and a tea, too sweet. The island crouched on the horizon, a dark comma in the long sentence of water. We shuddered, then peeled from the pier. I held the letter — just paper — and felt its weight. Ahead: wind, distance, whatever waited where land sharpened into solitude.

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

Option A:

Wind scrapes across the mountain bowl, worrying at the low fences and chattering the tin of a lonely shed. The airstrip lies like a stitched scar in the whiteness; narrow, stubborn, almost swallowed. Under a sky bleached thin by cold, the patched tarmac shows a lattice of cracks, black against the glare. Snow skitters—fine, feathered, restless—then heaps itself in sullen drifts along the tyre-scuffed edge. Even the numbers at the threshold are ghost-grey beneath rime; the only sounds are the wire-song of wind and the flap of loosened metal.

Here, things are simple and exacting. The windsock is an exhausted orange, frozen straight; it points nowhere, or everywhere. Two sodium lamps blink like tired eyes; between them, the centre-line appears and vanishes where powder sweeps across. Beyond the apron, a low hangar of corrugated iron crouches; its sliding doors sulk on their rails. Inside, the air holds cold oil and damp canvas; a spanner rests abandoned on a drum. (If anyone comes, they do not stay.)

A small single-prop sits angled to the crosswind, its propeller nailed still. Frost freckles the cowling, and a milky film veils the windows; the pilot’s seat is empty. Beneath the wings, coins of ice shine; the tyres have sunk a little into granular snow; ropes coil like sleeping snakes beneath. Footprints mark a conversation with the morning: from door to plane, then back again—stuttered, hesitant—already blurring. Underfoot, the surface squeaks; breath pans into a brief cloud; the air tastes metallic, like a coin on the tongue.

Beyond, the mountains shoulder the sky, unmoved. A radio mast leans, guy wires humming; the anemometer ticks its narrow circle. Time here is deliberate: no queue, no chatter, no departures board—only the white rush of weather and the long, waiting strip. Occasionally, far off, an engine bruises the air and fades. At the far end a beacon stutters, an uncertain pulse. It is an airstrip, yes, but also a pause: a narrow place between nowhere and somewhere, waiting for a break in the cloud, for a brief blue to open like an eye and shut again. Until then the runway holds its line, a slate-straight promise scored through the cold.

Option B:

The map was tired. Its corners had been thumbed soft, its folds like scars, and at the top the colour paled until land and sea bled into a washed-out promise. After the last named village, a single road in pencil thinned; it crawled towards the margin as if it did not want to be seen.

At the kitchen table I packed slowly. A flask that still smelt of last winter’s tea; a torch; spare socks; a small compass I had never properly used. I tucked in a photograph, too—sun bleaching my mother’s smile—and the letter that had started this whole plan. It said simply: "Come before the tide." I read it again although the words could not change, though my hands had already decided.

Outside, the morning was brittle. Frost threaded the grass, the lane was a narrow rib of tarmac, and my breath made quick ghosts. The bus arrived late and apologetic, huffing diesel and heat; the driver nodded, as if we shared a secret. There were three other passengers and a crate of bread. We climbed, we coughed, we rattled.

Fields gave up to scrub and then to heather; fences grew uncertain, houses dropped away until there were stone ruins with nettles for windows. The road uncoiled and coiled again. I watched the land widen as if someone pulled the horizon back on quiet strings. Every mile tugged at a silence I both wanted and dreaded.

By the time we passed the last shop—its sign swinging, paint flaking in the salt air—the sky tasted of brine. Gulls cruised the way grandmothers watch toddlers: steady and suspicious. Finally the driver spoke, his voice sandy. "You getting off at the causeway?" he asked. I nodded, and my mouth went dry.

I pictured it: the narrow strip of stones that appears twice a day; a white tower holding the edge of the world together. Remote, my teacher would have said: far, but also alone. And still, when the bus stopped and the door hissed open, I stood. The wind pressed its cold hands to my cheeks. The map under my arm felt suddenly very small.

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

Option A:

The airstrip lies like a charcoal scar across the snow, a narrow, stubborn line pressed into the white. On either side, the mountains hunch their shoulders, steep and indifferent, their ridges cut out against a thin, porcelain sky. Paint on the centre stripe looks bleached; yellow cones stand like teeth, half-buried, tilted and patient. A single windsock hangs from its pole and barely moves, more of a gesture than a flag. The small plane waits at the edge, hunched and shivering, the metal skin glinting coldly; frost powders the propeller.

Sound arrives gently out here, as if it has to travel further. The wind snakes along the runway and then stops; it stutters. A loose sheet of corrugated roof ticks. There is the faint, oily smell of kerosene, mixing with the clean bite of ice that fills the lungs. My boots grind on granular snow and leave sharp prints. Breath twists in pale threads. Even the plane, its name in peeling letters, seems to listen.

A squat hut leans near the strip, its door swollen, paint scabbed off, a window clouded with frost like cataracts. Inside, a metal chair, a torn map, a radio that whispers static and falls quiet; times scribbled in pencil, faded to ghosts. Outside there are fuel drums, dull and red, tied with rope; a hose is coiled like a sleeping snake. The fire extinguisher stands upright, obedient, but it too looks tired.

The runway markers form a path that looks certain, yet with soft edges where snow keeps drifting back, again and again. Footprints fill and vanish. Distant peaks shift shade as the low sun struggles; the whole place feels paused, a held breath. When the wind changes, the windsock lifts—just a little—and the plane’s tail gives a tremor. In that moment you feel it: this strip is a sentence between cliffs, fragile and necessary, a place that almost shouldn’t exist.

Option B:

Winter. The season of thin light and long breaths; roads edged with frost, hedges glittering as if pinned with salt. Fields lay stiff and quiet under a pale sky that felt far away.

As the villages passed by the bus window—small, hunched, smoking from their chimneys—I checked my storm-grey rucksack for the fifth time. Map, torch, notebook; thermos, spare socks, batteries. The list marched through my head and still my hands found new worries. The zip caught. My gloves slipped. The strap felt too tight, then too loose, then too tight again.

Destination: the lighthouse on Black Kelp Rock, a pinprick on the weather map. I had seen it once in a book, a solitary tower braced against black waves, and it had stuck like a thorn. Now the last boat of the week was due at noon, and every minute ticked louder than the bus engine.

The road narrowed until it was a ribbon on the moor. Bracken shivered. Sheep gazed at us like stubborn judges. My phone signal fell to one bar, then nothing, a blank corner where the world usually buzzed. The driver hummed, fingers tapping the wheel, and the bus sighed around corners in slow, patient arcs.

At the harbour the wind rose and tasted of brine. Gulls wheeled like scraps of paper. The sea worked at the stones, pushing and pulling with a steady, old strength. An old man in a tarred cap glanced at my bag. “You going out there?” he asked, chin lifting toward the dark line on the horizon.

“Yes,” I said, though my stomach answered with a small, doubtful twist.

He nodded once—approval or warning, I couldn’t tell. “Weather turns quick.”

The mail boat nudged the pier. I stepped forward. It felt like stepping off the map and into its margin.

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

Option A:

The airstrip lies like a thin scar cut into the mountain. On both sides the snow lifts and falls in a sharp wind. It is quiet. Not peaceful, just empty. The runway runs straight, fading into pale cloud. Even the sun seems to stand back from this place.

At the edge stands a small hangar, corragated metal and flaking paint, a door that sticks. Its padlock is a dark tooth; the window panes have the dull colour of old ice. A windsock hangs from a rusted pole like a tired flag, limp, then twitching, then still. A single red warning sign leans; the letters are peeling, they don't change their meaning.

Across the tarmac, drifts make shallow dunes, they whisper over frozen tyre marks. A small plane crouches by the line, wings dusted with frost. The propeller is still; the body gives small, complaining creaks. Cold air tastes like metal, with a faint breath of deisel. Footsteps would crunch, and echo, then be swallowed. The mountains watch from every side — no road noise, no voices.

Now and then a raven crosses, a quick silhouette against the paper sky — then it is gone. The airstrip waits. It waits for a pilot, for the engine to cough; until then the wind rearranges the snow again and again.

Option B:

Dawn. The time for leaving: long shadows and short goodbyes. Mist hung over the estate like unwashed curtains, and the road outside looked longer than it had last night. Cabs crawled; pigeons tottered; the city yawned.

I zipped my sea-blue rucksack—heavy already—and laid the map on the table. Its edges were soft with fingerprints; Gran had circled a speck of coast in pencil: Skerry Point. The end of the line. I folded jumpers, stuffed in socks, squeezed in a dented flask and a battered compass. It felt like carrying a small house on my back, like a snail trying to be brave. How would I make it? How would I even find the ferry.

The bus hissed and shivered, I clutched the pole. Diesel smeared the air. Outside, shutters clanked up, then slid down again in the breeze, and the streets peeled away brick by brick. Fields began, damp and flat, hedges stitching the road into strips. Then the station; then a thinner train that rattled like loose cutlery, its windows shivering. There was less people than I expected, just a woman with a sleeping child and a man who smelled of fish.

By noon we reached the harbour. The sea lay like a grey sheet and the wind bit my ears. The boat was small, its name flaking along the side—Perseverance. Gulls screamed; ropes slapped. I stepped on. No signal.

Water. Sky. A dark smudge ahead that slowly grew, like a lonely thought I couldn’t shake off but I still wanted to. Remote, waiting, unavoidable; and still, I went.

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

Option A:

The airstrip lies like a thin scar across the white valley. The low winter sun leaks over the ridge and makes the ice shine, then it hides behind a slow cloud. Wind pushes over the strip, dragging loose flakes backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards. Tarmac shows through in grey pieces, cracked and gritty. At the edges, short trees huddle and tilt, as if they are wary.

At one end a small plane stands, nose lifted, silver and still. Its propeller is tied with a faded rope; the rope taps the metal when a gust snaps by. Beside it, a corrugated hut sits crooked: door half open, a dented fuel can, a torn flag on a wire. A tin sign clacks on a bent nail. No voices, no traffic, no town—only the wind and the thin smell of petrol in the cold air.

Sometimes the silence breaks with a raven’s cry or the crunch of a boot on crusted snow. The strip looks straight; it dips a little with the land. Above, the mountains looks close and far at the same time. I breathe out and the air is sharp, it bites the back of my throat. Who would land here, except the brave or the lost?

Option B:

Morning. The road looked thin and pale on the creased map, like a vein under skin. The name of the place sat in the corner: Wolf Ridge. It sounded far away and cold. I stuffed my gloves into the top of my backpack and pulled the zip; it coughed and stuck, then finally closed. Mum said, text me when you get there, but there might not even be signal. I nodded anyway.

At the station, the bus sighed open—doors yawning like a tired mouth. The driver looked at my ticket, then at me, like he wanted to ask why. I climbed on. The seats were scratchy, blue with stars. Diesel breathed through the aisle. As we rolled out, town fell behind us in little pieces: the bakery, the red post box, the last street light. My stomach fluttered; I was really going.

Fields unrolled like blankets. After a while, fences ended and the land went raw and brown, patched with frost. Sheep stared, white, and the sky seemed wider here, like a lid lifted off a tin. I checked my phone; no bars. The map quivered in my hands. What if the road just ran out? When the bus turned onto the narrow lane, the world went quiet.

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

Option A:

The airstrip sits in the middle of white land. Snow and ice and silence. The runway is long it goes to nothing. It is a black line like a scratch on glass. Wind bites my face. It's edges are hard with ice, snow lays in piles at the sides.

A small plane waits. It looks like a toy left behind, its nose down a little, its wings shiver. There are no people, no cars. The hut by the strip has one dirty window. A red light blinks and then not, then blinks again, like it is tired.

I hear the wind and my boots crunch. The cold smell of fuel sits in the air. The mountains stand around, big and grey, they feel close. The sky is pale and low so it presses on you. The wind goes over and over the runway, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards.

No birds.

Option B:

Morning was thin and cold. The bus stop stood by the last shop, the glass was wet and my breath made little clouds. My bag was heavy like a stone house and my fingers hurt. Mum said its far, far away.

The bus came late, yellow lights blinking... a long sigh from the doors. The seat smelt of old rain and chips, I sat and looked at the map.

The place was a tiny dot on the edge, almost off the paper. I pushed my thumb on it so it would stay. The road looked like a thin thread and then it just stopped. There is only fields and dark hills after that.

We rolled out of town. Shops went, then houses, then fences. The engine rattled, I held my bag tight. Would I make it? I werent sure, but I was going anyway.

The wind pressed on the window and it cryed.

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

Option A:

The airstrip is long and flat. Snow sits on it like dust. It is quiet and empty, only the wind makes a noise. The hills are grey and big around me, they look like walls. A small plane stands there, cold metal and the nose down a bit it looks tired. The lights dont shine, the power is off. Footsteps in the snow are thin and then they stop. I hear a bird or maybe not, not sure. The air is hard to breathe and it stings my face, the line of the runway goes on and on.

Option B:

Morning. the road went on and on to the far place at the end of the map. My bag felt heavy like bricks. The bus was late, the wind was cold, I pulled my coat but it didnt help. There was no houses around, just fields. I think the sea was near becuase I could smell salt. We was tired and the driver said last stop is the track, after that you walk. I went and kept going. I was thinking of my room at home, then I didnt, I kept going and didnt look back.