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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 Who had now reached the summit?: the old man and the narrator/speaker – 1 mark
• 1.2 After the narrator and the old man reach the summit of the crag, what happens before the old man begins to speak?: The old man is silent for a short time due to exhaustion – 1 mark
• 1.3 When does the old man begin speaking?: at length – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the old man, what could he have done for the narrator/speaker?: guided the narrator/speaker – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 20 of the source:

1 We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. For some minutes the old man seemed too much exhausted to speak. “Not long ago,” said he at length, “and I could have guided you

6 on this route as well as the youngest of my sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me an event such as never happened to mortal man—or at

11 least such as no man ever survived to tell of—and the six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have broken me up body and soul. You suppose me a very

16 old man—but I am not. It took less than a single day to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion,

How does the writer use language here to present the old man’s experience and its effects on him? 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 perceptively explore how the writer fuses the sublime setting and superlative in "summit of the loftiest crag" with emotive weakness in "too much exhausted to speak", and uses hyperbole qualified by a parenthetical dash—"an event such as never happened to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of"—to dramatise unique trauma; precise time markers "six hours of deadly terror" and "less than a single day", stark colour contrast "jetty black to white", and violent metaphor "broken me up body and soul", alongside physiological verbs "unstring my nerves" and "tremble at the least exertion", present rapid, total deterioration. It would also analyse how antithesis and direct address in "You suppose me a very old man—but I am not", plus the fractured syntax created by dashes and semicolons, mirror his destabilised mind and amplify the lasting effects.

The writer immediately frames extremity through superlative and setting: “the summit of the loftiest crag” elevates the scene to the very highest point, mirroring the extremity of the old man’s ordeal. The intensifier “too much exhausted to speak” foregrounds its physical effect: speechless depletion. The first-person plural “We had now reached” situates the reader beside him, making his frailty palpable.

Moreover, hyperbole and paradox intensify the experience’s singular horror. The claim that an “event such as never happened to mortal man—or at least such as no man ever survived to tell of” combines sweeping hyperbole with a parenthetical self-correction, the dash functioning as parenthesis to heighten suspense and emphasise mortality. The measured time marker “six hours of deadly terror” fuses precision with the death-lexis “deadly,” producing a chilling realism. The merism “broken me up body and soul” conveys total devastation, collapsing both physical and spiritual selves.

Furthermore, the writer exploits contrast and form to show lasting effects. The antithesis “You suppose me a very old man—but I am not,” with “very” italicised for emphasis, exposes how trauma has outpaced time. The tricolon and anaphora in “to change… to weaken… to unstring” enact a cascading decline, while “unstring my nerves” is a delicate metaphor, likening his nervous system to an instrument slackened past use. Finally, the dynamic verb “tremble” alongside the minimiser “at the least exertion” crystallises his fragility, leaving the reader with an image of a man permanently unsteadied by a single, catastrophic encounter.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses emotive hyperbole and contrast to present the man’s trauma, calling it “the six hours of deadly terror” that “have broken me up body and soul,” while the imagery of the “summit of the loftiest crag” and the denial in “You suppose me a very old man—but I am not” suggest an extreme experience that makes him seem old before his time. The long, cumulative sentence listing effects — “to change these hairs from a jetty black to white, to weaken my limbs, and to unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the least exertion” — and the time marker “less than a single day” emphasise how sudden and total the physical and mental damage is.

The writer uses hyperbole and emotive nouns to present the extremity of the old man’s experience: he speaks of an “event such as never happened to mortal man” and “six hours of deadly terror”. The hyperbolic claim and adjective “deadly” exaggerate the danger, making the ordeal feel unique and overwhelming, so the reader accepts why it “broke” him.

Furthermore, verbs of weakness and metaphor show the effects on his body and mind. Phrases like “broken me up body and soul”, “weaken my limbs”, and “unstring my nerves” suggest total damage. The metaphor of being “unstrung” likens him to a snapped instrument, implying loss of control and constant trembling.

Moreover, contrast and punctuation emphasise the shock of that day: “You suppose me a very old man—but I am not.” The dash creates a pause for his correction, and the emphasised “very” highlights how the experience prematurely aged him.

Additionally, the tricolon “to change… to weaken… and to unstring…” in “less than a single day” conveys speed and finality, showing how swiftly the trauma transformed him.

Finally, the opening “too much exhausted to speak” and time marker “at length” show his frailty, while direct speech lets his hesitant voice convey the impact.

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 spot emotive and hyperbolic language like "the six hours of deadly terror" and "never happened to mortal man" to show how extreme the event was, and pick out the list of effects "change these hairs from a jetty black to white", "weaken my limbs", "unstring my nerves", and "tremble at the least exertion" to explain he is left weak and scared. It might also notice contrast and punctuation, for example "You suppose me a very old man—but I am not", saying the dash and long sentence make his speech sound breathless and exhausted.

The writer uses emotive language and hyperbole to show the old man’s experience, for example “event such as never happened to mortal man” and “six hours of deadly terror.” This exaggeration makes us see how extreme it was and how he felt “deadly” fear like near-death. Furthermore, metaphor presents the effects: “broken me up body and soul” suggests complete damage, both physical and mental. The list of three “to change… to weaken… to unstring…” emphasises how quickly he declined and how many parts of him were affected. Moreover, the phrase “too much exhausted to speak” and the verb “tremble” show his weakness after it. The contrast “You suppose me a very old man—but I am not” uses a dash to stress sudden ageing, also shown by “hairs from a jetty black to white.” Therefore, the language shows trauma and lasting frailty.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies simple emotive words like exhausted, deadly terror, broken me up body and soul, and tremble to show the old man is weak and frightened by his experience. May also notice the emphasis/punctuation in “You suppose me a very old man—but I am not” and the contrast jetty black to white, suggesting the event aged him quickly.

The writer uses adjectives like “loftiest” and “exhausted” to show the hard climb and that he is very tired. Furthermore, the hyperbole “never happened to mortal man” and “six hours of deadly terror” shows it was very scary. Moreover, the metaphor “broken me up body and soul” shows he is hurt inside and outside. Additionally, the contrast “a very old man—but I am not” shows it made him look old quickly. Finally, strong verbs like “tremble” and the list “change... weaken... unstring” show the effects on him. This makes the reader feel sorry for him.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Superlative setting and elevation → height intensifies drama and suggests a perilous context for his tale (loftiest crag)
• Immediate physical depletion → foregrounds frailty, showing trauma’s bodily toll (too much exhausted)
• Temporal marker of recency → implies the ordeal still feels present and raw to him (Not long ago)
• Comparative past capability → contrasts former vigour with present weakness, highlighting loss (youngest of my sons)
• Grand hyperbole and exclusivity → magnifies the singular horror to build awe and suspense (never happened to mortal man)
• Quantified terror and total damage → precise duration and violent metaphor stress intensity and aftermath (six hours of deadly terror)
• Direct address and correction → challenges assumptions about age, centring trauma as the cause of decline (You suppose me)
• Stark colour contrast → visualises sudden aging and shock with vivid, binary imagery (jetty black to white)
• Cumulative tricolon of effects → parallel verbs create a cascading sense of debilitation (unstring my nerves)
• Complex syntax with self-qualification → asides and hesitations mirror a mind revisiting trauma (or at least)

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 foreboding?

You could write about:

• how foreboding 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 escalating foreboding through structural shifts: the old man’s proleptic confession ("six hours of deadly terror") and ironic minimisation ("little cliff") are followed by the reveal of a "sheer unobstructed precipice" and the narrator’s collapse ("fell at full length"), widening to a desolate panorama. By withholding the tale until "the spot just under your eye", slowing pace with a "particularizing" catalogue of islands, and ending on directing, unanswered questions ("Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water?"), the writer pivots focus to the "very unusual" sea and foreshadows imminent threat.

One way the writer structures the opening to create foreboding is through an analeptic frame and withholding. Having 'reached the summit', the guide’s confession—'about three years past... six hours of deadly terror... broken me up'—foregrounds catastrophe while refusing to narrate it. Temporal references ('not long ago') and the promise 'to tell you the whole story with the spot just under your eye' fuse place with past danger, foreshadowing peril at this precipice. Meanwhile, the ironic refrain 'little cliff' beside a 'fifteen or sixteen hundred feet' drop juxtaposes casual phrasing with lethal risk to seed unease.

In addition, the writer modulates focus and pace through a controlled zoom. The imperatives 'raise yourself... look out' shift the first-person focalisation from the old man’s peril to a panoramic sweep: a 'wide expanse of ocean' rendered through a lexical field of darkness—'inky', 'horridly black', 'howling and shrieking'. Extended, multi-clausal sentences decelerate the narrative, letting dread accrue, while the narrator’s recoil ('I fell at full length... dared not even glance upward') punctuates the view and reinforces apprehension.

A further structural strategy is cumulative listing and delayed revelation that intensify foreboding. Cartographic precision—'sixty-eighth degree of latitude'—and toponymic catalogues ('Vurrgh... Moskoe...') lend verisimilitude, but focus narrows to an 'unusual' sea: 'angry cross dashing' without 'regular swell'. The extract resolves not in explanation but in interrogatives—'Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water?'—a cliffhanger that withholds the threat on the threshold of disclosure. Ending on unanswered questions escalates the sense of imminent peril.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that foreboding is built through shifting focus: from the old man’s hinted trauma—six hours of deadly terror and the promised event I mentioned—to the immediate peril of the little cliff and its sheer unobstructed precipice, which warns of danger. The perspective then widens to a bleak panorama—waters so inky a hue, cliffs howling and shrieking forever—and the list of strange place names (Vurrgh, Moskoe) culminates in the unanswered questions Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water?, so the tension steadily increases.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of foreboding is through an ominous opening that withholds detail. At the summit, the guide hints at “an event… such as no man ever survived to tell of,” using temporal references (“about three years past,” “six hours of deadly terror”). This delayed revelation, filtered through a sustained first-person viewpoint, slows the pace and makes the reader anticipate imminent danger.

In addition, the writer shifts the focus from the men to a panoramic setting. The guide directs our gaze “beyond the belt of vapor… into the sea”; the description widens to “lines of… cliff,” then narrows to named islands and the sea’s “short, quick, angry cross dashing.” This zoom and careful listing (accumulation) prolong the moment and intensify unease, structurally signalling that something is wrong.

A further structural feature that builds foreboding is the use of dialogue to control pacing and end on a cliff-hanger. The guide frames the tale (“I have brought you here… to tell you the whole story”) but postpones it, and the final interrogatives—“Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water?”—shift from description to urgency. This foreshadowing moves the reader from hints to ominous evidence to imminent danger.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response identifies that the text builds foreboding by starting with the old man’s hint of deadly terror, moving to the precarious little cliff where the narrator clung to the shrubs, and then widening to an inky seascape with howling and shrieking surf. It also notices the shift to the guide’s closing questions Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water?, after listing places like Vurrgh and Moskoe, to suggest something ominous is coming.

One way the writer structures the opening to create foreboding is by beginning at a dangerous setting and hinting at a past horror. At the start we reach "the summit of the loftiest crag" and the guide speaks of "six hours of deadly terror." This early foreshadowing sets a dark tone and makes the reader expect danger.

In addition, the focus shifts from the men to the wider scene, which builds the mood. After the precarious "little cliff," the narrator "fell at full length," then the view zooms out to an "inky" sea and "black... cliff" with "howling" surf. This change in focus and the bleak description make the atmosphere more threatening.

A further structural feature is the listing of island names and the ending questions: "Do you hear anything?... see any change?" The list slows the pace, then the questions act like a cliff-hanger, increasing suspense and foreboding.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer shows a dangerous setting on the summit of the loftiest crag and hints at fear with the six hours of deadly terror, then moves to bleak details like the sea so inky a hue and surf howling and shrieking, ending with the guide’s questions Do you hear anything? and Do you see any change, which simply makes the reader expect something bad.

One way the writer creates foreboding is how the opening sets the scene on a dangerous cliff and mentions 'deadly terror'. Starting high up makes it feel unsafe and makes the reader nervous.

In addition, the focus shifts from the old man to the sea and the 'black' cliffs. This change of focus makes the mood darker, as the choppy water makes danger seem nearer.

A further structural feature is the listing of place names and the final questions, 'Do you hear anything?' This slows the pace and ends the extract with suspense, so the reader feels worried.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate high-altitude focus at a precarious vantage → situational danger is foregrounded from the outset → (summit of the loftiest crag)
• Paused opening and delayed speech → slowed pacing builds suspense before any explanation arrives → (For some minutes)
• Proleptic hint of catastrophic experience → anticipatory dread is seeded before the tale unfolds → (six hours of deadly terror)
• Juxtaposition of guide’s nonchalance with narrator’s fear → contrast heightens perceived peril → (little cliff)
• Gradual zoom from brink to panorama → expanding scale intensifies isolation and vulnerability → (wide expanse of ocean)
• Sustained panoramic sweep with oppressive sound and color → relentless mood-building deepens the ominous tone → (howling and shrieking)
• Imperatives that control viewpoint → directed gaze pulls reader toward the danger and unease → (hold on to the grass)
• Accumulative naming of islands → methodical cataloguing slows pace and feels eerily clinical → (true names of the places)
• Focus shift to anomalous sea behavior → structural turning point signals approaching threat → (nothing like a regular swell)
• Closing on unanswered questions → cliffhanger ending sustains tension and foreboding → (Do you hear anything?)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 21 to the end.

In this part of the source, the contrast between the huge cliff and the guide calling it 'little' makes him seem incredibly brave. The writer suggests that the guide's past experience was so terrible it has changed his whole idea of danger.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the guide's perception of danger
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the guide and the dangerous cliff
• 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 perceptively evaluates the writer’s viewpoint, arguing to a large extent that the ironic contrast between the guide’s "little cliff" and the "sheer unobstructed precipice... fifteen or sixteen hundred feet", plus his "carelessly thrown himself" posture against the narrator who "fell at full length", constructs him as brave yet desensitised. It would also analyse how the guide’s cool imperative "You must get over these fancies" and "particularizing manner" amid the "deplorably desolate", "howling and shrieking" seascape and the recalled "scene of that event" suggest past horror has recalibrated his sense of danger.

I largely agree with the statement. The writer pointedly juxtaposes the guide’s diminutive ‘little cliff’ with the narrator’s vast, terrifying vista to construct the guide as not merely calm but astonishingly brave, and he further implies that a previous catastrophe has recalibrated the guide’s sense of what counts as danger.

From the outset, the repeated phrase ‘little cliff’ is used ironically. It is immediately set against the colossal reality of a ‘sheer unobstructed precipice’ rising ‘fifteen or sixteen hundred feet’, while the guide has ‘carelessly thrown himself down’ so that the ‘tenure of his elbow’ alone prevents a fatal fall. This visual hyperbole—his body literally hanging over an abyss—renders his nonchalance extraordinary. By contrast, the internal focalisation through the narrator intensifies the peril: he ‘fell at full length’, ‘clung’ to shrubs, and even ‘dared not’ look up, convinced that ‘the very foundations of the mountain’ might yield to the ‘fury of the winds’. The cumulative syntax of his panic amplifies the scale, thereby magnifying the guide’s composure as a form of courage.

Yet the guide’s bravery reads as experience-hardened rather than reckless bravado. His brisk imperatives—‘You must get over these fancies’ and ‘raise yourself up a little higher… hold on to the grass’—and the cool superlative ‘best possible view’ establish an instructive, controlled tone. Crucially, he brings the narrator here to place ‘the whole story with the spot just under your eye’, a structural device that foreshadows a past ‘event’ so traumatic that a cliff becomes, in his hierarchy, trivial. The narrator’s aside that the guide spoke ‘in that particularizing manner which distinguished him’ is characterisation: his topographical precision (‘sixty-eighth degree of latitude’, ‘Nordland’, ‘Lofoden’) and seaman’s lexis intimate a veteran whose risk calculus has shifted.

As the lens widens to the seascape, the writer’s personification and Gothic palette—‘inky’ waters, ‘deplorably desolate’ panorama, surf ‘howling and shrieking’—redefine the locus of threat. Even the ocean’s ‘angry cross dashing’ with ‘no regular swell’ is ominously abnormal. Structurally, this move away from the vertical drop to the horizontal vastness reframes the cliff as ‘little’ only by comparison to the sea’s malign volatility. The guide’s closing interrogatives, ‘Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water?’ signal hyper-vigilance: he is attuned to subtle signs the uninitiated miss, evidence that the ‘terrible’ experience has recalibrated his perception of danger from obvious precipices to hidden, systemic threats.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the contrast makes the guide appear incredibly brave, though the adverb ‘carelessly’ hints at a fatalistic numbness born of trauma. The writer suggests his past ordeal has not only hardened him but fundamentally changed what, for him, counts as danger.

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 largely agree, explaining that the writer uses contrast to make the guide seem brave: the guide’s casual label 'little cliff' and the way he had 'so carelessly thrown himself down' are set against the narrator’s terror at a 'sheer unobstructed precipice... fifteen or sixteen hundred feet' (he 'fell at full length... dared not even glance upward'). It would also connect this bravery to past experience—his reference to 'that event I mentioned', alongside the calm authority of 'You must get over these fancies' and his 'particularizing manner', suggests what he has seen has altered his perception of danger.

I largely agree with the statement. The writer deliberately juxtaposes the “little cliff” with the reality of a “sheer unobstructed precipice … some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet,” so the guide’s understatement makes him appear brave. His body language reinforces this: he has “carelessly thrown himself down to rest,” with “the weightier portion of his body” hanging over the slippery edge. In contrast, the narrator “can scarcely look” and grows “giddy,” casting the guide as someone whose threshold for danger is far higher than ordinary.

Moreover, the writer heightens this through structure and voice. While the narrator “fell at full length,” and “dared not even glance upward,” the guide uses calm imperatives: “You must get over these fancies,” and “hold on to the grass.” This presents him as steady and accustomed to peril. He also frames the visit as purposeful—“I have brought you here… to tell you the whole story… with the spot just under your eye”—hinting that the earlier “event” was so extreme it demands this vantage.

The desolate setting intensifies this impression. Through sensory imagery and hyperbole—“inky” water, cliffs “howling and shrieking,” a vista “no human imagination can conceive”—the landscape feels overwhelmingly hostile. The simile “like ramparts of the world” magnifies scale, yet the guide stays unflustered, continuing, in a “particularizing manner,” to list “Moskoe… Vurrgh,” a catalogue suggesting familiarity. When he asks, “Do you hear anything? Do you see any change in the water?” his attention shifts from height to subtle sea‑signs, implying his experience has recalibrated what he counts as danger.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: by juxtaposing understatement with a vast precipice, and by using imperatives, cataloguing and bleak imagery, the writer presents the guide as brave and, after past trauma, recalibrated—his whole sense of what counts as danger has changed.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Recognises the basic contrast that the guide calls the huge precipice a "little cliff" even though it drops "fifteen or sixteen hundred feet", and agrees with the writer’s viewpoint that this makes him seem brave. Notes simply that the narrator is terrified ("dared not even glance upward") while the guide is calm ("You must get over these fancies") and refers to "that event I mentioned", suggesting past experience has changed his idea of danger.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer makes the guide appear brave through the clear contrast between the setting and his words. He calls it a “little cliff,” yet the narrator tells us it “arose, a sheer unobstructed precipice … some fifteen or sixteen hundred feet.” The guide has “carelessly thrown himself down” so that “the weightier portion of his body hung over it”—fearless behaviour, even though he says he is “frightened at a shadow”—while the narrator “fell at full length” and “clung to the shrubs.”

As the scene widens, the landscape is described with threatening imagery: the ocean is “inky,” the cliffs “horridly black and beetling,” and the surf is “howling and shrieking.” This personification and the simile “like ramparts of the world” make the danger feel overwhelming. Yet the guide stays calm and practical, telling the narrator to “hold on to the grass” and, in a “particularizing manner,” listing islands—“Vurrgh… Moskoe”—and noticing a ship under a “double-reefed trysail.” This detailed listing and nautical language suggest experience. He also refers to “that event I mentioned,” hinting at something so terrible it has shifted his sense of risk, and he asks, “Do you hear anything?” as if looking for a different, greater threat.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer uses contrast, imagery and the guide’s controlled voice to make him seem brave and to suggest his past has changed his idea of danger. However, his behaviour might also seem reckless rather than courageous.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Simple agreement: points to the guide calling it a 'little cliff' and that he had 'so carelessly thrown himself down to rest' to say he is brave. Notices the writer’s fear—'dared not even glance'—and the mention of 'that event I mentioned' as basic evidence that past experience changed his view of danger.

I mostly agree with the statement. The guide calling the edge a “little cliff” makes him seem brave, and the story hints that something awful before has changed how he thinks about danger.

When he says “little cliff,” the narrator says it is a “sheer… fifteen or sixteen hundred feet” drop. This contrast makes the guide look brave. The companion “fell at full length,” “clung to the shrubs,” but the guide has “carelessly thrown himself down” over the edge. This makes his calm seem fearless.

Then the guide speaks calmly: “You must get over these fancies” and “raise yourself up.” He talks in a “particularizing manner,” listing “Vurrgh… Moskoe… Stockholm.” The steady list and scary imagery (“black and beetling cliff,” surf “howling and shrieking,” “inky” sea) show danger. The simile “like ramparts of the world” makes it feel massive, yet he focuses on “that event I mentioned.” This suggests his past was terrible and has changed his idea of danger.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. Through contrast and descriptive language, the writer presents the guide as very brave and changed by what happened before.

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:

• Understatement: calling the precipice “little” minimizes peril and frames the guide as desensitised/brave through irony (bold quote) little cliff
• Scale: the precise height intensifies the mismatch between danger and his language, making his bravery seem extreme (bold quote) fifteen or sixteen hundred feet
• Staging: his body hanging over the brink projects fearless poise (or rashness), sharpening the sense of danger (bold quote) extreme and slippery edge
• Contrast: the narrator’s panic amplifies the guide’s composure, heightening impressions of courage (bold quote) clung to the shrubs
• Tone: the brusque imperative dismisses fear as trivial, suggesting his risk-threshold has shifted (bold quote) get over these fancies
• Backstory cue: his plan to narrate with the site “under your eye” implies a past ordeal shaping his outlook (bold quote) that event I mentioned
• Methodical detail: his “particularizing” listing of coast, mountain, and islands signals practiced control rather than alarm (bold quote) particularizing manner
• Setting: the desolate, hostile seascape raises objective danger, making his calm seem exceptionally brave (bold quote) howling and shrieking forever
• Vigilance: his sensory checks show informed caution, suggesting experience-driven bravery rather than mere bravado (bold quote) Do you hear anything?
• Nuance: “carelessly” hints at recklessness, so some may temper “incredibly brave” with risk-blindness (bold quote) carelessly thrown himself

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A national sports magazine is inviting creative entries from young writers about memorable moments in sport.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a swimming pool before opening from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about facing a long-held fear.

(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 pool holds its breath, a quivering pane of blue glass stretched from tiled lip to tiled lip. Before the doors yawn, before voices unzip the quiet, the water lies in cultivated stillness; lane ropes sag slightly, like sleeping spines, their red-and-white vertebrae threaded with patience. Chrome ladders, cold to the touch, rise from the depths and wait; the light catches and clings to them, a pale, obedient flame.

It smells of ritual: that clean, stubborn prickle of chlorine that stings the nose and places a thin, medicinal film on the tongue. The air is warm enough to soften edges; humidity makes the windows bloom with condensation, round and round the glass like translucent coins. Somewhere above, a fluorescent strip whispers—sss—and the filtration system purrs steadily, a cat beneath the floor. The big clock on the far wall lets its red second hand sweep without drama, diligent, unhurried, drawing time in a perfect circle.

Light unwraps the room in careful strips. Early sun filters through high panes, arrives as slanting ladders of gold that sink into blue and fracture into a shoal of flickers. Ripples—minute, involuntary—scribble on the ceiling in silver calligraphy; a breath from the vents, perhaps, or the pump’s subtle exhale, and the entire surface shivers almost imperceptibly, then remembers itself. The black T at the end of each lane is stern, a teacher’s finger, pointing up to the starting blocks with their taut, white numbers.

Beside the wall, discipline waits in a pile: kickboards leaning like tired books; foam noodles looped and intertwined; a deflated armband that remembers a wrist. A skimmer net hangs from a hook, patient as a fisherman. The reel of the pool cover hulks like a rolled-up horizon. “No Running” is printed three times on laminated signs—each corner puckered where the tape has given up—and the lifebuoy, a ring of glaring orange, is an eye that never blinks. The high chair for the lifeguard presides with empty authority; its shadow falls in a ladder across the tiles.

The tiles themselves are a meticulous geometry: small, square, immaculate, cool. If you stand very still (nobody does, not yet), you can hear them tick as droplets fall, single notes—plink—where yesterday’s water worked itself free from the roof beams and decided today was the day. The room is an echo chamber without echoes, a hush that feels full rather than hollow. In the far lane, a filament of hair floats, suspended, delicate as a comma.

This pool is a creature that pretends to be a thing. It remembers: the churn and thunder of limbs; the braided hiss of bodies slicing; goggles slapped to faces; coaching shouts ricocheting; laughter, sharper than whistles. It remembers beginners, who clung and kicked and shouted “Look!” again and again and again. It remembers silence after closing, too—this same poised pause, rehearsed daily, like a prayer learned by heart.

Outside, a key turns somewhere—faint metal on metal—and the room listens. The second hand sweeps. The purr hums. A thin shaft of light advances a single tile. The water, so composed, flicks once; then it lies perfectly still, the held breath before the plunge.

Option B:

Water. The oldest mirror; it keeps its counsel, glitters innocently, and yet remembers. It slicks every shoreline and settles in cupped palms, pretending to be harmless. It is soft and it is relentless. It listens to our screams and swallows them whole.

Under the unromantic glare of strip-lights, I stand at the lip of the municipal pool, toes curled over blue tiles as if gripping a cliff-face. Chlorine puckers the air; echoes ricochet—laughter, a whistle, the flat slap of a careless dive. The surface looks lacquered, a sheet of borrowed sky pinned inside a rectangle. My name is printed on the register as neatly as any swimmer’s; my courage is less legible. Across the water, foam noodles are stacked like improbable flowers; lane ropes lie in red-and-white chains, corralling chaos, pretending order. The instructor—Kai (sunny, unthreatening)—waves. I don’t trust the water; I want to trust him.

Fear is not grand: it is granular. It’s a tongue turned to chalk, a drumbeat in the throat, fingers that won’t unclench. It is the long-practised choreography of avoidance—no boats, no lidos, no sea beyond ankle and photograph. It is a phobia that has grown barnacles; I have carried it for years, polished it with excuses until it shines like a trophy I never wanted.

It began in an unguarded summer, a dragonfly day by the reservoir when I was eight and the air smelt of warm mud and strawberries. I had waded where someone said it was shallow; the world had dropped from under me with a quiet treachery, like a trapdoor gently letting go. There were hands and shouting and the sky spun in shattered shards on the surface; I remember the taste—metallic, algae, panic—more vividly than the palms that hauled me back. Afterward, I pretended none of it mattered, except that my dreams darkened and rain became a foe and the bathwater sloshed against my skin like a warning.

And then Noah. Noah with his starfish hands and questions that tumble like pebbles: Why can’t you swim, Mummy? Can you teach me? On the beach last August he ran straight for the glittering edge, and I held him too hard, my fear a rope that burned both of us. I watched other parents in the shallows—careless and capable—and felt something complicated knot itself in my chest: envy, shame, resolve.

So here I am. The water is not a monster; it is a language I never learned to read. Tonight I will learn an alphabet of breaths and bubbles; I will trace letters with my limbs until meaning arrives. Kai steps closer, voice even. “We start at the side,” he says. “Just let your ears go under. Listen.”

As if the pool has its own symphony. The idea is absurd and lovely and terrifying. I ease down until the cold climbs my calves, my thighs; it stitches shivers into my skin. The tiles bite the backs of my knees. My ribs are a birdcage rattling with a trapped finch—overwrought, perhaps, but accurate. I close my eyes. In. Hold. Out. I tilt, surrender a little. The world becomes muffled; sound turns to thrum. For a moment, everything is green and humming and I am eight again. Then I open my eyes; the light fractures into coins that drift across the floor. I am still here.

“Good,” Kai says, not clapping, not crowing, just placing the word between us like a stepping-stone. I nod—once, twice—and edge forward. The water rises, patient as an old debt. I let it take my shoulders. I do not run. I am learning to stay.

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

Option A:

Before the latch is turned, the pool is a held note, a hush tremulous with promise. Pale light spreads thinly across the gridded tiles; it finds the stainless-steel rails and turns them into cold ribbons. The air is cool and chemical—clean to the point of sharpness—so that each breath tastes faintly of coins and lemons. In this poised, chlorinated dawn, sound is a rumour: the distant thrum of a filter, the soft sigh of vents. The whole room waits, immaculate, like a stage before the curtain shudders.

The water itself lies level as glass, yet not inert. Underneath, the black lines run true, lane to lane, like spines; along the surface, the lane ropes nap in slack curves, tiny red and white beads dimmed, an orderly necklace. Reflections fold and unfold—beams of light, pale as skimmed milk, quiver along the ceiling. A stray ripple travels from the inlet and dissolves; the sheet reforms, patient. Even the floating flags droop from their cable like tired bunting.

A lifeguard chair, high and empty, keeps a ceremonial watch. It is a throne no one sits on yet. The clock above it ticks with dry authority—one second, another; the minute hand hardly dares move. Laminated signs hem the space with polite commands: No Running; Shower Before Entering; Deep End. A pyramid of kickboards waits, edges nicked, water-polished; pull buoys, striped like humbugs, nestle in a crate. A coil of hose gleams. On the benches, a constellation of dried droplets makes pale maps; ghostly footprints (from the cleaner) blur and vanish.

The acoustics are peculiar, even empty: any sound that exists returns enlarged, then fades as if embarrassed. From behind a door, a cart rattles; a lock tests itself and relents. The vents exhale steadily, a mechanical lullaby. Somewhere, a gull’s cry skims the roof, thin and far. The building seems to breathe with the pool—slow in, slow out.

And all the while the water holds its breath, deferential. Soon there will be bodies: sharp dives, hesitant toes, the exuberant smack of a cannonball; the syncopation of arms and the serrated gasp between lengths. Soon there will be chatter, reprimands, laughter, steam ghosting from skin. Who will be the first to break the skin? The first crease will spread, a signature; the stage will wake. For now, though, before keys clatter and the doors yawn open, the blue rectangle keeps its promise—immaculate, composed, intensely, almost stubbornly, still.

Option B:

Evening unspooled over the river like a ribbon of indigo; the water caught it, worried it, wore it. The iron footbridge—thin as a thought—stretched from bank to bank, a deliberate line drawn across a dark manuscript. For most people it was a shortcut; for me, it was a sentence, the unserved portion of a childhood panic. I had orbited it for years, taking the long road, pretending preference while my stomach folded itself into origami. Today the pretence felt threadbare, too transparent to hold.

When I was eight, my father’s hand was a warm anchor as we stepped onto these same boards. A bus thundered past on the road beside us; the bridge shuddered, gave a small metallic sigh, and the lattice hummed beneath my trainers. Through the slats I saw the river flicker—green, then black, then green again—as if it were blinking. I froze. He laughed softly, coaxing me with stories and promises of ice cream, calling me brave even when I felt anything but. I slunk back to the bank and pretended I had forgotten something important. Shame hung about me afterward like a wet coat; it never quite dried.

For years—through school, through jobs, through seasons looping like a carousel—I drew new maps that never crossed this thin place. For years I told myself it didn’t matter. For years I grew used to arriving late.

Now the bolts are more orange, rust ringed like old tea stains. A sign declares Slippery When Wet; the paint has peeled, letters scabbed by weather and the fingers of passerby. My palms smell faintly of coins (nerves leave a metallic ghost), and the air tastes of rain and leaf-mould. Somewhere a siren calls; somewhere a dog barks twice, then gives up. I touch the rail—cold, unforgiving—and feel the city’s rhythm transmitted through metal: footsteps, wheels, wind. I set my right foot on the first board and the bridge answers with a small creak. Left, right, breathe: a quiet instruction, a beginner’s spell.

The river is not malicious, I tell myself; it is simply persistent, sibilant, shouldering its way seaward. Still, my heart thumps a blunt drum in my ribs, and my mouth is dry as old paper. The lattice throws a ragged grid of shadow across my legs; light and dark flick past in staccato as cars flash by. I keep my eyes ahead—do not look down, not yet—and count the bolts; they march in fours, reassuring in their neatness. A gust lifts my hair; the bridge gives another tremor; I do not move for two long breaths. Then I take one more step, then another, and the world does not end.

Halfway is supposed to be the worst place—nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide—but the middle is spacious with sky. Swallows scribble quick dark commas above the water; a cyclist rings a bell and glides past, his apology trailing after him like a ribbon. I place my hand flat against my chest and feel it: a fast, insistent engine, yes, but not a wild animal. “I am here,” I whisper (it sounds foolish and also necessary). Fear does not evaporate; it rearranges itself, making room. And there, with rain beginning to stipple the river into sequins, I lift my chin, unclench my hands, and take another step.

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

Option A:

Before the keys turn, the pool holds its breath. The water lies level, a muted pane, pale as sky trapped indoors. Lane ropes drift—red, white, blue beads threaded like a careful necklace—barely denting the surface. The high windows offer a weak strip of light; it slants along the tiled lip and flicks at a sign that says No Running, its letters stern as a teacher. Chlorine hangs in the air, clean and a little bitter; it sits on the tongue and climbs the nose. Somewhere a pump murmurs. Still.

Tiles are neat and particular: white squares, teal squares, a few scuffed, a hairline crack that maps across a corner. The silver ladders wait with their wet-looking rungs; even dry, they seem cold. On the deck, kickboards are stacked like placards, foam noodles looped in a sleepy pile; a red rescue tube leans against a pale lifeguard chair. Posters along the wall promise swim times and safety—bright cartoons frozen mid-stroke. Beneath them, benches line up, empty and shiny; their shadows are polished rectangles. The ceiling lights are off yet, though the filaments remember their duty; their reflections tremble in the water’s skin and then steady again.

Sound is thin but present. A tick-tick from the far clock, deliberate as metronome. The filter gives a low sigh; a discrete plop drops from a pipe and draws a ring that widens, weakens, disappears. Beyond the glass doors, a caretaker’s trolley squeaks and pauses; a lemon-clean smell wanders in, mixing with that chemical tang. I notice a single wet footprint printed yesterday and almost gone, a ghost pressed into the grout. A cobweb hangs from a white vent; it moves when the warm air breathes out. Soon, not yet, the whistle will pierce; shouts will scatter; water will lift, fold, slap back. For now the pool waits, light gathering; the day, poised, leans toward the latch.

Above the deep end, a frill of triangular flags hangs, patient, their reflections stitched into the blue; the starting blocks stand numbered and blunt-nosed. On the wall, a white ring buoy waits beside a coiled rope: ordinary, necessary. Even the drains look meticulous, black grills aligned like handwriting.

Option B:

Monday had a metallic taste; the city chattered and the building ahead glittered, tall enough to prod the pale sky. I stood in its shadow and thumbed the invitation, as if paper could steady me. Thirty-second floor, 9:30 a.m.—an address that assumed I’d take the lift and wasn’t afraid.

As a child I learned what fear could do inside four steel walls. One summer a lift jammed between floors; the lights died and the air turned old. My mother kept her voice calm, yet her fingers crushed mine. Above, cables hummed; below, an alarm blinked and no one came. Minutes swelled into an hour. Silence sat on my chest.

Years later, the lobby’s marble gleamed; the receptionist pointed at mirrored doors. Stairs? There were some, she said, but slow: twenty-nine flights, a locked fire door. I stared at the sign—Lifts—until the word thinned. I could take the stairs. I could. The clock nudged me forward.

I pressed the button; its circle blushed. Somewhere inside the shaft, machinery answered with a distant sigh. When the doors parted, the carriage stared back—bright, tidy, smelling of lemons and dust. My reflection hovered in the mirror, uncertain; the old claustrophobia stirred. I stepped in before I could calculate a way out. The doors drew themselves together. Softly. Too softly.

Numbers lit: 1, 2, 3. My breath tried to bolt; I caught it and counted with the floor display—four in, six out—like a swimmer learning not to fight the water. I watched the thin light round the doors, waiting for it to falter; it didn’t. The car rose, the cables singing a low, reasonable note. At eight it paused; a woman in a violet scarf stepped in and nodded. Her perfume suggested gardens; her smile was ordinary. The ordinary helped.

By fourteen, the panic, once so loud, began to whisper. By twenty it was there, but behind glass. I am not nine, I told myself, not trapped; just moving. When the bell gave its ding, the doors opened onto quiet carpet and high windows. I stepped out and the air met me like a cool hand. The fear hadn’t vanished—fears rarely do—but it had shifted, leaving room for something sturdier to stand.

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

Option A:

Before the doors are unlocked, the pool holds its breath. The water lies flat as glass; pale blue, faintly rippling where a hidden vent sighs. Lane ropes rest in neat lines, slack and obedient, like sleeping snakes. Light from high windows slips in strips across the surface, painting wavering patterns on the ceiling. The air is sharp with chlorine and faint rubber from coiled floats. Even the clock is gentle, its hand moving like a slow swimmer.

Everything has been set in its place. The lifeguard chair is a white watchtower, empty; a red rescue tube hangs and droops. Signs glare from the walls — No Running, No Diving. The tiles are cold and speckled; they catch any sound and send it back, but there is almost nothing to echo. The filter hums steadily; a drip taps from a silver tap. A mop leans in the corner, leaving a small dark fan on the floor.

Who would imagine this silent room will soon be busy? It is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels deliberate. The stillness gathers its own small music: the shiver of a vent, the tick of the clock, the soft creak of the roof. At the shallow end, a blue kickboard spins lazily, touching the edge and drifting, touching and drifting. The lanes hold their places; they wait for hands to break them, for feet to churn and splash. Soon whistles and chatter will rise; the tiles will shimmer with wet footprints. Soon the doors will open — and the pool will exhale.

Option B:

Tonight the pool looked like glass, calm but stubborn. The fluorescent lights hummed; reflections trembled across blue tiles. Chlorine swam into my nose, sharp and clean. Around me came echoes—a whistle, a splash, a laugh—and still the water lay waiting.

I had been walking around this fear for years, like it was a sleeping dog. At parties I held towels and guarded bags; I joked I was more of a reader than a swimmer. The truth sat heavier: once I slipped off the last step and the deep end swallowed me. The world went muffled, distant, green. I remember the ceiling blurring, my arms thrashing like trapped wings, the rope that pulled me up. Since then, even the sound of a pool made my stomach tilt.

Mina stood beside me. "You don't have to swim a length," she said. "Just put your face in, breathe out. Count to three." She smiled—small, deliberate. I nodded.

I stepped onto the ladder. Cold leapt up my legs in tight rings—ankle, shin, knee. The metal rattled; water lapped at me like it knew my name. My heart thumped—steady, then quicker. Lane lines arrowed away and I thought of running back to the changing room. But I had brought myself here for a reason.

"One breath," I whispered. I breathed out through my nose; bent my knees; eased forward. The water gave a shiver, I did too, and then my face slipped under. The world narrowed to bubbles and the drum in my chest. Memory flickered—blue above, blue below—but I kept counting: one, two, three.

When I lifted my head, the ceiling was still there. Not fearless yet, but something had shifted; the fear had a shape I could see. I tightened my grip on the rail and tried again.

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

Option A:

The pool lies flat as a mirror; lane ropes stretch in neat red-and-white lines like sleeping snakes. High windows pour pale morning light onto blue tiles, making the water look like glass. It is still. It waits. A tiny shiver runs along the surface when the filter breathes, then everything holds its breath again.

The air tastes of chlorine—clean, sharp, a bit like medicine. Fluorescent lights hum; the big extractor fans whisper at the ceiling. At the deep end the black numbers are bold and square: 2.0 m. The lifeguard chair stands empty; its white paint is chipped. A red rescue tube hangs from the rail, a silent mouth. Along the edge, kickboards stack in a crooked pile, blue foam smelling faintly sweet.

On the wall the noticeboard is crowded with posters: lane times, lessons, a faded gala photo. A wet floor sign waits by a mop bucket that looks tired. No footprints yet mark the deck. The tiles are cold and neat, they shine a bit too bright. A drip falls from the springy board—plink—though no one is there, the sound echoes up and back; it keeps on repeating.

Before seven, the doors are shut tight, the turnstile is still. Outside, keys jingle and stop. Soon the showers will hiss, whistles will pierce the air, voices will fold into the white room. For now the pool is patient, like a creature under glass. Who will be first to cut the surface? The clock—stuck on six-fifty—ticks, and ticks.

Option B:

Morning. The pool smelt of chlorine and metal coins; blue tiles gleamed under the harsh lights as if the sun had been trapped indoors. I told myself one thing: today, I try. A small, square sea I could cross.

People drifted past me with easy strokes, their arms cutting the water. The lifeguard's whistle piped, someone laughed. Then the old fear climbed back up my throat. Once, when I was seven, the sea rolled me over and over like laundry. Salt stuffed my mouth, my ears; I learned how loud silence is under waves. Mum dragged me out by my elbow, and I coughed up a whole bucket of panic.

Now the water looked friendly and cruel at the same time. How can it glitter and glare? My heart knocked at my ribs like a trapped bird. 'Just breathe,' said the instructor, as if breath was a key I had lost. I nodded; my mouth was dry. One toe, then another. The cold nibbled my ankles, my knees, my courage.

I edged along the wall—slow, stubborn—until the shallow floor slipped away and the water held me. I gripped the rail so tight my knuckles went white. I breathed. In. Out. The fear was a rope round my chest, and I felt it loosen, just a little. For three seconds, I let go. I floated, clumsy, a starfish, and nothing dragged me down. Then I grabbed the rail again, shaking and smiling. It wasn’t a miracle, it wasn’t dramatic; it was mine.

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

Option A:

Before the doors slide back, the pool is a quiet creature. The water is flat like glass, a pale blue window that doesn’t look back. Fluorescent tubes buzz and blink; their shine spreads across the tiles and makes little diamonds. The smell of chlorine sits in the air, sharp and clean, it pinches your nose and throat. Long lane ropes float in gentle lines, like sleeping snakes that don’t want to be woken.

At the edge, a lonely lifeguard chair keeps watch. Stacks of kickboards lean against the wall; a net bag of flippers sags like a tired smile. The white signs are strict: No running. No diving. No food—no fun, almost. Footprints from last night look ghostly on the wet speckled floor, they are already fading. Somewhere a filter hums, a constant throat, and a single drip falls: plink, plink, plink.

Meanwhile the big clock ticks on, its hands slow but certain. Outside in the corridor a trolley rattles, then stops, then rattles again. A fan stirs the air—cool, chemical, careful. Lights blink brighter. The pool takes a breath and waits; calm, pale, patient. Soon there will be splashes and shouts and waves folding over the ropes. But not yet.

Option B:

Morning. The hall smelt of floor polish and hot lights. Rows of chairs waited; the stage looked taller than in lessons. My palms were slippery, my heart like a bird at a window.

Breathe, I told myself. Breathe.

Then Mr Patel tapped the microphone. It stared back at me like an eye. People shifted and coughed, the sound echoed in my head. I could taste dust. I had promised I would do this, after years of saying no. There was one problem: me.

Since Year 3, when I stood on a stage and the words stuck, I have carried this fear like a heavy bag. However, today was supposed to be different. I had practised and wrote my speech in neat black ink.

Step. Another step. My legs shook. Mr Patel smiled, I tried to smile back. The microphone was close now—too close. I placed my paper down: it trembled. I cleared my throat, a small sound in a huge room. My name sounded wierd. But I kept my eyes up and I finally opened my mouth.

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

Option A:

The pool is quiet before opening. The water is flat, like glass, like a big blue plate. Lights on the ceiling make wobbly strips on the floor. The air smell of chlorine, sharp and clean, it tickles my nose.

Lane ropes float in straight lines, they look like sleeping snakes. The lifeguard chair is empty and tall, like it is watching with no eyes. The sign says No Diving, the words big and bossy.

Benches wait by the wall.

A mop bucket stands by the door, yellow and dull, drip, drip on the tiles. I can hear a clock somewhere, or maybe not, maybe it’s just the lights.

The big glass doors are shut. Soon keys will jingle and feet will stamp and voices will bounce! But now, before opening, it don't move, the pool holds its breath...

Option B:

Morning. A new day. The pool hall smell like bleach and echo. I stand at the shallow end and my hands is shaking. Since I was little I been scared of water, the way it covers your ears and pushes on your chest, I feel small then, like a coin in a drain.

The water looks like glass. I can see my face in it, pale, scared.

Mum says, go on, you can do it. I nod but my mouth is dry. I remember the pond behind Nan's house, I slipped, I coughed, I cried, a hand pulled me out, and the fear stayed like mud.

I grip the cold rail; I try to breath. One step. I can do it I can do it. I put my foot in. The cold bites. My heart jumps, and I am here now, not then.

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

Option A:

The pool is very quiet and still. The water looks like glass and it dont move. Lane ropes float in straight lines, red and white. Lights hum on the ceiling. The air smells of chlorine and cold. Tiles are wet and shiny and my shoe squeeks. A sign says No Diving on the wall. Theres no people, only the clock going tick tick tick. The lifeguard chair is empty, the red float hangs down. I seen it busy before and loud and splash, but now nothing happens it just waits. A drip falls, then another, and the doors stay shut.

Option B:

It is morning the sky is pale and cold. I stand on the path by the bridge. My stomack feels tight, my hands shake, breath goes fast. I been scared of this for years, I tell myself just go, just walk, go now! The river moves dark, it makes a noise like a drum. I remember when I was little and I slipped, I didn’t fall but I think about it every day. A dog barks, I jump. Mum said be brave, she said you can do it. My feet are heavy like a rock, I dont wants to look down