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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 Which statement best summarises how the narrator describes the vicar's qualities in relation to the woman?: The woman recognises the vicar's more refined speech and manner but believes the woman cannot reach that standard. – 1 mark
• 1.2 What is described as 'finer'?: bearing – 1 mark
• 1.3 What does the vicar move in?: worlds – 1 mark
• 1.4 What does the farmer’s wife conclude about the vicar’s language and bearing, and about the farmer’s wife’s ability to achieve these qualities?: The farmer’s wife believes that the vicar has a different, magic language and a finer bearing, but that these qualities are beyond the farmer’s wife’s reach. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 11 to 138 of the source:

11 range of motion. Whereas the vicar, dark and dry and small beside her husband, had yet a quickness and a range of being that made Brangwen, in his large geniality, seem dull and

16 local. She knew her husband. But in the vicar’s nature was that which passed beyond her knowledge. As Brangwen had power over the cattle so the vicar had power over her husband. What was it in the vicar,

21 that raised him above the common men as man is raised above the beast? She craved to know. She craved to achieve this higher being, if not in herself, then in her children. That which makes a man strong even if he

26 be little and frail in body, just as any man is little and frail beside a bull, and yet stronger than the bull, what was it? It was not money nor power nor position.

31 What power had the vicar over Tom Brangwen—none. Yet strip them and set them on a desert island, and the vicar was the master. His soul was master of the other man’s. And

36 why—why? She decided it was a question of knowledge. The curate was poor enough, and not very efficacious as a man, either, yet he took rank with those others, the superior. She watched his

41 children being born, she saw them running as tiny things beside their mother. And already they were separate from her own children, distinct. Why were her own children

46 marked below the others? Why should the curate’s children inevitably take precedence over her children, why should dominance be given them from the start? It was not money, nor

51 even class. It was education and experience, she decided. It was this, this education, this higher form of being, that the mother wished

56 to give to her children, so that they too could live the supreme life on earth. For her children, at least the children of her heart, had the complete nature that should take place in equality with the

61 living, vital people in the land, not be left behind obscure among the labourers. Why must they remain obscured and stifled all their lives, why should they suffer from lack of

66 freedom to move? How should they learn the entry into the finer, more vivid circle of life? Her imagination was fired by the squire’s lady at Shelly Hall, who came

71 to church at Cossethay with her little children, girls in tidy capes of beaver fur, and smart little hats, herself like a winter rose, so fair and delicate.

76 So fair, so fine in mould, so luminous, what was it that Mrs. Hardy felt which she, Mrs. Brangwen, did not feel? How was Mrs. Hardy’s nature different from that of the common women of Cossethay, in

81 what was it beyond them? All the women of Cossethay talked eagerly about Mrs. Hardy, of her husband, her children, her guests, her dress, of her servants and her housekeeping. The

86 lady of the Hall was the living dream of their lives, her life was the epic that inspired their lives. In her they lived imaginatively, and in gossiping of her husband

91 who drank, of her scandalous brother, of Lord William Bentley her friend, member of Parliament for the division, they had their own Odyssey enacting itself, Penelope and Ulysses before them, and Circe

96 and the swine and the endless web. So the women of the village were fortunate. They saw themselves in the lady of

101 the manor, each of them lived her own fulfilment of the life of Mrs. Hardy. And the Brangwen wife of the Marsh aspired beyond herself, towards the further life of the finer woman, towards the extended being

106 she revealed, as a traveller in his self-contained manner reveals far-off countries present in himself. But why should a knowledge of far-off countries make a man’s life a

111 different thing, finer, bigger? And why is a man more than the beast and the cattle that serve him? It is the same thing.

116 The male part of the poem was filled in by such men as the vicar and Lord William, lean, eager men with strange movements, men who had command of the further fields, whose lives ranged over a great extent.

121 Ah, it was something very desirable to know, this touch of the wonderful men who had the power of thought and comprehension. The women of the village might be much fonder of

126 Tom Brangwen, and more at their ease with him, yet if their lives had been robbed of the vicar, and of Lord William, the leading shoot would have been cut away from them,

131 they would have been heavy and uninspired and inclined to hate. So long as the wonder of the beyond was before them, they could get along, whatever their lot. And Mrs. Hardy, and the vicar, and Lord William,

136 these moved in the wonder of the beyond, and were visible to the eyes of Cossethay in their motion.

How does the writer use language here to present the differences between the vicar and the men she knows? 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 Lawrence’s contrasts and structures to redefine power as intellectual-spiritual: the juxtaposition of "dark and dry and small" against "large geniality" and the parallel syntax "As Brangwen had power over the cattle so the vicar had power over her husband" recast strength as a "range of being", not brawn, while the metaphorical hierarchy "as man is raised above the beast", assertion "His soul was master", and hypothetical "strip them and set them on a desert island" dramatise the vicar’s invisible mastery over the "dull and local". It also explains how insistent sentence forms—rhetorical questioning "why—why?" and tricolon negation "It was not money nor power nor position"—build a cumulative argument that education and experience elevate him beyond the men she knows.

The writer opens with stark juxtaposition to define the vicar against the men she knows. Though he is “dark and dry and small,” a polysyndetic triplet reducing his physique, he possesses “a quickness and a range of being” that makes Brangwen’s “large geniality” seem “dull and local.” This field, for the reader, casts the vicar as inwardly capacious, others bounded and parochial.

Moreover, metaphor and animal imagery elevate the vicar. The simile “as man is raised above the beast,” with the bull comparison, recasts Brangwen’s brute “power over the cattle” as subordinate to intellect. The hypothetical “strip them and set them on a desert island” works as a thought experiment stripping class away; the dash-isolated minor sentence “—none.” underscores his social powerlessness. “His soul was master” personifies the abstract noun to suggest intangible authority overriding physical size and status.

Furthermore, sentence forms intensify the contrast: the tricolon “not money nor power nor position” negates material causes, while anaphora “She craved… She craved” and the rhetorical “why—why?” dramatise her belief that “knowledge… education and experience” distinguish the vicar. Adjectives “lean, eager” and dynamic verbs—“command,” “ranged”—belong to him, whereas Tom is “dull”, his sphere “local”, signalling reach versus fixity.

Additionally, the growth metaphor—without such men “the leading shoot would have been cut away”—casts the vicar as vital stimulus; without him the community grows “heavy and uninspired.” Thus, through juxtaposition, simile, metaphor and crafted syntax, Lawrence presents an expansive, intellectual presence unlike the grounded, genial but limited men she knows.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Lawrence contrasts the vicar with Brangwen to suggest inner superiority: though “dark and dry and small,” he has “quickness and a range of being” that makes Brangwen’s “large geniality” seem “dull and local,” and metaphors like “His soul was master” plus the hypothetical “strip them and set them on a desert island” emphasise spiritual authority over physical strength. Repetition and questioning — “She craved to know. She craved,” “why—why?” — and the tricolon “not money nor power nor position,” alongside “knowledge” and “education and experience,” frame the vicar as moving in the “wonder of the beyond” that the local men lack.

The writer opens with sharp juxtaposition to separate the vicar from Tom Brangwen: he is “dark and dry and small”, but has a “quickness and a range of being” that makes Brangwen’s “large geniality” seem “dull and local.” This contrast suggests the vicar’s inner breadth, while the men she knows are confined by their locality.

Furthermore, analogy and parallelism show different kinds of power: “As Brangwen had power over the cattle so the vicar had power over her husband.” The hypothetical “strip them and set them on a desert island” leads to “the vicar was the master,” and the metaphor “His soul was master” implies spiritual dominance. Repeated rhetorical questions (“What was it…? why—why?”) and the echo “She craved” emphasise her belief that the vicar belongs to a higher order.

Moreover, the tricolon “not money nor power nor position” rejects status and introduces a semantic field of learning: “knowledge,” “education and experience,” “power of thought and comprehension.” Finally, imagery reinforces the gap: the horticultural metaphor of the “leading shoot” suggests the vicar enables growth, while “command of the further fields” and the “wonder of the beyond” place him in a wider world than the men she knows.

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 contrast and metaphor to show the vicar as different: he is "dark and dry and small" but has "quickness" and a "range of being" that makes Brangwen "dull and local", and comparisons like "as man is raised above the beast" and "the vicar was the master" suggest mental power over physical strength. Rhetorical questions and repetition ("why—why?", "what was it?", "not money nor power nor position") and the focus on "education and experience" and the "wonder of the beyond" present him as superior through knowledge, unlike the men she knows.

Firstly, the writer uses contrast to show the vicar’s difference from the men she knows. Although he is “dark and dry and small”, he has “quickness and a range of being”, which makes Brangwen’s “large geniality” seem “dull and local”. This suggests the vicar has an inner life that ordinary men lack.

Furthermore, metaphor and an imaginary scene emphasise his superiority: “strip them and set them on a desert island, and the vicar was the master.” Also, “His soul was master of the other man’s.” This shows the vicar as spiritually stronger, not because of status. The list “not money nor power nor position” makes this clear.

Additionally, the writer uses rhetorical questions — “why—why?” — and repetition of “She craved” to show her awe. She says the vicar “had power over her husband”, and words like “education and experience” highlight knowledge as the key difference.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response might simply spot adjectives and contrast like "dark and dry and small" versus "dull and local" to show the vicar seems different and better than Brangwen. It may also notice a simile "as man is raised above the beast", repeated rhetorical questions "why—why?"/"what was it?", and the list "not money nor power nor position" to suggest his "education and experience" make him superior.

The writer uses adjectives and contrast to show the difference between the vicar and her husband. The vicar is “dark and dry and small” but has “quickness and a range of being”, which makes Brangwen seem “dull and local”.

Moreover, a simile, “as man is raised above the beast”, shows the vicar is above “common men”. This makes him seem powerful.

Furthermore, the metaphor “his soul was master” and the list “not money nor power nor position” show it is knowledge. Additionally, the rhetorical question “why—why?” shows her wonder. This presents the vicar as higher than the men she knows.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Juxtaposition and antithesis contrast the vicar’s inner vitality with Brangwen’s comforting heaviness, making the husband seem limited (dull and local).
• Simile comparing men to animals elevates the vicar above “common men,” stressing intellect/spirit over brute strength (raised above the beast).
• Metaphor of spiritual authority presents intangible dominance: the vicar’s inner life governs the physically stronger man (His soul was master).
• Tricolon of negations (polysyndeton) rejects material causes, pointing to a less visible distinction (not money nor power).
• Hypothetical scenario with imperative-like verbs strips status away to reveal essential superiority (desert island).
• Abstract nouns define the source of difference as learnedness, framing superiority as cultivated, not innate (education and experience).
• Semantic field of breadth and motion opposes the vicar’s expansive life to Brangwen’s locality (ranged over a great extent).
• Literary metaphor/allusion elevates the vicar into an idealised, shaping role within a grand narrative (male part of the poem).
• Concessive structure (“might be... yet”) plus organic metaphor shows the vicar as necessary stimulus for growth beyond homely ease (leading shoot).
• Intensified rhetorical questioning and dash convey her urgent perplexity at an ungraspable gap in kind, not degree (why—why?).

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 yearning?

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace an escalation of yearning from the opening contrast of her own menfolk with the vicar moved in worlds beyond, through anaphora and interrogatives—She craved, what was it?, why—why?—and the eliminatory list It was not money nor power nor position to a provisional answer It was education and experience, before widening focus to the women of the village and culminating in the motif the wonder of the beyond, showing how shifts in focus, repetition, and cumulative contrast intensify the longing.

One way the writer structures yearning is through an opening juxtaposition that establishes lack and distance. The wife sets “her own menfolk” against “the vicar” who moves in “worlds beyond,” immediately creating a spatial and social gap that desire must bridge. This is intensified by a pattern of rhetorical interrogatives and anaphora: “She craved to know. She craved to achieve…,” followed by urgent, punctuating questions (“why—why?” “what was it?”). The tricolon of negation—“not money nor power nor position”—operates as paratactic elimination, quickening the narrative pace and refining her longing from vague envy into a focused ache for an ineffable “higher being.”

In addition, the writer uses telescoping shifts in focus to expand the scope of longing from the individual to the communal. We move from husband versus vicar, to “his children” versus “her own children” (who are “already… separate”), then outward to Mrs Hardy, “like a winter rose,” and finally to “All the women of Cossethay.” This widening lens reconfigures private desire into a shared, social aspiration. The catalogue of Mrs Hardy’s life—“her husband, her children, her guests, her dress”—creates a breathless accumulation that enacts want through excess, while the decisive pivot (“It was education and experience… that the mother wished to give to her children”) channels yearning into an intergenerational project.

A further structural feature is the cyclical motif of the “beyond,” which bookends the extract: from “worlds beyond” to “the wonder of the beyond.” This circularity sustains longing as perpetual. Intertextual framing—“Penelope and Ulysses… Circe and the swine”—and the meta-structural “male part of the poem” elevate village life into epic, recasting desire as quest. Finally, spatial deixis (“far-off countries”) and the summarising coda (“So long as the wonder… they could get along”) crystallise yearning as necessary, enduring propulsion.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how yearning intensifies through structural shifts: starting with contrast between the 'menfolk' and the 'vicar' and using repetition and questioning—'She craved', 'what was it?', 'why—why?'—plus a hypothetical ('strip them and set them on a desert island') and a process of elimination ('It was not money nor power nor position' … 'It was education and experience') to show her growing need to understand. It would also identify the widening focus from 'her children' to 'Mrs. Hardy' and 'the women of the village', culminating in the repeated idea of 'the wonder of the beyond' to show yearning spreading from the individual to the community.

One way the writer structures the opening to create yearning is through contrast and focus. The text begins by juxtaposing “her own menfolk” with “the vicar,” and the repeated motif of “beyond” shifts the focus from the familiar home sphere to an unattainable other world. This sustained third-person focus on the Brangwen wife positions her desire as a gap to be crossed, immediately establishing a structural tension between the local and the “finer” realm.

In addition, the middle section intensifies the longing through anaphora and rhetorical questions. The short clauses “She craved to know. She craved to achieve…” accelerate the pace, while “what was it?” and “why—why?” create a probing, restless pattern. The cumulative listing “It was not money nor power nor position” narrows possibilities, and the hypothetical shift—“strip them and set them on a desert island”—restructures the scene to test her idea. A focus shift to the children and the verdict “It was education and experience” channels yearning into a goal, yet leaves it unresolved.

A further structural feature is the widening focus to Mrs. Hardy, the village, and “Lord William.” This enlargement from individual to communal perspective spreads the desire across Cossethay. Returning to the motif, “the wonder of the beyond” at the end keeps the yearning open-ended, sustaining the pull towards a life “visible… in their motion” but still out of reach.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts by contrasting her 'menfolk' with the 'vicar' who 'moved in worlds beyond', then builds the longing through repetition like 'She craved' and questions such as 'why—why?'. The focus widens from her wish for 'education and experience' for her children to the village talking about 'Mrs. Hardy' and 'the wonder of the beyond', so the yearning increases and ends with them still part of the 'beyond'.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of yearning is the opening contrast between the vicar and her “own menfolk”. By starting with what she cannot reach, the beginning sets up a gap. The repetition of short sentences, “She craved to know. She craved to achieve…”, shows her desire growing.

In addition, in the middle the writer uses rhetorical questions: “what was it?” and “why—why?” These questions speed up the pace and build intensity. When she briefly answers, “It was education and experience,” the structure shows her trying to fix her longing, especially for “her children”.

A further structural feature is a clear shift in focus: from the vicar, to the curate’s children, to Mrs. Hardy, and then to the whole village. By the ending, the phrase “the wonder of the beyond” leaves the tone open, so the yearning continues.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts by contrasting her husband and the vicar to show distance, using "beyond" and "passed beyond her knowledge", then simple repetition ("She craved") and a rhetorical question ("why—why?") build the feeling, ending with the "wonder of the beyond".

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create yearning is the contrast at the beginning. The focus starts on her “own menfolk” and then the vicar. This beginning contrast shows she wants the “other” world.

In addition, the writer uses repetition and questions, like “she craved” and “why-why?”. This builds up the middle of the passage, making the desire grow and keeping the reader aware of her longing.

A further structural feature is the shift in focus from the vicar to Mrs Hardy and the village. The ending “wonder of the beyond” leaves yearning open.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening contrast between vicar and her menfolk establishes an unreachable sphere; seeds longing for a different world (other, magic language)
• Close third-person focus fixed on the wife frames yearning as knowledge-gap; her limits foreground the unattainable (passed beyond her knowledge)
• Escalating interrogatives shift the piece from observation to quest; questions intensify desire and urgency (why—why?)
• Anaphoric repetition marks desire becoming active and sustained over time; the rhythm insists on longing’s persistence (She craved to)
• A hypothetical test case reorders status beyond social trappings; structures desire around inner mastery (desert island)
• Excluding triads narrow the field; each negation heightens the sense of a missing essence (not money nor power)
• A pivot of realisation resolves the questioning; identifies a concrete target for aspiration in learning and breadth (education and experience)
• Broadening from private household to local elite reframes yearning as communal aspiration; the lady becomes a structural beacon (the lady of the Hall)
• Mythic allusions turn village gossip into epic patterning; desire is cast as a heroic journey (Penelope and Ulysses)
• Culminating generalisation closes the arc; the sustaining presence of possibility is named as lifegiving impetus (the wonder of the beyond)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 36 to the end.

In this part of the source, Mrs. Brangwen imagines the vicar and her husband on a desert island. The writer suggests that real power comes from knowledge, as this would make the weaker vicar the master.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of how the hyena behaves
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the mysterious quality of the vicar's knowledge
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree that the writer presents knowledge as the true source of authority, closely analysing how the vicar’s "education and experience" and "higher form of being" afford him "command of the further fields" and the "power of thought and comprehension," elevating him as the "leading shoot" moving within the "wonder of the beyond." It would also evaluate this viewpoint by contrasting his being "not very efficacious as a man" yet "the superior," and by showing how Mrs. Brangwen’s idealising gaze—seeing the Hall as "the living dream of their lives" and invoking the "Odyssey"—mythologises knowledge, implying that social aspiration and perception help confer mastery.

I largely agree that the writer suggests real power comes from knowledge, and that this would make the apparently “weaker” vicar the master. From the outset, Mrs. Brangwen’s thinking crystallises around “a question of knowledge.” The antithesis between the curate being “poor enough, and not very efficacious as a man” and yet able to “take rank” foregrounds an intellectual, rather than physical, hierarchy. A cluster of urgent rhetorical interrogatives (“why—why?... Why were her own children marked below…? How should they learn…?”) dramatise her restless weighing-up; structurally, these questions drive the passage from bewilderment to a decided creed: “It was education and experience.”

The writer intensifies this by constructing a semantic field of elevation and refinement. Education becomes a “higher form of being,” a metaphysical upgrade that would trump brute survivalism on any “desert island.” Even as the extract pivots to the squire’s lady, the allure is not cash but cultivated sensibility: Mrs. Hardy is “so fair, so fine in mould, so luminous.” The imagery of light and delicacy creates an aura around cultural knowledge; the women “lived imaginatively” through her, so knowledge exerts power by commanding the village’s imagination.

Intertextual allusion deepens this authority. Their gossip becomes an “Odyssey,” with “Penelope and Ulysses… Circe and the swine.” By importing classical narratives, the writer suggests that those who possess cultural capital script the community’s myths. This leads back to the men who embody reach beyond the parish limits: “the male part of the poem was filled in by such men as the vicar and Lord William,” a striking metaphor that casts them as authors of meaning. Lexis like “lean, eager… strange movements,” and “command of the further fields,” confers a mysterious motility; the vicar carries “far-off countries present in himself,” a potent image of internalised horizons. The horticultural metaphor of the “leading shoot” is judicious: like apical dominance, knowledge directs and shapes growth. Without it, the villagers would be “heavy and uninspired,” which implies that power manifests as direction, not muscle.

However, the narration is steeped in free indirect discourse—“She decided”—so the vicar’s supremacy is filtered through her aspiration. The phrase “it was not money, nor even class” may be self-justifying, since the “education and experience” she venerates are themselves class-inflected. Thus, the vicar’s mastery is partly constructed by collective belief: “the wonder of the beyond” makes them “visible” and obeyed.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer elevates knowledge as a “higher” power that would crown the vicar even on a desert island. Yet the passage also suggests that this power works through imagination and social recognition as much as through knowledge itself.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the writer frames knowledge—‘education and experience’, the ‘power of thought and comprehension’, a ‘higher form of being’—as what makes the vicar and his kind ‘take precedence’ and move in ‘the wonder of the beyond’, signalled by images like the ‘leading shoot’ and ‘far-off countries’, even though he is ‘not very efficacious as a man’. It might qualify this by noting the women are ‘much fonder of Tom Brangwen’, hinting that emotional influence persists alongside knowledge-based status.

I largely agree that the writer suggests real power comes from knowledge, so that even the “weaker” vicar would be master. From the outset, Mrs. Brangwen “decided it was a question of knowledge,” and the anaphora “It was this, this education” foregrounds education as the decisive force. The curate is “not very efficacious as a man,” yet he “took rank” among “the superior,” and his children “inevitably take precedence.” Through this contrast, the writer implies that intellectual capital outweighs money or muscle: “It was not money, nor even class. It was education and experience.” This positions knowledge as a “higher form of being,” a phrase that elevates it to something almost metaphysical.

The writer develops this by using imagery and allusion to give knowledge a mysterious aura. Mrs. Hardy is “like a winter rose,” and the “traveller… reveals far-off countries present in himself,” creating a semantic field of distance and discovery. Rhetorical questions—“why should a knowledge of far-off countries make a man’s life… finer, bigger?”—underline both Mrs. Brangwen’s yearning and the sense that knowledge unlocks a richer “circle of life.” The epic allusion to the “Odyssey,” with “Penelope and Ulysses… and the endless web,” elevates the knowing classes into heroic figures, suggesting that mental journeys confer status and authority.

Finally, the men who embody this power are described with mastery lexis: “lean, eager men… whose lives ranged over a great extent,” who have “command of the further fields” and the “power of thought and comprehension.” Even though the women “might be much fonder of Tom Brangwen,” the metaphor of the “leading shoot” implies that without the vicar and Lord William the community would be “heavy and uninspired.” Structurally, the passage moves from urgent questioning (“why—why?”) to a settled conviction that knowledge is the engine of dominance and visibility—these figures are “visible… in their motion.” Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents knowledge as the true source of mastery, though it also depends on the community’s imaginative reverence for “the wonder of the beyond.”

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree that knowledge brings power, pointing to Mrs. Brangwen’s belief that it is "a question of knowledge" and "education and experience" that make the curate’s children "take precedence" and give the vicar "power of thought and comprehension" within the "wonder of the beyond". It might also simply note that villagers are "much fonder of Tom Brangwen", suggesting power can also come from personal qualities.

I mostly agree that the writer suggests real power comes from knowledge, so the weaker vicar would be the “master.” At the start of this section, Mrs Brangwen asks “why—why?” and then decides “it was a question of knowledge.” The rhetorical questions show her struggle to understand power, and the answer points to education. Although “the curate was poor enough, and not very efficacious as a man,” he “took rank… the superior.” This contrast suggests physical strength matters less than knowledge, supporting the statement.

The writer links power to status from childhood. The curate’s children are already “separate… distinct” and will “take precedence,” with “dominance… given them from the start.” The repetition “this, this education” and the phrase “higher form of being” emphasise how education raises someone above others, as if it gives real authority.

The vicar’s knowledge is also made mysterious and wide-ranging. Metaphors like “leading shoot” and “further fields” show growth and reach, and the vicar has the “power of thought and comprehension.” The phrase “the wonder of the beyond” gives his knowledge an almost magical quality, and the fact they were “visible to the eyes of Cossethay” suggests public influence. Structurally, the passage moves from questioning to certainty, which strengthens the idea that knowledge confers mastery.

However, there is a hint that glamour and class also influence people. Mrs Hardy is “like a winter rose,” and the villagers live through “the living dream of their lives,” which shows social allure has power too.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents knowledge and education as the true source of power that would make the weaker vicar the master, though social prestige also plays a part.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Simple agreement with the writer’s viewpoint: says knowledge brings real power because the vicar has education and experience and this higher form of being. Uses basic evidence like the power of thought and comprehension to explain why such people take precedence over others.

I mostly agree that the writer shows real power comes from knowledge, so the weaker vicar could be the master. Here, Mrs Brangwen decides “it was a question of knowledge”. The curate is “poor” and “not very efficacious as a man”, yet he “took rank” with “the superior”. This contrast suggests brains beat strength or money. The writer lists “education and experience” and even calls it a “higher form of being”.

The writer also uses imagery and myth. Mrs Hardy is “like a winter rose”, and the women talk about “Penelope and Ulysses”. This builds the “wonder of the beyond” around educated people. The metaphor “leading shoot would have been cut away” shows the vicar gives direction; without him they are “heavy and uninspired”.

Finally, the men “had command of the further fields” and the “power of thought and comprehension”. So even if Tom is liked more, the vicar seems to have the real power through knowledge. Overall, I agree with the statement.

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:

• Hypothetical desert-island scenario isolates inner authority; strongly supports knowledge as true power; the vicar was the master
• Repeated negation of worldly status dismisses external hierarchies; points to inner capital; not money nor power
• Contrast of frail body vs dominance elevates intellect over brute strength; stronger than the bull
• Metaphysical assertion of soul-dominance frames intangible, cognitive power; His soul was master
• Causal statement defines knowledge concretely as cultural learning; education and experience
• Perceived early social precedence shows cultural capital translates into dominance from childhood; take precedence over her children
• Awe-filled imagery of distance makes knowledge mysterious and aspirational, enhancing its authority; wonder of the beyond
• Characterisation of wide-ranging leaders presents knowledge as active command; command of the further fields
• Growth metaphor suggests intellectual leaders are essential; without them community vitality withers; leading shoot
• Counterpoint: affection and practical ease lie with Tom; knowledge-power inspires more than it endears; much fonder of Tom

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At the community centre's winter storytelling evening, guests will hear selected student pieces before the raffle.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a shadowy storeroom under the community centre from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a town tradition that hides a secret.

(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 switch resists, then capitulates; the strip light stutters into life and drizzles a blue-white hush over the undercroft. It is not illumination so much as admission: a reluctant unveiling, a pale confession of corners and stacked silhouettes.

The air is a composite of odours—damp paint, floor polish, stale tea, the ferrous tang of old keys; dust blooms in small constellations whenever you move. Shadows pool in the ribbed undersides of folded tables; the walls, flaking and cool, exhale a cellar-breath that clings to skin.

Chairs are arrayed in careful towers, metal legs tucked in like the hind limbs of stilted animals; each stack is a ribcage, banded with scuffs and the faint tape-ghosts of past labels. There is a rail of costumes—sequins dulled by talc—nosing sleeves against one another with the soft familiarity of neighbours. Crates mutter their contents in block capitals: RAFFLE PRIZES; BINGO; SPRING FAYRE. A papier-mâché moon, bruised at the edge, leans against the mop bucket as if tired of orbit. Noticeboards shed their skins; posters curl into scrolls that still whisper dates—May Fête, Blood Drive, Line Dancing Tuesdays—like receipts of time. Even the abandoned trophy, its plastic gold laughingly immodest, has gathered a collar of dust; the engraved name is soluble in shadow.

Underfoot, the lino is a palimpsest of routes and routines, polished thin where the trolley wheels have trundled, scribbled with the ghost-lines of long-gone badminton courts. A chalk arrow points nowhere. There is a damp-dark seam where the outside seeps in after rain; your soles find it, unbidden, and recalibrate. The cold is articulate: it speaks in metal, in the brief bite of a handle, in the brittleness of finger-ends.

Listen. The place has its own metronome. Pipes tick and softly dilate; the boiler hums a basso line behind the day; somewhere a drip practises patience, tallying seconds into a shallow bucket. Boxes whisper when the draught lifts their lids. It is a clockless time measured by small noises.

And yet, for all its shadow, the room is populous. It remembers: the jubilant clatter of chairs after a quiz night; the staccato of tap shoes; a child’s lost cardigan folded into a corner like a pet asleep. It remembers the crisp scent of eucalyptus from a winter fair, the acrid confetti of spent sparklers, the citrus-bright sting of cut oranges at halftime. Memory lies here in analogue—string wound around cardboard, hand-lettered signs, the stubborn gleam of brass polish on a borrowed candlestick. Upstairs, laughter rises and falls in waves; down here, the low tide holds what the tide forgets.

When you pull the door to, the light hiccups and relents; the room inhales its dimness again. Not empty, not forlorn, simply waiting—shadowed, steadfast, keeping the town’s uncomplicated treasures in its careful, capacious dark.

Option B:

Autumn. The season of smoke-plumed evenings and orchard breath; hedges brittle with frost, pavements lacquered in a patina of leaves that crackled underfoot like sugared glass. The river wore a shawl of mist and pretended to be harmless. Bunting sagged from lamppost to lamppost—threadbare, reused, beloved. In the shop windows, jars of cinnamon sticks stood like soldiers awaiting orders.

They called it the Drift: the night when everyone in Wrenford coaxed light into paper and set it trembling on the water. To outsiders, it was quaint—photogenic, almost ornamental—but to us it was a liturgy. No fireworks, no brass band, no exuberant speeches; only the river, a hundred small flames, and the hush that arrived, punctual, as the church clock shouldered past six.

Iris Greer stained her fingers with paste as she fitted thin ribs of willow into a star. Her hands, usually decisive, trembled with the sort of electricity that comes before a storm and before an exam—anticipation threaded with doubt. Tissue paper—saffron, milk-white, a bruise-blue—breathed beneath the lamplight as if it already contained a lungful of night. She tried to imagine the lantern afloat and failed; instead, she saw it tilt and gulp, swallowed by the black mouth of the current.

“Edges tight,” her grandmother murmured, the way other grandmothers said grace. “No gaps for wind to worry.” A pause. “And don’t write your name on the skin—only inside.” The old woman’s eyes flicked up, quick as a kingfisher, and flitted away again.

Meanwhile, across the square, a practiced metamorphosis occurred. Stalls folded away their daylight selves and unscrolled velvet cloths; flasks steamed; a hush of wool and whisper drifted between people who, concurrently, pretended this was only tradition and not remembrance. Children clutched boxes of matches like contraband. The mayor, in a scarf too cheerful for his face, shook hands that lingered a fraction too long.

At the river, the bridge stones sweated. The parapet knew our elbows; every groove held a century of fingertips. We lined up as we had lined up for as long as anyone would say—two by two, lanterns cupped like newborn creatures. The rules were simple: no talking once your lantern was lit; no clapping if one survived the bend; no looking back until the bells. Simple—on paper.

What could be dangerous about candlelight drifting on dark water?

Iris struck her match. The flare was an impatient, golden tongue; the wick took it, the paper glowed translucently, and for a breath the lantern seemed to consider flight. She lowered it to the surface. Water pushed back, not maliciously, but with a will. The flame quivered—then steadied—then, obedient to the nudging current, began to move.

We watched. That was the work—to watch and to keep still. To let the river take what we offered and to pretend we did not count. And yet, always, the same quiet choreography played out: the tilt of an elder’s head; the mayor’s hand on Mr Dacre’s sleeve; one lantern reluctant to join the rest, circling, circling, as if tethered to some hook sunk into the dark.

It is only wind, we said. Only eddies, weeds, silt. Only.

The bells began, slow and metronomic, dampening the night in sonorous layers. Iris kept her gaze on the moving constellations. She did not look over her shoulder. She did not need to. The town breathed in; the town did not exhale. And beneath the bridge, the river—patient as always—counted with us.

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

Option A:

The low door stutters on its hinge; a wedge of light cuts the storeroom open and dust lifts, startled. Under the community centre, the light thins quickly; it fades into pools of patient shadow. The fluorescent strip above me shivers, then steadies, casting a flat, bluish wash that cannot quite persuade the corners to give up their dusk. The smell is of old varnish, mop-water, damp cardboard; a sour thread of bleach; something metallic on the tongue—like old pennies. The air is bone-cold and close. Stacks of plastic chairs climb the wall in teetering towers; their tubular legs interlock like clean bones, a lattice of silver. The seats are scratched into a soft, opaque bloom; the topmost chair leans, very slightly, as if listening.

Folded trestle tables stand like shuttered wings; a trolley with a sulking wheel is tethered by frayed bungee; a roll of banner cloth remembers a summer red that the dark has drained. Boxes squat, lids bulging—Christmas Lights, Lost Property, Summer Fair 2018 (someone has written “KEEP” across one in thick marker): brittle, buckled cardboard softened by damp. Bunting spills in a tangled skein; a length of gaffer tape furs the floor; a crate of mismatched mugs clinks faintly, as if clearing its throat. A papier-mâché star, crushed at one point, still glitters; a disco ball sleeps in a nest of tissue. Evidence remains: confetti ground into the lino; a scuffed rosette; a lone, fluorescent ping-pong ball; a calendar curling to last October.

From the ceiling, pipes tick and settle; somewhere the boiler gives a low, patient breath; from above, a muffled thud of feet crosses the hall and recedes. The hum is so constant it is almost soothing. A drop of condensation lets go and finds its meticulous note in the lip of a paint tray. Cobwebs lace between chair legs; a single filament takes the light and makes a brief, stubborn star. Across the lino, a galaxy of glitter persists—a star-map to parties now folded away. The walls—municipal cream, peeling delicately near the skirting—harbour hairline cracks that wander like pale tributaries. This is a palimpsest of evenings: minutes taken and voices raised, raffle tickets ripped and songs practised until one flat note finally gave in.

Down here, time loosens. When the hall erupts—toddlers tumbling, ballots counted, a ceilidh counting eight—this room exhales chairs and tables; when the doors upstairs close, it inhales them again, slow as tide. It waits. Waiting, waiting. Who remembers what these chairs have carried? The strip light considers, flickers, then surrenders; the wedge of brightness at the door narrows to a thin seam and is stitched shut. What is left is not emptiness but a dense, deliberate dark—capable, custodial—holding everything until morning.

Option B:

November. Smoke and frost; fences furred with ice, roofs glittering like hoarded sugar. By four o’clock the sky leans into night. In our town, that means one thing: the Lantern Walk, when we coax small suns into jars and persuade our shadows to follow. Every window blooms with molten light, every doorstep smells of oranges and clove-studded hope, and the Old Well at the square’s heart is garlanded with rosemary—green breath against stone. People say it is beautiful; it is. But beauty can be a curtain.

On the kitchen table the coil of wire gleamed. I threaded it through the drilled holes in my jar—careful, deliberate—like lacing a borrowed boot. The glass chimed on the wood when I tested the handle; the sound was thinner than I expected, and my hands were colder than I admitted. 'Remember the song,' Mum said, tying her scarf twice. 'Remember to keep up.' The match fussed into flame; wax softened, and light settled in the jar like honey.

Every year, the story is recited as if it were scripture: we carry light to honour the miners; we sing so travellers will not lose their way; we walk to keep the well content. We are not told why Mrs Harrow flinches at the first note, or why the mayor checks the padlock on the well himself. We are not told about the letter in my pocket: brittle paper, scribbled by Gran fifty years ago, mentioning 'the second ring' and 'the hush.'

Outside, the street seemed to exhale. Lanterns bobbed over the cobbles like a slow constellation; a brass band murmured, their breath turning silver; chestnuts cracked, and smoke braided with orange and rosemary. We moved as one—down Church Lane, past the tannery (we never stop there), over the bridge towards the square. When the first bar of the song rose, a quiet fell that felt placed, deliberate, like a hand settling on a mouth.

Under my coat, the letter rasped when I moved. Alongside it, an iron key—the one I found in Gran’s tin of buttons—pressed against my hip. The key fits the small gate that cages the well’s mouth (there is another, set lower, where the stone is slick). What if the lanterns are not only for guidance but for consent? Tonight, when the singing swells, I am going to raise the lower latch. And I will hear what the well has tried to drown.

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

Option A:

The shadowy storeroom crouches under the community centre, cool as a cellar and breathing the odour of damp cardboard and polish. A fluorescent strip stammers, laying a pale bar of light across the towers of stacked chairs. Dust hangs like gauze; even the door’s sigh winds it into slow spirals.

Chairs lean in cautious columns: plastic seats nested, metal legs bristling like insect limbs; a jigsaw of folded trestles rests against the wall. Extension leads sleep in orange coils; a battered trolley waits, wheels speckled with paint. On a shelf, boxes are labelled in blunt marker—Bingo, Raffle, Nativity Costumes, Lost Property. A smell of varnish lingers near the stack of trestles, sharp and almost sweet.

The boiler’s hum drifts from the ceiling, almost persuasive; now and then a drip finds the cracked yellow bucket—plip, plip, plip. Pipes gurgle in the wall like someone clearing a quiet throat. Above, footsteps pass in brief parades: the jitter of dance, the steady thud of five-a-side, the shuffle of a meeting no one wants to chair. It is very quiet after they go.

Here, a bundle of bunting sleeps in a cloudy jar; the colours have softened to patient pastels. A poster curls from a pin: Summer Fair—Bring a Cake! At the bottom of the crate, a one-eyed teddy lies on its side; its fur feels like stale bread; a painted mask grins, its elastic snapped. A pair of scuffed skittles lean together like conspirators.

The place holds other people’s afternoons, carefully folded—raffles and rehearsals, idle gossip by the urn. The smell of old tea clings to the lino; a brown ring shadows the urn’s base; a mop leans as if listening. Sometimes the light pretends it can brighten, then shrugs and settles. It is almost possible to hear faint applause, thin as paper.

When the door opens, daylight blades in and draws strict, long shadows, chair legs stretching like rails across the floor. Motes leap; the air sharpens; someone above laughs and, briefly, it reaches here like a memory. Then the key turns, a small click, and the darkness returns—not cruel, only deliberate. It waits.

Option B:

Every September, the town dressed itself in ribbon: red, gold, stubborn sky-blue. The yew at the square’s heart stood like a tired witness; its branches submitted to the yearly weight. Bunting flickered; sugar dust rose; the band tested bright notes. We called it Ribbon Day — a neat name for something crowded with hands and wishes. People smiled the way you smile for photographs: polite, practised.

I had my ribbon rolled in my palm, warm from my skin. Gran cut it last night and measured it against my arm. 'Three knots,' she’d said. 'Thanks, hope, forgetting.' She always hesitated at the last word; a tiny pause that stuck once you noticed it.

People like to say the ribbons keep our luck from blowing downriver; that’s the official line. Others mutter that the bells keep the dead less lonely. When I was nine, I slid my fingers under a sagging cluster and felt the bark: ridged, scarred, carved with lines that weren’t natural. Letters. Half names. An E, a V gouged deep. The sap smelled sharp, almost metallic. I asked Mum. 'Nothing,' she said. 'Old markings.' She tied quickly after that, and we went home early.

Today the mayor cleared his throat; the drum found a slow heartbeat. The square moved as one organism — a tide of coats and paper cones. As the line edged forward, I saw, between two plaits of ribbon, a sliver of something dull: not bark. A hinge? I blinked and it was gone, tucked by wind or a quick hand. Maybe it was only light, yet my neck prickled. Gran squeezed my shoulder. 'Don’t dawdle,' she whispered. 'We do what we’ve always done.'

I stepped to the trunk. The air under the canopy was cool. I tied the first knot, then the second; my fingers knew the motions. For the third, I paused. Forgetting is a strange thing to ask of a town. I tightened my ribbon anyway — not quite how I was taught — and when I leaned closer, something behind the ribbons breathed my name.

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

Option A:

The strip light hums and flickers, a tired eye opening and shutting over concrete. Shadows crouch in the corners, then jump back as the bulb steadies; dust hangs like pale smoke, turning in the thin air. The door snicks shut and the cold settles. It smells of damp paint and old polish, of coffee spilt long ago.

Stacks of plastic chairs huddle in the middle, their silver legs tangled like antlers. Folded tables lean against the wall, a quiet cliff of wood and metal, waiting to be lifted. There are boxes with handwritten labels: Raffle, Bingo, Costume, Miscellaneous. A trolley stands skewed because one wheel always sticks; a mop slumps in the corner, frayed and obedient.

From above comes a muffled world—the soft thud of a ball in the sports hall, a burst of laughter, a piano that keeps missing a note. The pipes answer with small knocks, the boiler hums, water ticks in a patient rhythm. The room listens.

On a shelf, an old shoebox yawns with lost property: a single glove, a cracked pair of glasses, a badge that says Helper. Cobwebs lace the ceiling, holding bits of glitter from last winter’s concert. A curled poster promises a Quiz Night that has been and gone. Everything here has a faint story, but the room holds it close.

When the light falters again, the grey deepens. Chairs become silhouettes. The hum is steady, then not so steady, then steady again. It is only a storeroom under the community centre, a small square of air and shelves, yet it feels larger in the dark.

Option B:

Every autumn, when the ash trees turn copper and the river thins to a silver thread, our town ties blue ribbons to every door. We call it the Blessing. People say it keeps the winds kind and the harvest sweet. Children run with strings in their fists; dogs bark; shopkeepers lean out of their windows to watch. The ribbons flicker and click against brick like little tongues. It all looks bright, almost too bright.

I held my ribbon—a long strip like the sky after rain—and tried to make my fingers behave. The knot is meant to be neat. Gran says it has to sit exactly above the nail, not drooping, not torn. Gran has kept our door for years; this year she said I was old enough. The ribbon felt like a promise and also a warning. I could smell starch, dust and lemon oil. My stomach was jumpy.

By noon the street was crowded. Drums hopped down the hill; the mayor walked in his mauve sash, wearing a sunny face that didn’t reach his eyes. Everyone laughed at the same time, but no one looked toward the black pump by the green. You must not look at it during the Blessing: that is the rule. There are a lot of rules that sound like politeness, really they are fences.

I first noticed the secret last year by accident, when I saw the box the bellman carries. Under the spools of blue was one roll of ribbon the colour of midnight; it lay there quiet as a shadow. I pretended not to see; everyone does. We tell the story about good luck and soft breezes because it is easier; it keeps our hands busy. The Blessing counts us—houses and hearts—and every few years one ribbon is not blue.

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

Option A:

The storeroom crouches under the community centre, low and shadowy. A single florescent tube trembles; its cold light leaves islands of brightness and long, stubborn dark. Chairs are stacked—metal legs tangled like sticks—waiting for mornings that haven’t begun. Dust drifts, glittering like confetti from last summer’s fair, then settles again. The air is cool, it slides under sleeves. Above, the ceiling muffles everything: a thud from the hall, a burst of laughter, the squeak of shoes.

At first, nothing moves. Then the pipes cough and the light flickers, as if the room is clearing its throat. A noticeboard leans with faded posters—Quiz Night; Line Dancing—corners curled like leaves. A broom stands to attention, bristles splayed and tired. Stack upon stack, chair upon chair, line upon line of thin shadows crawl across the concrete.

In the far corner a cardboard box yawns open: the lost-and-found. One glittery shoe, a scarf that still smells of someone’s perfume, a tinny trophy filmed with fingerprints. On the floor, scuffs and paint spatters make a map of old events—here a spill, there a scrape. When the door opens, a slice of afternoon drops in and the room blinks; when it shuts, the dark returns and everything is held. It waits, ordinary and a bit eerie. Sometimes you think you hear it breathing.

Option B:

Every October, when the wind tastes of apples and ash, Wrenford strings lanterns along the cobbles. Golden ovals sway above heads; the streets glow like a tame fire, and the old shop windows seem to blink awake. Children stamp their feet, scarves scratching chins, while their parents murmur the rhyme we always use for the Lantern Night ceremony, a rhyme that sounds cheerful and a little warning at the same time.

We walk three times around the well in the square. Coins slip from cold fingers, a scatter of silver rain. Someone beats a drum with a flat palm, soft, steady, like a heart you can hear if you lean on a door. It is meant to be for luck and for remembering, that’s what our teachers say, that’s what the Mayor says too; he smiles in his shiny sash, waving like the plastic figure on the bakery clock.

I carry my own lantern and pretend not to notice how the red thread digs into my skin. Gran tied it on, knots mean. She warned me not to let it go, not tonight, not ever. I want to ask why, but questions feel wrong here. The song rises, floats, and falls again—like breath. The well gives back our voices. Hollow.

Maybe it’s just the wind. Or maybe it’s something else, because as we turn the third time I hear a tap from below, not loud, like a fingernail on tin. The Mayor’s lips move. He isn’t singing; he’s counting.

The lanterns flicker, and the town keeps walking.

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

Option A:

Under the community centre, the storeroom is shadowy and still. A single fluorescent tube buzzes and blinks like a tired eye; the light falls in strips over stacked chairs. Dust hangs and spins in the beams, it goes backwards and forwards, like slow snow. It is cold. The air tastes of damp and paint; it smells of wet cardboard and faint bleach. In a corner there is a drip, drip, drip, tapping the floor patiently.

Metal chairs are piled in crooked towers, wobbling when the door moves. A trolley with a wonky wheel leans against the wall as if it has had enough. Pipes cross the low ceiling like ribs; sometimes they shiver — a cough of water, a hush. There are other things: a dented kettle, a drum, lost property in a grey box. A folded banner slumps over a crate. The concrete floor is gritty and footprints are printed, going in and out.

Above, I hear a muffled song from a dance class. It floats down, then fades. When the light flickers, the shadows jump and the room seems to breathe. I move carefully. My coat brushes a stack of tables; they whisper. It feels crowded but empty as well, like everything is waiting.

Option B:

Every year, on the first night of autumn, our town carries lanterns through the square. It is called the Lantern Walk, a bright ribbon of people. Children wear paper crowns, old men in caps wobble along, and mothers whisper to keep little ones calm. Wax melts onto our fingers; the smoke smells sweet. The clock tower holds our secret. The band plays slow, and the mayor climbs the stone steps with the last lantern held high. People say it brings luck, they say the light keeps frost away and apples fat. Grandma agreed, but her eyes were serious.

She once told me a different part: the last lantern isn't for luck. Not really. It hangs over a hairline crack in the tower, a crack that we paint every summer. If you look, you can see the paint shine too much. Eyes down—no questions. I tried not to look, but this year I did. Beside the mayor's shoe there was a little door, bunting draped to hide it, and the metal hinge looked new. The band clanged and I felt a tremor, maybe in the ground, maybe in me, I don't know. The flame in the thick glass leaned toward that line, like it knew.

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

Option A:

Under the community centre the storeroom is dark and still. The air smells of damp and old wood. A single bulb hangs low and it keeps flicking on and off, like a tired eye. Shadows sit in the corners. Chairs are stacked in tall lines like a small city, metal legs crossed together. I touch a chair, it scrapes, the sound stays.

I listen. drip drip drip.

Boxes huddle by the wall. There is a mop and bucket that smells of bleach and old water, it makes my nose sting. The bulb flickers again and doesnt come back, I stand still and the dark feels heavy on my arms, like a coat. The chairs look taller now, they lean over me. Dust floats in the beam when it comes back, little dots moving slow. I think I hear feet above, people in the hall, laughing, but down here it is quiet and slow and cold.

Option B:

Every autumn the town does Ribbon Day. We tie bright red bows around the old oak by the square and the band goes on and on, like a drum in my chest.

Mrs Patel bakes buns.

People clap and the leaves clap too in the little wind. It feels happy, it looks happy, balloons float like tiny moons and the bell in the hall cries twelve times, it always does, nobody says why they just grin and say tradition is tradition.

I hold the end of the ribbon and pull it tight so tight my fingers sting and the bark is rough like a cat’s tongue.

But Gran told me a thing once, her voice small. We dont tie for pretty, she said, we tie to hold it shut. Their is a line in the wood, thin like a smile. Nobody see's it. No one talks about it. Why else would we do it?

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

Option A:

The storeroom under the community centre is dark and cold. It smells of dust and old mop water. A small bulb flickers, it makes the walls jump. Stacked chairs lean in a pile and the metal legs look thin like sticks. Shadows sit in corners and boxes have torn labels. The floor is rough and a long scrape goes across it, I think something was dragged. I hear drip drip from a pipe and the air is heavy; it tastes like tin. Upstairs people laugh and music thuds, down here it is quiet. I dont stay long because the door is open a bit.

Option B:

Every year the town does the lantern walk at night. We go round the square and hold paper lights and sing. It is nice and warm and cold on my hands. The mayor says words about hope and new start, he talks long but people clap. My shoes got wet becuase the road was muddy, I kept thinking of chips and my dog. There is a door under the stage nobody goes, it is locked and old and has a grate. I seen eyes in it once, or maybe it was the cat. Nobody talks about it, they just smile, the lights keep going, I dont know why.