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 According to the narrator, where did Lord Seymour make his home?: Lord Seymour lived permanently in Paris. – 1 mark
• 1.2 To whom did the Parisian ideas and imitations of English manners cause considerable amusement?: Lord Seymour – 1 mark
• 1.3 Who lived entirely in Paris?: Lord Seymour – 1 mark
• 1.4 Who is described as notorious?: Lord Hertford – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 kept a fine house at the corner of the Rue Taitbout and the boulevard. Here he cultivated cigar-smoking and physical exercise with great assiduity. He was a splendid boxer and fencer, and all the finest bruisers and blades, amateur and professional, were to be met in his salle d'armes. He took great pride in his strength, which was abnormal, in his skill as a whip and his success on the

11 race-course. French sport owes him a permanent debt for his successful starting of the Jockey Club, but he can hardly have been a very popular member of a society, for he was cold and brutal, a man who took a defeat rancorously and one who had a cynical delight in causing suffering to his hangers-on. His misanthropy was the reason of his gradually dropping out of society after

How does the writer use language here to present Lord Seymour and his way of life? You could include the writer's choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how elevated, ironic diction and a violent semantic field construct a glamorous yet cruel persona: the genteel verb cultivated applied to cigar-smoking and the French salle d'armes imply elitist hedonism, while alliteration and combative lexis in bruisers and blades and the evaluative clause strength, which was abnormal suggest excess and aggression. It would also comment on the cumulative, adversative sentence structure that counterpoints achievement (French sport owes him a permanent debt) with moral condemnation (cold and brutal, cynical delight in causing suffering), revealing a misanthropic way of life.

The writer uses elevated, foreign lexis and a semantic field of elite sport to present Lord Seymour as cosmopolitan and physically formidable. The proper nouns “Rue Taitbout” and “the boulevard” place his “fine house” in a fashionable milieu, while the verb “cultivated” applied to “cigar-smoking and physical exercise” is ironic: he tends vices and muscles like accomplishments. The noun phrase “with great assiduity” suggests relentless discipline. Moreover, plosive alliteration in “bruisers and blades” sharpens a sense of controlled violence, and the French loan phrase “salle d’armes” implies exclusivity, creating, for the reader, an image of a closed, high-status arena where “amateur and professional” alike seek him.

Furthermore, evaluative diction both elevates and unsettles him. He “took great pride in his strength, which was abnormal”: the adjective “abnormal” hints at excess. Personification in “French sport owes him a permanent debt” hyperbolically secures his legacy, while aristocratic pursuits—“skill as a whip” and “success on the race-course”—signal mastery and wealth. However, the adversative pivot “but” ushers in censure: the dyad “cold and brutal,” the adverb “rancorously,” and “cynical delight in causing suffering to his hangers-on” position him, to the reader, as calculatedly cruel.

Additionally, sentence form intensifies this duality. A long, cumulative structure piles parallel clauses—“cold and brutal… took a defeat rancorously… had a cynical delight”—a tricolon that crescendos to the abstract noun “misanthropy,” after which he is “dropping out of society.” Thus, language presents Seymour’s way of life as glittering, aggressive, and ultimately alienating.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer uses a semantic field of elite sport and violence to present Seymour as powerful yet self-indulgent, citing "cultivated cigar-smoking", "splendid boxer and fencer", "finest bruisers and blades", and the hyperbolic "strength... was abnormal", with French lexis like "salle d'armes" to imply exclusivity. It would also note the contrast between public achievement ("permanent debt", "Jockey Club") and character flaws through a long, listing sentence—"cold and brutal", "defeat rancorously", "cynical delight"—to show how his "misanthropy" leads to "dropping out of society".

The writer first establishes wealth and routine through the verb and noun phrase “kept a fine house … [on] the Rue Taitbout,” placing Lord Seymour in a fashionable setting. The metaphorical verb “cultivated cigar-smoking and physical exercise” suggests he deliberately nurtures both indulgence and discipline, while the adverbial phrase “with great assiduity” emphasises obsessive dedication to his habits.

Furthermore, a semantic field of sport and violence presents his way of life as combative and elite: he is a “splendid boxer and fencer” and entertains “all the finest bruisers and blades” in his “salle d’armes.” The plosive alliteration in “bruisers and blades” creates a hard, aggressive tone, and the superlative “finest,” along with the French lexis, implies exclusivity. Describing his strength as “abnormal,” plus his “success on the race-course,” links him to aristocratic power.

However, the complex sentence beginning “French sport owes him a permanent debt” then pivots on the conjunction “but,” juxtaposing public achievement with moral coldness. Evaluative adjectives like “cold and brutal” and the adverb “rancorously” present vindictiveness. The phrase “cynical delight in causing suffering” uses emotive language to suggest cruelty, and the abstract noun “misanthropy,” alongside the listing of faults, explains his withdrawal. Thus, his way of life appears glamorous yet isolating.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response might identify the writer’s use of positive adjectives and listing to show his strong, showy lifestyle, e.g. “splendid boxer and fencer”, “all the finest bruisers and blades”, and the formal “salle d’armes” to suggest wealth. It would also notice the contrast with negative words like “cold and brutal” and “cynical delight”, explaining simply that this makes him seem cruel and unpopular even though sport “owes him a permanent debt.”

The writer uses adjectives and word choice to present Lord Seymour as rich and active. The phrase “a fine house” and “cultivated cigar-smoking and physical exercise with great assiduity” suggests a luxurious, disciplined way of life. The noun phrases “splendid boxer and fencer” and “finest bruisers and blades” create an image of skill and elite sport, making him seem powerful.

Moreover, contrast is used with the conjunction “but” to shift from praise to criticism. After saying “French sport owes him a permanent debt”, the writer adds “but he… was cold and brutal”. This contrast shows he is successful yet unpopular.

Furthermore, emotive language like “cynical delight” and “causing suffering” presents him as cruel. The long, complex sentence lists his traits and makes his life feel busy but harsh, ending with “misanthropy” to show isolation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple adjectives like splendid to show he is good at sport, but negative words like cold and brutal and cynical delight make him seem cruel. A long list of activities such as boxer and fencer, salle d'armes, Jockey Club, and race-course shows his rich, active lifestyle.

The writer uses adjectives like “fine house” and “splendid boxer” to show Lord Seymour is rich and strong. The verbs “cultivated” and “took great pride” suggest he works hard at this lifestyle. Also, the phrase “all the finest bruisers and blades” (with alliteration) makes his world seem full of sport and fighting. Furthermore, the word “abnormal” hints his strength is extreme. However, the connective “but” leads to negative adjectives like “cold and brutal” and “cynical delight”, which present him as cruel. The long sentence listing traits shows his busy, showy life.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Concrete status marker presents wealth and display of position (fine house)
• Formal register intensifies disciplined self-fashioning and obsession (great assiduity)
• Juxtaposition of indulgence with fitness suggests controlled hedonism (cigar-smoking and physical exercise)
• Superlative and violent lexis build an elite, aggressive milieu (finest bruisers and blades)
• Use of a French term signals exclusivity and fashionable culture (salle d'armes)
• Evaluative adjective pathologises his power as excessive or unnatural (strength, which was abnormal)
• Adversative conjunction pivots from public credit to social dislike (but he can hardly)
• Blunt pejoratives dehumanise him and harden the moral tone (cold and brutal)
• Contradictory collocation exposes sadistic pleasure at others’ pain (cynical delight)
• Abstract noun gives a clear cause for his isolation from society (His misanthropy)

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 story.

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

You could write about:

• how revelation unfolds 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 analyse how revelation is engineered through a structural crescendo: a chronological build from public spectacle to private truth, moving through carnival excess to the famous descente de la Courtille and the anaphoric tricolon—No challenger, no costumes, no mask—which magnifies the myth of “Milord Arsouille.” This spectacle is then overturned by the clear volta But it was not so, shifting perspective to The real "Milord Arsouille", which retrospectively reframes earlier undeserved notoriety and categorical denials, forcing the reader to reassess rumour versus reality.

One way the writer structures a sense of revelation is by foregrounding and then destabilising Lord Seymour’s identity. The opening narrows the focus to Seymour through a cumulative catalogue of attributes—“a splendid boxer and fencer”, “cold and brutal”—and even signals a withheld reason: “it would have been beside the point to mention him here had it not been…”. This proleptic aside plants an enigma: why is Seymour in the piece? The leisurely accretion of detail and measured pace prime the reader to accept the public myth that he presided over the carnivals, so the later exposure will land more forcefully.

In addition, the writer orchestrates a crescendo in the middle section, zooming out from the individual to the city. Temporal markers (“the last three days”, “Shrove Tuesday”) and the escalating description of the “famous descente de la Courtille” build collective expectation. The tricolon and anaphora—“No challenger… no costumes… no mask…”—cement the legend before the decisive structural pivot: “This was the man… ‘Milord Arsouille’… which… was simply… Lord Seymour. But it was not so.” The adversative conjunction enacts a volta, abruptly reversing the assumed truth; the revelation is delivered at this turn, reconfiguring everything that precedes it.

A further structural choice is the immediate analepsis that follows, shifting focus to “the real ‘Milord Arsouille’… Charles de la Battut.” The omniscient narrator supplies origin, lineage and chronology (“1832”, “1835”), moving briskly from upbringing to death—“he died… at Naples”—to secure closure. This change in tone from colourful reportage to authoritative correction resolves the initial enigma and retroactively rehabilitates Seymour, so the revelation feels both surprising and verified.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would explain that the writer builds revelation through a chronological build from Seymour’s introduction into escalating carnival scenes ("the last three days of the carnival", "descente de la Courtille"), repeatedly associating the spectacle with "Milord Arsouille" to set up expectations, before the clear pivot "But it was not so" and "It was a strange case of mistaken identity" reveal the truth. It would also note the shift of focus after the twist to Charles de la Battut’s background, which explains the confusion and reframes our view of Seymour, showing how withholding and contrast create surprise.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create a sense of revelation is by delaying the truth through a careful build-up. The opening fixes focus on Lord Seymour, with cumulative detail about his house and prowess to make him seem a plausible “bacchanalian lord of misrule”. The narrative then widens to the carnival, escalating pace to a climax at the “descente de la Courtille”, and, despite hints (“undeserved notoriety”, “mistaken identity”), the voice affirms that “Milord Arsouille” was “simply the nom de guerre of Lord Seymour.” This misdirection draws the reader into the myth.

In addition, the revelation is delivered at a clear turning point, signalled by contrast. The short sentence “But it was not so.” acts as a structural pivot, and “The real ‘Milord Arsouille’ was…” immediately redirects focus. This reset shifts the tone from anecdote to corrective exposition, re-framing everything the reader has just been led to believe.

A further structural feature is the chronological backfill that follows. Temporal markers (“in 1832”; “In 1835”) and biographical sequencing explain Charles de la Battut’s background and exploits, justifying the correction. The pace slows and the final closure, “he died, a shattered roué,” resolves the thread, confirming the revelation while contrasting him with Seymour and reinforcing the theme of mistaken identity.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer builds up Lord Seymour with escalating carnival scenes to the "culmination on the night of Shrove Tuesday," making him the "central object of admiration." Then the clear turning point "But it was not so." and "The real "Milord Arsouille"" reveals the mistaken identity, surprising the reader.

One way the writer structures the text to create revelation is by building from general to specific. The beginning sets up Lord Seymour’s image and the carnival, repeating the public belief “as all Paris would have told you” that he is “Milord Arsouille” and delaying the reveal. This builds expectation and curiosity.

In addition, there is a clear turning point in the middle with the short sentence “But it was not so.” This shift in focus creates surprise and a reveal, changing the tone from legend to truth. The contrast between rumour and fact interests the reader.

A further structural feature is the use of time references to explain the truth at the end. After the reveal, the writer moves into Charles de la Battut’s background and timeline (“1832”, “1835”), which completes the explanation. This ending resolves the mistaken identity and gives closure.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start, the writer describes Lord Seymour’s lifestyle with "kept a fine house" and makes us think he is "'Milord Arsouille'." At the end it changes with "But it was not so" and "The real 'Milord Arsouille'," creating a simple sense of revelation that it was someone else.

One way the writer creates a sense of revelation is by focusing at the beginning on Lord Seymour’s rich life and linking him to "Milord Arsouille", so the reader expects he is the man. Then the line "But it was not so" reveals the truth.

In addition, there is a change in focus from the carnival build-up to a clear correction. This turning point surprises the reader and shows a mistake in identity.

A further way is that the ending gives details about Charles de la Battut, including dates like "1835", which confirm the revelation and finish the story.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Framing context and initial focus on Lord Seymour sets up an expected culprit for carnival excess, priming a later overturning (undeserved notoriety)
• Cumulative biographical listing (house, sports, strength) constructs a plausible legend to mislead before correction (splendid boxer and fencer)
• Temporal markers juxtapose public rumours with later withdrawal, building tension about truth and timing (during the thirties)
• Authorial aside foreshadows the reveal by stating the sole reason for mentioning him (had it not been)
• Delayed revelation via an immersive carnival sequence swells the myth before undercutting it (central object of admiration)
• Collective viewpoint emphasizes the unanimity of belief to heighten the shock of reversal (as all Paris would)
• A decisive pivot sentence delivers the revelation cleanly, shifting reader expectation in an instant (But it was not so)
• Focus shift to the true identity supplies the withheld name and redefines the narrative’s centre (The real 'Milord Arsouille')
• Mirrored biography of de la Battut explains the confusion and deepens irony by echoing earlier traits (skill as a boxer)
• Closing consequence resolves the arc with tragic irony as misattribution persists beyond his life (attributed to Lord Seymour)

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, 'Milord Arsouille' seems like a powerful and successful leader of the wild carnival. The writer suggests that he is actually a pathetic figure, because all his efforts only made someone else more famous.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Milord Arsouille the leader of the carnival
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray him as a pathetic failure
• 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 perceptively evaluate the writer’s viewpoint by showing how the narrative first aggrandises Milord Arsouille’s dominance through emphatic triads—No challenger ever worsted the leader of this gang, no costumes equalled his in originality, no mask so tormented and excited the crowd—then undercuts it with the volte-face But it was not so, revealing the irony that all his eccentricities were attributed to Lord Seymour despite his perpetual grief and utmost efforts to proclaim the difference of identity. It would also acknowledge nuance by balancing evidence of real impact—was the central object of admiration, His most notable achievement was to introduce the cancan—against the bathetic ending died, a shattered roué, concluding that the writer ultimately presents a powerful showman rendered a pathetic failure by misattribution.

I agree to a great extent with the statement. At first, the narrator casts “Milord Arsouille” as a magnetic “lord of misrule,” dominating a city given over to “extraordinary licence,” but a sharp structural volte-face exposes him as Charles de la Battut, a man whose frantic self-advertisement only fuelled Lord Seymour’s “quite undeserved notoriety.”

Initially, the writer constructs a powerful carnival leader through cumulative spectacle and superlatives. The build-up to Shrove Tuesday forms an escalating structure: the “orgy” of the streets, the “bacchic frenzy” of the “descente de la Courtille,” and, at the centre, a carriage “drawn by six horses” as the “central object of admiration.” A pattern of anaphoric negatives elevates the leader’s supremacy: “No challenger ever worsted the leader… no costumes equalled his… no mask so tormented and excited the crowd.” The militaristic semantic field—“challenger,” “volleys,” “missiles,” even a “bout of blackguarding”—casts him as a kind of commander orchestrating verbal and physical combat. Even his generosity is weaponised in the tricolon “his harangues, his missiles, and his largesse,” implying a charismatic authority that controls the crowd through spectacle, aggression and money.

However, the narrator then punctures the myth with an adversative pivot: “This was the man known… as ‘Milord Arsouille’… But it was not so.” The abrupt “But” functions as a narrative turning point. The passive “was known” and the phrase “nom de guerre” suggest a manufactured identity imposed by gossip. Ironically, the “mistaken identity… persisted… in spite of categorical denials”: the abstract nouns and emphatic adverbial highlight the futility of his attempts to claim his own legend, while Seymour accrues the fame.

The demystification of de la Battut is merciless. Loaded adjectives—“dissolute,” “flamboyant,” of “bad taste”—reposition him as tawdry rather than noble; his “mastery of slang” and pride as a “boxer” signal low-life bravado, not aristocratic poise. He “dissipate[s]” a fortune “with the utmost extravagance,” and even his cultural impact—“to introduce the cancan”—is undercut by the bathos of his “perpetual grief” that “all his eccentricities were attributed to Lord Seymour.” His “utmost efforts to proclaim the difference of identity” simply amplify another’s renown. The closing sentence—“In 1835 he died, a shattered roué, at Naples”—is brutally final; the compressed, evaluative noun “roué” and the adjective “shattered” clinch a moral and physical collapse.

While he undeniably exerts real, momentary sway over the carnival, the writer’s tonal irony and structural reversal recast him as a pitiable failure whose riotous energy only burnishes someone else’s fame. Overall, I agree strongly: the text invites us to admire the showman, then to recognise the pathos of a man eclipsed by his own myth.

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 partly agree, explaining that although Milord seems a dominant carnival leader—central object of admiration with No challenger ever worsted the leader of this gang—the writer undercuts this through ironic contrast and the pivot But it was not so., exposing a mistaken identity and undeserved notoriety where all his eccentricities were attributed to Lord Seymour. It would conclude that these methods present him as a pathetic figure, consumed by his perpetual grief and ending a shattered roué, so his showmanship only boosted someone else’s fame.

I largely agree that while “Milord Arsouille” seems a commanding leader of the carnival, the writer ultimately exposes him as a rather pathetic figure whose energy made Lord Seymour famous instead.

At first, the portrayal is triumphal. At the descente de la Courtille his carriage, “drawn by six horses,” is “the central object of admiration,” and the anaphora “no challenger ever worsted… no costumes equalled… no mask so tormented and excited” piles up superlatives to suggest supremacy. The list “his harangues, his missiles, and his largesse” depicts power over the crowd, while “bacchic frenzy” elevates the revels. These methods build an impression of control and success.

However, the structural pivot “But it was not so” abruptly unmasks that pose. The ironic “nom de guerre” links masks to “mistaken identity.” In the compressed biography, pejorative lexis—“dissolute,” “lowest haunts,” “bad taste”—renders Charles de la Battut vulgar. Family detail that his father was “unwilling to recognize him” and “paid for his adoption” adds pathos, while he “proceeded to dissipate” his fortune, so flamboyance reads as waste.

His “perpetual grief was that all his eccentricities were attributed to Lord Seymour, in spite of his utmost efforts.” The intensifier “perpetual” and the phrase “utmost efforts” emphasise futility: his performances serve another man’s legend. The blunt final declarative—“he died, a shattered roué”—is anticlimactic, confirming a broken end. He did have a “notable achievement” in introducing the cancan, hinting at real influence. Nevertheless, through contrast, anaphora and a decisive volte-face, the writer persuades me to agree that the apparent power of “Milord Arsouille” masks a pitiable failure.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would recognise that he seems a powerful carnival leader (his carriage was the central object of admiration and No challenger ever worsted the leader of this gang). It would also agree the writer undercuts him with simple irony: all his eccentricities were attributed to Lord Seymour despite his utmost efforts to proclaim the difference of identity, and he died, a shattered roué, after a life of the utmost extravagance and bad taste.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, the writer makes “Milord Arsouille” seem like a dominant leader of the carnival. Using superlatives and listing, the narrator says “No challenger ever worsted the leader,” and “no costumes equalled his,” so the reader sees him as powerful and admired. The “carriage, drawn by six horses” and being the “central object of admiration” suggest status and control in the wild crowds.

However, the writer then undercuts this image through contrast and irony. The sudden turn “But it was not so” acts like a structural twist, revealing a “mistaken identity” that “persisted for many years in spite of categorical denials.” This shows his efforts were pointless; even though he led the revels, the name was “the nom de guerre of Lord Seymour” in the public mind. The evaluative adjective “undeserved” (about the notoriety) makes the reader feel the credit was unfairly given elsewhere.

When the narrator names the real man as Charles de la Battut, the language becomes judgemental: he is “most dissolute” and spends his fortune with “bad taste” and “flamboyant” display. This portrays him as vulgar rather than truly great. Most telling is the phrase “his perpetual grief” that his eccentricities were “attributed to Lord Seymour, in spite of his utmost efforts.” This directly supports the idea that all his actions only boosted someone else’s fame. The bleak ending, “he died, a shattered roué,” completes the downfall and makes him seem pathetic.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer uses contrast, irony and tone to shift from apparent power to failure and pity.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might simply agree, noting he seems famous as 'known to all the populace of Paris as "Milord Arsouille"', but the writer shows him as pathetic through 'it was not so', his 'perpetual grief' that 'all his eccentricities were attributed to Lord Seymour', and his end as 'a shattered roué'.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first, Milord Arsouille seems very powerful and successful. The carnival carriage is the “central object of admiration,” and he is called the “leader of this gang.” The writer says “No challenger ever worsted” him, which makes him sound unbeatable. This uses strong adjectives and hyperbole to show he rules the wild scene.

However, the writer then changes it. The sentence “But it was not so” is a clear contrast that flips our view. We are told it was a “strange case of mistaken identity,” so all this fame was wrongly linked to Lord Seymour. This makes Milord seem pathetic, because his “utmost efforts” to correct it failed. The phrase “perpetual grief” suggests he was upset that someone else got the credit.

The background details also make him look like a failure. He “dissipate[d]” his fortune with “bad taste,” had “flamboyant” clothes, and friends later “looked back … with shame.” The metaphor “lord of misrule” even feels ironic, as he ends by dying “a shattered roué.”

Overall, I agree that he appears powerful, but the writer shows he is actually a sad figure whose efforts only made Lord Seymour more famous.

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:

• Superlative/hyperbolic assertion of invincibility creates the impression he seems a powerful leader within the revels (No challenger ever worsted)
• Energetic triplet of methods shows his ‘leadership’ relies on aggression, showmanship, and bribery, hinting at hollowness behind the spectacle (his harangues, his missiles)
• Structural volte-face forces reassessment of earlier admiration; what looked like dominance is exposed as surface-level (But it was not so)
• Irony of fabricated status undermines the ‘Milord’ aura; the title is a persona rather than authentic authority (nom de guerre)
• Morally loaded lexis positions him as degraded rather than admirable, steering readers away from celebrating him (most dissolute character)
• Profligacy detail undercuts any idea of lasting success; his wealth fuels self-destruction, not achievement (dissipate with the utmost extravagance)
• Ephemeral framing stresses his influence was brief, challenging claims of sustained power or success (short period of glory)
• Retrospective social judgment shows his impact ages badly; even companions repudiate the exploits, weakening his stature (with shame)
• Central grievance of misattribution confirms the thesis: his efforts amplify another’s fame, not his own (attributed to Lord Seymour)
• Terminal judgment seals the evaluation: far from a triumphant leader, he ends in ruin and pathos (a shattered roué)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your town’s animal shelter is inviting short creative pieces to share on its website celebrating rescue stories and the people behind them.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a busy rescue centre kennel from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a small act of bravery at a community adoption day.

(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 corridor narrows into a drum of sound: tin, paw, breath. Fluorescent light skates across the concrete in skittish bars, catching the gleam of stainless grates and the damp shine of noses pressed through. Bleach hangs sharp in the air—an astringent sweetness that tries, valiantly, to smother older smells of wet fur, dog biscuits, woolly blankets. Latches chatter; bowls chime; a singular squeak-toy cries out, once, twice, then is swallowed by the chorus. On the far wall, a wet paw-smear loops like a signature. It is a corridor that hums with need.

At each door a story peers back. A brindled whippet coils and uncoils like a question mark; she doesn’t bark, but her eyes, liquid and steady, pull at the sleeve of your attention. Next to her, a fox-freckled terrier ricochets, bouncing nose-first against the mesh—backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards—his claws scritch-scratching a metronome that the rest ignore. A grey-muzzled shepherd sits with ceremonial patience, tail thumping once, twice, then still, as if saving his strength for the important moment. There’s a bully-breed smile, all gums and earnest cheerfulness; there’s a lurcher’s pale shiver, a paper-thin tremor that travels to the tips of his ears. Their names hang on card tags—Nala, Buster, Pippin—scrawled in marker, the loops of letters already softened by fingers.

Meanwhile, people move like currents between the cages. A volunteer in scuffed trainers clicks a lead; her key ring tinkles like winter rain. “Good boy,” she says—again, again—her voice pitched to a softness that wraps rather than cuts. Further on, a man in a navy fleece kneels; he reads the notes on the door, nods, murmurs, swallows. A child smears mittened hands on the glass, breath fogging into pale clouds; when the shepherd leans forward, the mother’s mouth becomes a careful line, hopeful and afraid at once. Beyond the noise, there is a hush that lives inside the eyes, an almost-whisper: Choose me.

A bolt slides; there is a pocket of silence—brief, instinctive—before the released dog floods it. The terrier’s feet scatter on the concrete; the lead snakes on; a harness clacks. He is suddenly purposeful, suddenly contained, vibrating but dignified in his small, quivering body. The door shivers shut; the corridor exhales; the chorus resumes with renewed gusto. Outside, a cold wedge of daylight slips under the threshold, dragging in the smell of damp earth; it lifts ears, pricks noses, reanimates tails. Someone sloshes a bucket; lemon disinfectant blooms in the air, thin and clean.

Not everything shines. A bowl lies upended; a blanket is chewed to confetti; one kennel holds a dog who has turned his face to the wall—as if boredom were a second skin that cannot quite be shed. And yet—because of the yet—hope is a constant percussion here, a soft drum behind the clamor: clipped nails tapping, names read aloud, forms filled, pens uncapped. This place is a hinge between the before and the after; it is messy, relentless, necessary. On the cards there are dates, ages, breeds, tiny hearts doodled by tired hands. Above and beneath and within the racket, something steadier breathes. Not silence. Promise.

Option B:

Saturday. The kind of day when the community hall pretends to be a circus—bunting flapping, balloons stooping, the floor polished to a shy shine. Raffle baskets assembled; posters that did more pleading than the animals—ADOPT, DON’T SHOP printed in optimistic fonts; a table of cupcakes wearing swirls of improbable sunshine; the smell a muddle: bleach and sugar and dog; the air a hopeful hum.

As families eddied, Leila pressed the corners of her badge until the plastic bit her thumbs. Her ‘Forever Homes’ T-shirt hung off her shoulders like a borrowed promise. She had practised (mouthed, really) her line in the mirror: "Hello. I’m Leila. Would you like to meet one of our seniors?" Yet words behaved differently out loud; they thinned when people looked.

In pen 12 sat Moss, fur peppered with ash, ears like folded napkins, eyes amber and patient. His information card had a crease; the ink had bled a little. He didn’t compete; he held himself small. People paused at the puppies—apricot flurries—and at the sleek kittens whose purrs sounded like applause. Moss blinked, and waited.

A boy in a dinosaur hoodie drifted to Moss’s latch; sticky fingers found the twist of metal. The mother was buying raffle tickets. The microphone laughed; a balloon grazed a light and sang its thin complaint. Leila saw the hand, saw Moss’s shoulders stiffen, and the possible futures: the flinch, the snap, the apology that would come too late. What else could she do?

Her feet moved before permission did. "Excuse me," she said, her voice surprising her by arriving. She stepped between small hands and soft muzzle, her own hands open—empty, careful; she crouched to the boy’s height and whispered, as if sharing a secret: "He gets nervous when people reach in. Would you help me be kind from out here? Like this." She set her palm against the mesh; Moss leaned, slow as treacle, to taste the air.

The mother, arriving flustered and grateful, started to apologise; Leila shook her head, a flicker of something like authority sparking through her. "It’s okay. He’s older. Loud noises make him jumpy," she said—measured, gentle. It wasn’t a speech; it was a match struck in a draughty room. Small light; immediate warmth.

Behind her, the cupcakes and chatter went on as if nothing had shifted, which was almost true. But the boy’s eyes widened at the dog’s careful patience; the mother read the creased card to the end. Leila smoothed its edge with her thumb and straightened the ribbon tied there weeks ago. She breathed; her lungs remembered how.

Then a woman with ink-stained fingers and tired hands paused. "Does he like slow walks?" she asked. Leila found herself smiling, properly this time. "He loves slow," she said. The dog’s tail beat once, twice: not fanfare, not fireworks, just a small metronome keeping time with a heart that had been waiting.

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

Option A:

The corridor hums before I even push through the swinging door: a layered noise—howls pitched thin, baritone booms, the impatient rattle of claws on galvanised mesh. Disinfectant bites the air; wet fur rises under it; the metallic taste of cold lingers at the back of the tongue. Some voices reach for control; a whistle peals once, twice, then is swallowed whole. Fluorescent tubes glare and flicker like tired eyes; a grey winter light presses at the far window. Tails thud against steel; bowls chime; a lead snaps, and the choir tightens—louder than seems possible in such a narrow throat.

Kennels line both sides, neat as a graph. Each door holds a laminated card: name, age, quirks, warnings. Milo—young, exuberant; Luna—nervous, handle gently; Storm—under assessment, no children. Noses stripe the Perspex with damp punctuation; paw prints comma the floor. Volunteers in hi-vis ferry clipboards and buckets; pockets crammed with crumbling treats; keys chatter at every stride. They speak in those bright voices that try to outglow the barking, sing-song and practised, and the dogs—hopeful, frantic, dignified, ridiculous—answer them, each in its own language.

A latch clacks; bowls slide; dry kibble rattles like hard rain. The smell shifts—meat, bleach, rubber, a thin whiff of outside. Outside the small square windows, winter hangs like wet cloth. An old collie, muzzle salted white, watches everything with steady tea-bag eyes, lying on a blanket that has almost remembered a meadow. Next door, a brindled staffie springs so hard the whole door jumps—if joy had decibels, he would be off the scale. A rawboned pup with ears too large bites the bars, then licks them; a stitched scar pulls when she yawns. Time loops here: feed, walk, clean, settle; again and again.

Then a family arrives and the noise thins, as if someone has turned down the volume but left the pulse. A little boy crouches, hand flat, and a shy lurcher unfolds from the back like a shadow learning to be a dog; nose to fingers, a heartbeat of quiet. Paperwork rustles; a lead clicks; a kennel opens, and closes on emptiness. Hope in this place is stubborn and fragile at once—tough as rope, fine as thread. When the door swings behind us, the corridor exhales; tails drum on, persistent, patient, while the clean, sharp smell follows us into the pale afternoon like a promise almost kept.

Option B:

By ten o’clock the community hall was dressed like a party trying too hard—balloons and signs about forever homes. Fluorescent tubes hummed over sluiced floors; the tang of bleach mingled with biscuits and wet fur. Plastic crates made corridors where dogs blinked at a world peering in. Name cards, written in careful marker, hung on doors: Tilly (boisterous), Bert (gentle), Cricket—nervous around noise. Volunteers wore lanyards and brave smiles; the playlist battled squeaks and the staccato tap of palms on wire. It was chaos with a ribbon tied around it, and somehow it felt hopeful.

My sticker said Ask me! It glowed on my chest, too jaunty for my jittering heartbeat. I had rehearsed: smile, breathe, step forward, speak. Technically, I was a helper; actually, I wanted to be invisible. I am not fearless—crowds make my voice misplace itself—but I had promised myself a teaspoon of courage today. Mrs Hale gave me a basket of leaflets and a neon lead; both felt heavier than they were.

That was when I saw him. Cricket was the colour of shadow, with a grey-powdered muzzle and eyes like polished conkers. A knot of children gathered—kind, but noisy. Tap tap tap went a plastic dinosaur on the crate; someone giggled. Cricket’s ears slid back. He folded until he was a comma, trying to disappear from the sentence. No one here meant harm; still, harm can arrive by accident, like a dropped plate.

I did not think; I stepped. “Could you not tap the bars, please?” My voice was small but steady, a thread to hold. I crouched, keeping lower than his eyes. “He’s scared. We can help him feel safe.” I glanced at Mrs Hale; she nodded. “Let’s make him a den,” I said, sliding a blanket over half the crate—shade, a pause. The change was immediate: a slow release, the tiniest sigh. I showed the children how to offer a hand, palm down; we practised patience. Someone whispered, “Hi, Cricket.” The hall’s noise stepped back a fraction. So did my fear.

No one applauded; bravery rarely gets balloons. A woman in a mustard coat, who had been re-reading a leaflet, moved closer. “He seems calmer with you,” she said, not loudly. Heat rushed to my face; not embarrassment exactly—more a delicate pride. “Do you think he’d manage a small flat?” We looked at Cricket’s softened eyes. “I think,” I said, surprised by how sure I sounded, “we can try.”

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

Option A:

The corridor breathes in short, echoing gasps—fluorescent strips hum, and the concrete floor glimmers where paws have passed. Disinfectant’s clean bite rides over wet fur and kibble; not unpleasant, exactly, just insistent. Wire doors stand in a measured line, each square of mesh a frame for a face, for a tongue pressed through, for a nose that polishes steel to a shine. A cold draught creeps beneath every door; hair collects in corners like pale tumbleweed.

Barks tangle and snag; high whines thread through heavier booms, a chorus rising and dropping like a restless sea. A tiny terrier springs, claws ticking a quick click-clack; beside her, a brindled lurcher folds into a careful comma, one amber eye half shut. Bowls are nudged and spinning, toys—soft, defeated shapes—lie like driftwood. Noses print crescent moons on glass, then vanish. Tails slap bars; tails thump concrete; tails tremble.

Meanwhile, along the row, a volunteer in a plum fleece moves with practised calm. Treats press a meaty sweetness into the air. Sit, she says—gentle, measured; good. The latch answers with a precise click, metal on metal: a small sound inside so much noise. A mop draws a grey ribbon into order; laminated cards flutter—Luna, no cats; Reuben, nervous; Skipper, still learning. Somewhere a radio whispers yesterday’s songs.

At the far end, one dog—black-and-white, ear nicked, a pale scar stitched along his muzzle—waits without fuss. His tail writes patient messages across the floor, tick, tick, tick. When footsteps slow, he rises, politely; a child’s hand reaches, then hovers. He leans forward, not pulling, not barking, and the child smiles. Hope brightens, small as a lantern cupped against wind. The parents move on, and the dog watches them go. Around him the rhythm resumes, the same back-and-forth of mops and keys and wagging. Outside, evening presses at the windows; inside, the centre keeps its beat—metal, breath, names, patience. It is busy, brash sometimes, and tender too: a place of waiting where, under the bark-storm, beginnings quietly start.

Option B:

Saturday smelt of floor polish and popcorn. Sunlight puddled across the scuffed linoleum where coloured bunting flapped at the rafters, gossiping whenever the doors opened. Hand-painted signs—Adopt, don't shop—tilted on easels; a row of wire pens made an aisle from stage to tea table. The microphone coughed as Mr Patel practised his welcome, and the room answered with a chorus: barks, mews, the sigh of the popcorn machine.

I was not the brave one. I was the volunteer who wiped water bowls and made my handwriting neat on name cards because it was easier than meeting eyes. My clipboard felt like a shield; my voice hid behind it. But Moss looked at me, his amber eyes fringed with grey, and the shield felt silly.

He was eight, maybe nine; a lean, speckled lurcher with elbows like knotted rope and a story nobody read. Children pressed to the pen where a caramel puppy bounced, and parents nodded as if those were the only pages worth turning. A balloon cracked near the tea urn. Moss flinched; the loop of his lead skittered. As Mr Patel's voice rose, he slid under the trestle table, dragging the lead like a tail.

Nobody shouted, but there was that ripple—adults not panicking, a child forming a small oh. I could wait for someone else; instead, I knelt. The floor was cold. Under the table it smelt of sawdust and old coffee. Moss's breath hitched; my hand hovered, palm down, like I had been taught. "Hey, old man," I murmured, words soft as breadcrumbs. His ears trembled. I slid two fingers towards the lead, inch by inch, while the microphone buzzed like a wasp.

We crept out together. He let me ease the loop over my wrist, leaning his weight into my shin as if testing safety. Mr Patel lowered the microphone. It wasn't grand—just knees on a sticky floor—but it felt like a beginning.

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

Option A:

A narrow corridor of concrete and steel stretches between two rows of kennels. Fluorescent strips buzz overhead, lining the ceiling like cold ribs. Light glances off bars, off bowls, off buckets. The air smells of disinfectant and wet fur; it is clean but heavy, a little salty, like the sea trapped indoors. Tails thud against metal in a steady beat; water sloshes in shallow trays. On the floor, pawprints bloom in damp patches and dry again, bloom and dry, bloom and dry.

The sound gathers first like rain, then swells into a full storm: barks, yelps, deep huffs, the high-pitched cry of a pup. It rises and breaks, rises and breaks, as doors open and close. Nails skitter; collars jingle; a trolley squeaks past with biscuits and bleach. A volunteer moves quickly but softly, voice low—“Good boy, steady now”—and one kennel goes quiet while the next starts up again. Locks clack; chain link rattles. The whole corridor feels alive, a restless machine, working and working.

Behind the bars are faces and stories. In one pen, a brindle lurcher leaps, light and fast; in the next, an old terrier curls, watching through clouded eyes. A white patch pressed to the wire, a nose black and shining, two ears like flags. Their breath clouds the air with a warm animal scent, faintly sweet, faintly sour. A chewed rope lies in a corner; a rubber bone sits, dented and clean. Names are clipped to doors, handwritten and hopeful. “Daisy — nervous but sweet.” “Max: needs space (patient home).” Each name hints at something that does not quite fit inside the cage.

People move through the noise with practised care. A woman holds a clipboard and a careful smile. A child lifts his palms to the bars and the dogs lift their faces to him: a quiet pause, then that chorus again — back and forth, back and forth. A keeper kneels to fix a lead, fingers sure, and a tail becomes a metronome. Outside, rain taps the windows. Inside, the busy rescue centre breathes. Loud and tender at once, it is a place of waiting, and of beginning.

Option B:

Saturday. A day for new homes; bright flyers, hopeful faces, plastic bowls lined up like saucers. The community hall smelled of disinfectant and biscuits, and every sound seemed a little louder than usual: chairs scraping, puppies whining, the raffle bell chiming every ten minutes. Posters flapped in the draught; faces of dogs and cats peered out, names in bold underneath: Misty, Rocket, Button.

I wore a fluorescent volunteer vest that felt too big and a name badge—Maya—that felt too small. My job was simple, the organiser had said, just keep the pens clean and answer easy questions. So I nodded and tried to look confident while my stomach fluttered like a trapped moth. People pressed in, cooing at kittens with cloud-soft fur. They walked past the last pen without really seeing. Inside it, a wiry little terrier pressed herself into the corner. Her tag was neat and tidy: Button. Shy but kind. Needs patience.

Her eyes were the colour of rainwater. When I crouched, she trembled so much she made the whole pen rattle. “It’s okay,” I whispered, offering the back of my hand, but my voice sounded thin. A toddler squealed nearby and Button flinched, as if the sound was a thrown stone. People kept walking, they wanted the fluffy kittens.

The microphone crackled. “Could a volunteer read out Button’s story?” the organiser asked. “She’s lovely, just nervous. She needs a gentle voice.”

No one moved. A few people stared at their phones. I could feel my heart thud, heavy as a drum in my chest. The microphone looked huge, it could swallow my voice.

I stood up anyway.

The lead was soft in my palm. The paper shook as I lifted it, words bristling like tiny hedges. “This is Button,” I said, and my voice wobbled but didn’t break. I told them about the long walks she liked, the way she slept in a tight comma, the patient home she needed. As I spoke, a hush settled in a small circle. A girl with plaits stepped closer; a woman knelt by the pen.

Button crept forward and touched my fingers with her nose.

It wasn’t a heroic thing. It was only a little courage, spoken into a tinny microphone, but it mattered.

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

Option A:

The corridor is long and bright. Fluorescent strip lights flicker and hum above the glossy floor; puddles of mop water mirror bars and noses. The air is chilly and thick with the sharp, antiseptic smell of bleach mixed with wet fur and biscuit crumbs. A metallic clang starts at one end, then others answer it, and in seconds the place is a rough choir of noise—yips, low rumbles, frantic howls—layered over the steady buzz. Bark after bark, again and again, until it feels like the walls vibrate.

Kennels face each other like tiny rooms. Faces press to rectangles; whiskers twitch; white teeth flash. Tails beat like metronomes. A brindle lurcher paces, shoulder to shoulder, shoulder to shoulder. A terrier springs so fast his tag rings. In the next pen a heavy-boned mastiff simply watches, his breath a warm cloud. Laminated cards swing on hooks, names and notes in blue pen—urgent little stories on a string.

At the far end a volunteer in a bright vest comes with a bucket and a jangling loop of keys. “Easy now,” she calls, but her voice is swallowed by the racket. She kneels at the last kennel. Inside, a grey dog with one torn ear stares, then looks down. Its eyes are wide, like dark marbles, they shine. The tail gives a small, unsure wag. The lead slips through the gap; a click; the gate yawns. Around them, bark after bark softens, not gone, but gentler, while a warm hand steadies a shivering shoulder. The corridor takes a breath.

Option B:

Saturday sunlight fell through the community hall windows in slanted bars; dust danced in the air like shy confetti. Folding tables were crowded with water bowls, clipboards and homemade biscuits. Balloons squeaked; posters flapped and whispered on their tape. The smell of disinfectant mixed with popcorn from the stall next door. Dogs pressed wet noses through the bars; cats blinked like small queens from their carriers.

Maya stood by Cage 12, fingers worrying the corner of a leaflet that read: Adopt, don't shop. She was here with Aunt Rina, who had already vanished in a whirl of lanyards and smiles. Maya's voice usually hid behind her teeth, especially when crowds swelled. On the crate, a handwritten label said, Nero — nervous, but kind. The terrier's fur was the colour of burnt toast, and his eyes were moon-round, uncertain.

When two teenagers clattered too close, Nero folded into himself, a scrunched brown shadow. Someone laughed—careless—as if fear was funny. Who would hear her in all this noise? Maya heard herself say, 'Please could you step back a bit? He gets scared.' Her words were thinner than ribbon, yet they cut the busy air. She crouched, palm open, biscuit balanced; 'It's okay, Nero, it's okay...' The hall's noise wrinkled, then smoothed. The boys shuffled back, Aunt Rina glanced over, surprised. Nero's nose nudged her fingers like a cautious ship and his tail gave one shake, then two. It wasn't heroic like on TV; it was small, brave enough to change the next minute.

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

Option A:

The corridor of kennels is alive with sound. Barking ricochets off the concrete walls; metal doors rattle and the air seems to vibrate. The smell is sharp, disinfectant and wet fur mixing together until it sits on your tongue. A mop slides back and forth, back and forth, leaving wet streaks that shine like glass.

On the left, dogs leap so high their paws thud the bars, on the right, noses push through gaps, whiskers twitching. Some dogs throw themselves against the door; others just curl into their blankets and watch with slow eyes. Names are written on cards, clipped to the mesh: Bruno, Sky, Pepper. Stainless steel bowls clatter, a scoop of dry food patters like rain. A volunteer in a bright vest walks past with leads, keys jangling—‘Good boy!’ she says, but the corridor swallows it.

There is a tiny terrier, shaking, his pink tongue flicking, and beside him an old lab with a grey muzzle who only sighs. A poster says Adopt me, a heart drawn in red pen, smudged. I move on and the noise rises again, a constant drizzle of sound—high, low, sharp, then soft. It is busy and hopeful and sad at once. Everything is waiting.

Option B:

Saturday. Banners flapped on the railings outside the community hall, bright and a bit crumpled from last night’s rain. Inside, the air smelled of biscuits, coffee and wet fur; the floor glowed under harsh fluorescent lights. There was everything: bowls, blankets, clipboards. Volunteers pinned name stickers to their coats. Puppies bounced like popcorn.

At the edge, behind a curling poster, a small salt-and-pepper terrier tried to make himself invisible. His card said: nine years old, nervous, gentle. No one looked twice; everyone liked the lively ones. Maya straightened adoption cards and pretended not to stare. At first, she kept back. She had been scared of barking since a snap at the park when she was little, the memory still prickled.

Then the metal bowl rattled and he yelped, a thin sound that slipped under the chatter. Maya’s stomach dipped. She breathed in and stood up. “Excuse me,” she said, voice shaky but clear. “He gets scared. Maybe we can be calm for him.” A few heads turned, people quietened, a woman smiled.

Although her hand trembled, she knelt and slid the latch—slowly—and clipped the lead. “It’s okay,” she whispered. Step by step, she guided him out—ears flat, tail tight—into a small space of kindness. It wasn’t loud bravery, but it counted.

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

Option A:

The hall is long and white. Kennels on both sides like little rooms made of wire. Dogs jump up at the bars and the noise is huge, bark bark bark. Metal bowls rattle on the floor, tails slap the doors, paws skid on the concrete. The smell is bleach and wet fur and a bit of dinner, it sticks in my nose.

A man in a blue shirt walks fast with a mop, he looks tired but kind. A girl holds a red lead and a biscuit and every dog wants it alot.

Buster is small and brown. He bounces and he licks the air, his tail hits the bars back and forward, back and forward. Next to him an old grey dog just lays there, eyes like buttons, slow breaths, she looks at me a long time.

It is loud and busy and warm. It feels sad and also good, like help is coming soon.

Option B:

Saturday at the hall. Banners that say Adopt Me and balloons, they bobbed in the draft like they was alive. The smell of popcorn and wet fur mixed, it was not nice but it felt like home.

I stood by the table with leaflets. My hands were shaking like a small drum. Dogs barked. In a small cage a tiny brown dog crouched, his nose pressed to the bars, eyes big and wet.

The man with the mic laughed and the crowd laughed to, but the dog trembled more, I could see it.

It didnt sound funny to me.

I am not brave, I never am. But I walked. My feet felt like bricks, but I said can you be quiet please. My voice came out thin. People looked.

I opened the door slow and held out my hand.

The dog licked it. Little and brave.

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

Option A:

The rescue centre kennel is loud and busy and loud. Dogs bark and jump at the bars. The air smell strong like wet fur and bleach, it make my nose sting. Metal doors bang and bowls clatter, it echoes. A small dog shakes and a big one wags hard. A worker walk fast with a lead and calls names he has a mop too. My hands are cold on the wire my ears ring. Outside rain hits the roof I think of the bus home but here it keep going. Back and forth, back and forth. Water splashes. A sign says quiet please but it isnt.

Option B:

It was Saturday at the community hall and it was busy and loud, balloons stuck to the roof and posters that said Adoption Day. Tables with cakes, dogs in cages, cats in boxes. I dont like crowds, the lights was too bright and my hands was wet. A small brown dog shook in the back, nobody looked, they went to the cute ones. I felt silly but I got close. My heart banged, I tryed to smile. "Hi," I said, very quiet. I put one finger in, slow. The dog sniffed me and licked. People didn’t see, but it felt like brave.