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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 What did the narrator avoid thinking about?: the Morlocks – 1 mark
• 1.2 How does the narrator occupy himself while trying not to think about the Morlocks during the long night?: The narrator looks for familiar star patterns in the sky. – 1 mark
• 1.3 During the long night, what does the Time Traveller try to keep his thoughts away from?: the Morlocks – 1 mark
• 1.4 What did the narrator try to find?: signs of the old constellations – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 102 of the source:

1 “Through that long night I held my mind off the Morlocks as well as I could, and whiled away the time by trying to fancy I could find signs of the old constellations in the new confusion. The sky kept very

6 clear, except for a hazy cloud or so. No doubt I dozed at times. Then, as my vigil wore on, came a faintness in the eastward sky, like the reflection of some colourless fire,

11 and the old moon rose, thin and peaked and white. And close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing it, the dawn came, pale at first, and then growing pink and warm. No

16 Morlocks had approached us. Indeed, I had seen none upon the hill that night. And in the confidence of renewed day it almost seemed to me that my fear had been unreasonable. I stood up and found my foot

21 with the loose heel swollen at the ankle and painful under the heel; so I sat down again, took off my shoes, and flung them away. “I awakened Weena, and we went down into the wood, now green and pleasant instead of black and

26 forbidding. We found some fruit wherewith to break our fast. We soon met others of the dainty ones, laughing and dancing in the sunlight as though there was no such thing in nature as

31 the night. And then I thought once more of the meat that I had seen. I felt assured now of what it was, and from the bottom of my heart I pitied this last feeble rill from the great flood of

36 humanity. Clearly, at some time in the Long-Ago of human decay the Morlocks’ food had run short. Possibly they had lived on rats and such-like vermin. Even now

41 man is far less discriminating and exclusive in his food than he was—far less than any monkey. His prejudice against human flesh is no deep-seated instinct. And so these inhuman sons of men——! I tried to

46 look at the thing in a scientific spirit. After all, they were less human and more remote than our cannibal ancestors of three or four thousand years ago. And the intelligence

51 that would have made this state of things a torment had gone. Why should I trouble myself? These Eloi were mere fatted cattle, which the ant-like Morlocks preserved and

56 preyed upon—probably saw to the breeding of. And there was Weena dancing at my side! “Then I tried to preserve myself from the horror that was coming upon me, by regarding it as a rigorous punishment of human

61 selfishness. Man had been content to live in ease and delight upon the labours of his fellow-man, had taken Necessity as his watchword and excuse, and in the fullness of time Necessity had come home to him. I even tried a

66 Carlyle-like scorn of this wretched aristocracy in decay. But this attitude of mind was impossible. However great their intellectual degradation, the Eloi had kept

71 too much of the human form not to claim my sympathy, and to make me perforce a sharer in their degradation and their Fear. “I had at that time very vague ideas as to the course I should pursue. My first was to secure some safe place

76 of refuge, and to make myself such arms of metal or stone as I could contrive. That necessity was immediate. In the next place, I hoped to procure some means of fire, so

81 that I should have the weapon of a torch at hand, for nothing, I knew, would be more efficient against these Morlocks. Then I wanted to arrange some contrivance to break open the doors of bronze under the

86 White Sphinx. I had in mind a battering ram. I had a persuasion that if I could enter those doors and carry a blaze of light before me I should discover the Time Machine

91 and escape. I could not imagine the Morlocks were strong enough to move it far away. Weena I had resolved to bring with me to our own time. And turning such schemes over in my mind I

96 pursued our way towards the building which my fancy had chosen as our dwelling. XI. The Palace of Green Porcelain “I found the Palace of Green Porcelain, when we approached it about

101 noon, deserted and falling into ruin.

How does the writer use language here to describe the changing sky and the coming of dawn? You could include the writer's choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how layered imagery and syntax chart the transition: the simile "like the reflection of some colourless fire" (oxymoronic, suggesting an eerie, drained light) and colour shift from "the old moon rose, thin and peaked and white" to "pale at first, and then growing pink and warm" convey gradual warmth, while the personifying, polysyndetic sequence "close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing it, the dawn came" uses dynamic verbs to present dawn as an active force restoring **"the confidence of renewed day." It would also notice the initial juxtaposition "old constellations in the new confusion" and the fragile order of **"The sky kept very clear"**, explaining how cumulative clauses mirror the slow encroachment of light (pathetic fallacy linking the changing sky to the narrator’s easing fear).

The writer first renders the sky’s transition with a simile tinged by oxymoron. Observing “a faintness in the eastward sky, like the reflection of some colourless fire,” the abstract noun “faintness” suggests the most tentative light, while “reflection” implies it is second-hand. The oxymoronic “colourless fire” conveys an eerie, thinned luminosity, fitting a future where the “old constellations” are lost in “new confusion.” This tentative diction mirrors the narrator’s cautious hope.

Furthermore, dawn is animated through personification and fronted participial phrases. The “old moon,” described as “thin and peaked and white,” is weakened by a polysyndetic tricolon of adjectives, with “old” and “peaked” connoting age and sickness. Immediately “close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing it, the dawn came”: the polysyndeton and tricolon of participles in this cumulative clause create momentum, as if light is a tide that “overtakes” and then “overflows” the moon. This dynamic syntax makes the advance of day feel inevitable and irresistible.

Additionally, colour and sensory imagery chart a delicate gradation: “pale at first, and then growing pink and warm.” The participle “growing” conveys incremental intensification, while the tactile “warm” adds synaesthetic comfort, so the narrator feels “the confidence of renewed day,” an abstract personification of daylight’s reassurance. Antithesis completes the transformation: “now green and pleasant instead of black and forbidding,” and the hyperbolic clause “as though there was no such thing…as the night” implies darkness is utterly effaced. Together, these choices transform the sky from threat to solace, enacting the coming of dawn.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would identify the simile and colour imagery, explaining that “like the reflection of some colourless fire” and the adjectives in “old moon rose, thin and peaked and white” make the first light seem faint and fragile, while personifying verbs in “overtaking it, and overflowing it” and the shift from “pale” to “growing pink and warm” show dawn strengthening. It would also comment on sentence form and contrast, noting the repeated “and” in “And close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing it” to build momentum, and the change to “green and pleasant instead of black and forbidding” to show daylight transforming the mood.

The writer uses a simile and colour imagery to capture the first hint of day. The “faintness in the eastward sky, like the reflection of some colourless fire” suggests a thin, tentative glow; the paradox of “colourless fire” makes the light feel cold and weak at first, building quiet anticipation.

Moreover, the moon is described with a triadic list: “old… thin and peaked and white.” The adjective “old” personifies it as worn-out, while the piling of cold colours creates a brittle, exhausted light, preparing for it to be surpassed.

Furthermore, dawn is personified and made dynamic: “close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing it, the dawn came.” The repeated conjunction “and” (polysyndeton) and the present participles form a rising rhythm, mirroring how light spreads. The graded phrase “pale at first, and then growing pink and warm” uses a progression of colour to show the sky changing from chill to comfort. Consequently, the narrator feels the “confidence of renewed day,” and the world turns “green and pleasant instead of black and forbidding,” showing the dawn’s gentle arrival.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would identify simple techniques like adjectives and simile showing the dawn slowly growing: a “faintness in the eastward sky” “like the reflection of some colourless fire” becomes “pale” then “pink and warm” to show the sky brightening. It might also spot personification in “overtaking it, and overflowing it” to show dawn covering the moon, with the long, flowing sentence mirroring the gradual change.

The writer uses a simile to show the first hint of daylight: “a faintness in the eastward sky, like the reflection of some colourless fire.” This makes the dawn seem weak and cold at first, so the reader feels it is just beginning. The “sky kept very clear” with “a hazy cloud” suggests calmness before the change.

Furthermore, personification presents dawn as active: “overtaking it, and overflowing it.” These verbs make the light seem to chase and cover the moon. The colour imagery “pale at first, and then growing pink and warm” shows the sky changing mood, moving from cold to comfort.

Additionally, the moon is described by a list of adjectives, “thin and peaked and white,” which makes the night feel weak as day arrives. The contrast of “green and pleasant” instead of “black and forbidding” shows the effect of dawn, giving “confidence of renewed day” and easing fear.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses a simile, like the reflection of some colourless fire, to show the early light is faint. Simple descriptive words such as thin and peaked and white and pale at first, and then growing pink and warm show the moon is weak and the dawn slowly gets brighter and warmer.

The writer uses a simile to show how the sky changes. The phrase “a faintness in the eastward sky, like the reflection of some colourless fire” makes the first light seem weak and pale, showing dawn starting.

Furthermore, adjectives describe the moon and dawn: “thin and peaked and white” and “pale… then growing pink and warm.” This colour imagery helps the reader picture the changing sky and the light getting stronger.

Additionally, personification and verbs like “overtaking it” and “overflowing it” make dawn feel alive and moving across the sky, showing the coming of day. So we see dawn arriving.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Juxtaposition of past order with present chaos suggests the sky has changed beyond recognition, creating disorientation (new confusion)
• Contrast between clarity and slight blur hints at transition, foreshadowing the shift toward dawn (hazy cloud or so)
• Temporal phrasing slows time to build anticipation for first light, heightening suspense (vigil wore on)
• Simile renders the initial glow eerie and insubstantial, as if drained of warmth (colourless fire)
• Tripled adjectives make the moon seem fragile and cold, preparing a contrast with the coming warmth (thin and peaked and white)
• Personification through kinetic verbs depicts dawn as an active, unstoppable force sweeping the sky (overtaking it)
• Gradual colour/temperature shift charts the sky’s move from pallor to comfort and hope (growing pink and warm)
• Delayed main clause after cumulative modifiers creates a climactic reveal of daybreak (the dawn came)
• Lexis of reassurance links daylight to a psychological release from anxiety and fear (renewed day)
• Antithesis of colour and mood shows light transforming perception from menace to welcome (green and pleasant)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace the chronological arc from "Through that long night" to "the dawn came", showing how initial relief is structurally undercut by the juxtaposition of the Eloi "laughing and dancing" with the horrific recognition "from the bottom of my heart I pitied", and how anaphoric attempts at detachment—"I tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit", "But this attitude of mind was impossible"—reposition the narrator as "a sharer in their degradation and their Fear", deepening sympathy. It would also note the shift into purposeful enumeration ("In the next place") and the chapter pivot ("XI. The Palace of Green Porcelain", "deserted and falling into ruin") to sustain sympathy through protective intent toward Weena and a bleak new setting that accentuates vulnerability.

One way the writer structures sympathy is through a temporal arc from night to dawn that modulates mood and foregrounds vulnerability. Opening mid-vigil (“Through that long night...”) with sustained first-person focalisation slows the pace and invites us into fear and fatigue. The transition to daylight (“the old moon rose... and... the dawn came”) briefly relieves tension, only to expose frailty when his foot is “swollen... and painful” and he “flung” his shoes away. This sequencing moves us from dread to concrete weakness, priming compassion and culminating in explicit pity (“I pitied...”).

In addition, a deliberate pivot in focus—from detached theorising to personal attachment—intensifies sympathy. The narrator digresses into retrospective exposition about the “Long-Ago of human decay,” attempting a “scientific spirit” and even “Carlyle-like scorn.” That internal debate is overturned by a clear volta: “But this attitude... was impossible.” The juxtaposition of dehumanising metaphor (“fatted cattle”) with the sudden, intimate “And there was Weena dancing at my side!” humanises the Eloi and compels us to share “their degradation and their Fear.”

A further structural strategy is prolepsis: an enumerated plan (“My first... In the next place... Then I wanted... I had in mind”) accelerates narrative pace and frames the narrator as protector. The emotional apex—“Weena I had resolved to bring with me”—secures our allegiance. Finally, the chapter demarcation “XI. The Palace of Green Porcelain” ushers in a new phase only to end on anticlimax: a home “deserted and falling into ruin,” leaving sympathy deepest at the close.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would identify how the writer structures a journey from anxiety in the long night to brief relief as the dawn came, then uses a pivot—'And then I thought once more of the meat'—to shift the mood towards horror that builds sympathy for the Eloi. It would clearly explain that the narrator’s perspective moves from detachment ('I tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit') to compassion ('But this attitude of mind was impossible' / 'too much of the human form' to claim my 'sympathy'), with a personal focus on Weena, and that ending at the Palace of Green Porcelain 'deserted and falling into ruin' intensifies this sympathy by leaving them vulnerable.

One way the writer structures the extract to create sympathy is through chronological progression and contrast. Temporal markers (“Through that long night…,” “the dawn came,” “about noon”) move us from darkness into light, and the setting shifts from “black and forbidding” to “green and pleasant.” This change in mood initially relieves tension, but the juxtaposition of carefree Eloi “laughing and dancing… as though there was no such thing… as the night” with the narrator’s knowledge of the Morlocks highlights their naïve vulnerability, prompting our pity.

In addition, a clear shift in focus from external description to internal debate deepens empathy. The narrator’s sustained first-person perspective and rhetorical self-questioning (“I tried to… Why should I trouble myself?”) dramatise his struggle to remain detached. This becomes a structural turning point: he moves from generalised history (“Long-Ago of human decay”) and dehumanising labels (“fatted cattle”) to a zoom-in on “Weena dancing at my side,” admitting the Eloi “claim my sympathy.” The narrowed focus personalises the threat and intensifies our concern.

A further structural choice is the transition in pace from reflection to action via a purposeful list (“My first… In the next place… Then I wanted…”). His resolution to “bring [Weena] with me” positions him protectively, which grows our sympathy. Finally, the section break (“XI”) and the bleak endpoint—“deserted and falling into ruin”—leave the situation precarious, so sympathy is strongest by the close.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer structures the extract as a shift from that long night to when the dawn came, contrasting a black and forbidding wood with green and pleasant daylight to change the mood from fear to safety and build sympathy, especially when he says from the bottom of my heart I pitied the Eloi and notices Weena dancing at my side. By the end, his plan to bring with me to our own time and the journey towards The Palace of Green Porcelain show that sympathy has deepened into wanting to protect her.

One way the writer structures the text to create sympathy is by moving from night to morning. At the beginning the wood is 'black and forbidding', but after dawn it is 'green and pleasant' and the Eloi are 'laughing and dancing', which makes them seem innocent and vulnerable.

In addition, there is a turning point when the focus shifts from the sky and his swollen foot to the 'meat'. The first-person viewpoint moves from a 'scientific spirit' to 'from the bottom of my heart I pitied', so our sympathy deepens with his.

A further structural feature is the forward-looking end. He plans a 'safe place of refuge' and to bring Weena, then he reaches the palace, 'deserted and falling into ruin'. This change in purpose and the final ruin keep the Eloi’s weakness in view, building sympathy.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might spot that the text moves from the “long night” to “the dawn came”, changing the scene from “black and forbidding” to “green and pleasant,” and then simply note that by the end the narrator says “I pitied this last feeble rill” and “too much of the human form not to claim my sympathy,” so we feel sorry for the Eloi.

One way the writer uses structure to create sympathy is the time shift from the long night to dawn. This change of mood shows weariness and injury, like the “loose heel swollen”, so we feel sorry for him and Weena.

In addition, the focus shifts to the Eloi as victims. The contrast from “laughing and dancing” to “fatted cattle” and “I pitied” makes sympathy grow because we see their weakness.

A further feature is the move into a plan to protect Weena, then an ending image, “deserted and falling into ruin”. Ending this way worries us, so sympathy deepens.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Night-to-dawn transition softens tension, lulling the reader before later horror so sympathy can swell as vulnerability emerges (the dawn came)
• Temporary reassurance undercuts earlier fear, making the Eloi seem exposed and needing protection (fear had been unreasonable)
• Placement of a carefree Eloi scene accentuates innocence, inviting compassion through contrast with the nocturnal threat (laughing and dancing)
• Mid-passage pivot from idyll to recognition of cannibalism channels the narrator’s and reader’s pity (I pitied)
• Expository speculation on the past reframes blame, casting the Eloi as victims of historical decay (food had run short)
• Juxtaposition of dehumanising idea with a personal image brings abstract pity into intimate focus (Weena dancing)
• Internal debate collapses into explicit empathy, making sympathy unavoidable for narrator and reader (claim my sympathy)
• Shift from reflection to protective planning shows sympathy driving purposeful action (safe place of refuge)
• Promise to remove Weena from danger crystallises tender concern into a rescue trajectory (bring with me)
• Closing move to a decayed setting undercuts hope, leaving their fragility stark and sympathy heightened (falling into ruin)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 16 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the narrator calls the Eloi 'fatted cattle', it could appear he is being cold and scientific. The writer suggests he is actually trying to protect himself from the horror of the situation.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the narrator's attempt to seem cold and scientific
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest his true feelings of horror
• 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 evaluate the writer’s viewpoint by arguing that the narrator’s coldness is a performed detachment: he adopts clinical, dehumanising labels—"I tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit," calling the Eloi "fatted cattle" and the Morlocks "ant-like"—and even asks "Why should I trouble myself?". However, the writer exposes this as self-protection through juxtaposition and self-correction: the confession "I tried to preserve myself from the horror," the volte-face "But this attitude of mind was impossible," and the humanising pull of "Weena" who "claim[s] my sympathy" reveal an underlying horror, so we largely agree he masks terror rather than achieving true objectivity.

I largely agree with the statement. On the surface, the narrator’s description of the Eloi as “mere fatted cattle” reads as chillingly clinical, but Wells crafts this coldness as a deliberate, defensive pose that repeatedly collapses under the pressure of pity and fear.

At first, the narrator consciously adopts a detached register. He announces, “I tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit,” and immediately slips into generalising, almost textbook pronouncements: “Even now man is far less discriminating… His prejudice against human flesh is no deep-seated instinct.” This gnomic present tense universalises the horror, pushing it away from the personal. The dehumanising metaphor “mere fatted cattle” and the zoomorphism “ant-like Morlocks” sound taxonomic, while hedging adverbs like “probably” in “probably saw to the breeding of” simulate hypothesis and objectivity. The determiner “mere” intensifies the dismissal, as if classification could cancel compassion.

Yet Wells continually sabotages that posture. Pathos floods in when the narrator confesses, “from the bottom of my heart I pitied this last feeble rill from the great flood of humanity”: the extended water metaphor reframes the Eloi as the dwindling remnant of “humanity,” not specimens. Punctuation exposes feeling: “And so these inhuman sons of men——!” breaks off with a dash before the exclamation, a caesura that registers speech failing under horror. The exclamative “And there was Weena dancing at my side!” abruptly personalises the abstract “Eloi,” turning the livestock metaphor to ashes through proximity and affection. Even the rhetorical question, “Why should I trouble myself?” is immediately answered by his own compassion.

The narrator’s second strategy is moral rationalisation. He “tried to preserve [him]self from the horror… by regarding it as a rigorous punishment of human selfishness,” personifying “Necessity” and invoking “a Carlyle-like scorn.” The historical allusion and capitalised abstraction give his stance an intellectual sheen, but Wells undercuts it with the concessive pivot: “But this attitude of mind was impossible.” The Eloi have “kept too much of the human form” for him not to be “perforce a sharer in their degradation and their Fear,” the capital on “Fear” elevating it to an inescapable force.

Finally, the prose shifts into a practical, listing syntax: “My first was to secure… In the next place, I hoped… I had in mind… I had a persuasion….” Modal verbs (“should,” “hoped,” “could not imagine”) and a mechanical lexis (“contrivance,” “battering ram,” “blaze of light”) signal a coping mechanism, channelling panic into plan. Crucially, “Weena I had resolved to bring with me” rebuts any genuine coldness.

Overall, the writer presents the “fatted cattle” coldness as a fragile carapace; beneath it, the narrator’s empathy and terror persist, continually breaking through the very methods he uses to suppress them.

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 largely agree, explaining that the narrator’s detached pose is a coping strategy, identifying distancing labels like “fatted cattle” and “inhuman sons of men” and the self-conscious claim “I tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit” as attempts to suppress fear. It would then show how his true horror and empathy break through in “from the bottom of my heart I pitied”, “tried to preserve myself from the horror”, and “But this attitude … was impossible”, reinforced by the personal pull of “And there was Weena dancing at my side!”.

I largely agree with the statement. On the surface, calling the Eloi “fatted cattle” sounds cold and clinical, but the narrator’s own admissions and the writer’s techniques suggest this “scientific” pose is a shield against horror.

The metaphor “fatted cattle” deliberately dehumanises the Eloi, and the simile “ant-like Morlocks” reduces both groups to specimens. The narrator even declares, “I tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit,” and the rhetorical question “Why should I trouble myself?” adopts a detached tone. This scientific lexis, alongside the generalisation “these inhuman sons of men,” creates an impression of a dispassionate observer cataloguing a disturbing ecosystem.

However, the writer repeatedly undercuts this pose to reveal his true feelings. The anaphora of “I tried… I even tried…” (“to preserve myself from the horror” and “a Carlyle-like scorn”) shows effortful self-protection rather than genuine indifference; these are strategies, not settled beliefs. The structural pivot “But this attitude of mind was impossible” signals the collapse of his detachment. Immediately, emotive language returns: the Eloi “had kept too much of the human form not to claim my sympathy,” and he becomes “a sharer in their degradation and their Fear.” Even earlier, his metaphor “last feeble rill from the great flood of humanity” carries clear pity, contradicting the idea of mere livestock.

The exclamatory aside “And there was Weena dancing at my side!” personalises the horror and breaks the scientific tone. After this, the writer shifts the focus to practical planning—a list of infinitives and modal verbs (“to secure,” “to make,” “I hoped,” “I should,” “would”)—which functions structurally as another coping mechanism, channelling anxiety into action. His desire for “the weapon of a torch” betrays ongoing fear.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: while the diction can appear cold and scientific, the writer’s use of metaphor, contrast, and structural shifts reveals that the narrator’s detachment is a conscious, fragile attempt to protect himself from the horror he cannot ignore.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might partly agree, noting the narrator’s detached tone and word choice when he calls the Eloi "mere fatted cattle" and says he looked at it in a "scientific spirit". It would also simply recognise the writer hints at his real fear through admissions like "I tried to preserve myself from the horror" and that the Eloi still "claim my sympathy", showing he is protecting himself.

I mostly agree with the statement. When the narrator calls the Eloi “mere fatted cattle,” he sounds cold and scientific. This metaphor dehumanises them and makes him seem detached. He also says, “I tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit,” which shows he is choosing a clinical way of thinking to keep his feelings under control.

However, the writer also shows that this is a defence. The repetition of “I tried” (“I tried to preserve myself from the horror”) suggests he is struggling, not naturally uncaring. The rhetorical question “Why should I trouble myself?” sounds like he is arguing with himself. He even reframes it as “a rigorous punishment of human selfishness,” which is a moral explanation to distance his emotions. But his true feelings break through: “from the bottom of my heart I pitied this last feeble rill” is openly emotional, and the exclamation “And there was Weena dancing at my side!” reminds us of his human connection. He finally admits, “this attitude of mind was impossible,” proving the scientific mask does not hold. The contrast in setting—morning “green and pleasant” versus the remembered “black and forbidding”—mirrors his shift from forced calm to fear.

The structure of his urgent plans also shows anxiety. He lists a “safe place of refuge,” “arms of metal or stone,” and “the weapon of a torch,” creating a hurried, fearful tone. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the cold language like “fatted cattle” is a protective strategy, but the pity, exclamation, and urgent planning reveal the horror underneath.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I mostly agree: he sounds cold and scientific when he calls the Eloi "fatted cattle" and says he looked at it in a "scientific spirit", but the writer shows he is protecting himself because he "tried to preserve myself from the horror" and admits they "claim my sympathy".

I mostly agree with the statement. When the narrator calls the Eloi “fatted cattle,” he sounds cold and scientific, but the writer also shows he is doing this to protect himself from what he has realised.

At first, in daylight, he tries to be calm and logical. He says he “tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit,” and the metaphor “fatted cattle” makes the Eloi seem like animals for meat. This creates a detached tone, and phrases like “inhuman sons of men” also make him distance himself.

However, the writer shows his real feelings breaking through. He admits he “tried to preserve myself from the horror,” which suggests he is forcing this attitude. He also says “from the bottom of my heart I pitied” them and even capitalises “Fear,” which hints at strong emotion. There is contrast between the “dainty ones… laughing and dancing” and his thought of “the meat,” and the exclamation “And there was Weena dancing at my side!” shows his shock and worry.

Finally, his list of plans for weapons and fire suggests anxiety and a need for safety. Overall, I agree to a large extent: he sounds cold, but mainly to protect himself from the horror he feels.

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:

• Dehumanising metaphor frames the Eloi as livestock to mimic clinical detachment, projecting a cold, analytical persona (fatted cattle)
• Stated attempt at objectivity signals a constructed mask; the effort itself hints at emotional strain beneath (scientific spirit)
• Moral rebranding of events as deserved justice reframes horror into theory, a clear self-protective rationalisation (rigorous punishment of human selfishness)
• Rhetorical question works to silence feeling, suggesting suppression rather than genuine indifference (Why should I trouble myself?)
• Sudden compassion punctures the façade, revealing shock and pity that contradict his supposed coolness (I pitied)
• Recognition of shared humanity compels empathy, making detachment untenable and the horror inescapably personal (claim my sympathy)
• Juxtaposition of idyllic play with predation intensifies unease, implying his calm tone hides revulsion (laughing and dancing)
• Personal bond interrupts analysis; the intimate aside foregrounds protective fear over science (Weena dancing at my side!)
• Action-focused planning channels anxiety into tasks, a coping strategy that betrays fear of the Morlocks (weapon of a torch)
• Allusive scorn and its failure show the mask slipping; he cannot sustain contempt to shield himself (Carlyle-like scorn)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For a time capsule to be opened in 2125, you are contributing a short piece that captures a moment in the natural world.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a misty river valley at dawn from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a year when the seasons reversed.

(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:

Mist unspools over the valley in long, deliberate skeins, a low-slung gauze that softens edges and smuggles silence into the earth. The river — cautious, pallid — threads the meadow, a quiet suture; above it, dawn gathers breath. Air bites the lips; the taste is mineral, fern-cool, like a sip from a tin cup. Grass stands bristled with dew, each blade needled with light not yet born, as if the morning rehearses itself inside the droplets. From the hedgerow comes the damp, clean smell of leaf-mould and nettle. Everything waits; even the shadows lean forward, alert to whatever the first bird will dare.

A faint susurration — reeds gossiping — breaks the hush, and the river answers with a small silver shiver where it eddies under alder roots. A heron lifts, at last, from its patient post and opens its hinged, smoke-grey wings; a cautious machine. The sound of it is almost nothing. Slowly, slowly, dawn works its delicate tools: first a pale lemon at the horizon, then amber slipping under the mist like a secret.

Close to the footpath, spiderwebs are netted with pearls, each thread a violin’s whisper. Brambles hold their breath; dog-roses wear a film of frost; a discarded bootprint, filled with sky, has become a miniature estuary. The bridge — three moss-dark stones — crosses where the river narrows to a ribbon, the obvious simile tugging at the tongue. I let it have me for a heartbeat: a silver ribbon around the valley. Then I send it away and notice instead the pebbles glinting like fish-bones, the current ticking against them like a patient metronome.

Beyond the bend, the valley widens; fields unroll in pale strips, stitched by dry-stone walls that drift in and out of existence. Cows appear as charcoal smudges, then re-form — a magician’s afterthought. The mist does not merely lie; it invents, refashioning distances, luring a sycamore closer, pushing a cottage away. When the sun finally peels the hill’s rim, light leaks downward in lambent veils and the whole scene loosens, as if someone exhaled. Colours seep back — bruised mauves, hesitant greens — and the river brightens from pewter to speech.

And yet, what compels is the in-between: this hour neither night nor day, a liminal grammar the valley speaks in low tones. I stand and listen for it — the barely-there drip from a hawthorn thorn, the tick of a beetle against a stalk, the clock of a farm unseen. Is it possible to keep such hush? To fold it into a pocket for later, like a note kept and reread? The mist thins, reluctantly, and the river resumes its clearer story. Still, in the breath before morning becomes morning, the world feels newly written, and I — reader, trespasser — am careful not to smudge the ink.

Option B:

January forgot itself.

It woke warm and honeyed. The hedgerows fizzed with hawthorn blossom, bees unzipped from their stitched sleep, and pollen settled on car windscreens as if the night had exhaled gilt. The radio said anomaly; the old men outside the bakery shook their heads and called it omen. We laughed, a little too loudly, and pegged shirts to lines that should have been stiff with ice. February followed suit—lawns shorn, suncream found and half-believed; children chalked suns on pavements that should have been slick with sleet. By March, leaves began to bronze and drop like exhausted birds. Spring had wandered off and Autumn came early, conkers thudding to ground with a percussion that felt wrong in our bones.

Mara kept time by smell: the peppery lift of tomato leaves, the clean bite of frost, the bruised sweetness of fallen plums. The year betrayed her nose first. She worked in the council greenhouse, a glass cathedral that thrummed in winter with fans and bees, and then—absurdly—fell silent in July when ice lacquered the panes. Her hands learned new choreography: sow runner beans in January; stake sunburnt roses in March; sweep papery leaves in April; drag shade cloth over lettuces while passers-by blinked at her in wool coats. Neighbours inverted their wardrobes, digging out sandals for New Year’s Day and then rummaging for scarves when the solstice brought a hard, blue brightness that bit the lungs.

Timetables slithered. Schools held Sports Day in February; Easter hatched into a blaze of heat. June arrived with a knife-edge and a sky brittle as china. Our breath ghosted in the afternoon; puddles froze with a skin so clear you didn’t see it until you heard the thin crack. The river seized, a pane of hammered glass that sang under your boots (a dangerous, beckoning note). In August, snow came—quiet, inexorable, a palimpsest of white laid over trampolines and roses and rust. October, contrarily, burst into primroses and lambs; the ewes, confused but obliging, made a nursery of the wet fields. The weather forecast acquired a nervous laugh. We, by and large, pretended we were fine.

In the allotments, Mara’s grandmother had once said, Don’t plant out before the blackthorn flowers. Blackthorn did in January that year, a froth of blossom like frost reversed. So Mara stood in the heat with a paintbrush and a jam jar, dusting pollen from flower to flower because bees, suddenly soporific in July, would be asleep when the pears decided to set. She felt foolish, priestly, necessary. After all, she had promised to keep the plot going; promises bite harder when the calendar slips its gears.

On the first snow of August, she walked to the lido out of habit. The pool was an oval of ice, opaque and tempting, and someone had scrawled HELLO with a heel. A boy in a mustard jumper stood on the diving board, pale against the parchment sky. “Don’t,” Mara called, though her voice came out softer than she intended. He turned, smile brief as a match flare, and the winter-summer wind lifted—salt and iron, a scent she couldn’t place. That was when the ice sang again, higher, and the year, already backwards, seemed to hold its breath.

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

Option A:

The mist has pooled in the valley like spilt milk, pale and quiet, a diaphanous veil that softens thorns and eats the corners of fields. The river meanders through it, a ribbon of pewter that flashes where a seam of early light stitches itself into the water. Hedges lose their blades; fence posts taper into ghosts; rocks become the backs of sleeping animals. Even sound seems padded, as if wrapped carefully in wool. I stand on the lip of the slope and taste the metallic cold. The air smells of damp soil, moss, soaked bark—green and mineral, earthy and clean.

Day assembles itself slowly: first a faint lemon bruise at the far ridge, then a suggestion of rose that loosens the grey. Each reed carries a bead of water; each bead cradles an inverted world. Spider silk is strung between rushes like glass thread, absurdly delicate and sure. The river speaks in small voices—purls and glugs, a soft licking at the ankles of the bank—while the mist replies with silence; it is not emptiness, exactly, but a careful hush. A blackbird practises a bright phrase. A moorhen skitters, leaving arrowheads of ripples that widen, then thin, then forget.

As the light strengthens, colour reconsiders itself. Greens unfreeze; the fields remember they are grass. Willows ravel out of the whiteness, their hair damp, their shadows long and scribbled across the bank. A heron lifts—hinged and deliberate—from a muddy promontory and drifts into the paling sky. The chill holds on and then retreats; my breath plumes, then thins, then hardly shows at all. On the path, my boot prints brim with clear water, then empty. Somewhere (if somewhere exists in this soft geography) a gate clicks; somewhere else, cattle cough and shuffle. It feels ordinary, and yet a kind of ceremony.

By the time the sun breaks free—slow as a held breath—the valley begins to unscroll its detail. The mist tugs loose, strand by strand; alder cones, bitten leaves, the chiselled gleam of stone, all return. The river is silver rather than pewter now: quickened, intent, ruffling itself around the bend. A sour-sweet scent lifts from the mud; the nettles add something peppery; the world makes itself known by degrees. A skein of geese veers; their calls cut the hush, clean and old. I blink, and the last ribbon of vapour slides along the water and is gone.

Option B:

The calendar insisted on June; the window argued back. Frost stitched thin white handwriting across the glass, hedges hunched under it, and daylight arrived late, like a shy guest who wasn’t sure of the address. Lawns wore a crust of sugar; roofs smoked; the wind had teeth. Somewhere a lawnmower should have been whining, a bold green smell should have been lifting from the verges; instead, the street exhaled woodsmoke and the cold, metallic tang of snow. Everything was neatly wrong: flip-flops beside wool socks; a beach ball stranded under a holly bush; a seagull sulking atop a yellow grit bin. The year had turned its coat inside out, seams showing, labels flapping.

Lena tightened the scarf her aunt had knitted and tucked her exam timetable deeper into her pocket, next to a pair of mittens and a pencil she trusted. She had revised in May with the radiator buzzing and the garden glazed; today she would sit English in a sports hall that would hum with electric heaters while snow pressed its quiet face to the high windows. Summer was supposed to make everything easier—looser, lighter—but the air bit at her cheeks, and anxiety skittered under her ribs like trapped sleet. She slipped a small bottle of sunscreen into her bag out of habit, ridiculous and comforting at once; she had always carried it in June, as if routine itself might be a charm.

Back in January, the town had bloomed as if someone had turned the calendar upside down and shaken it: daisies sprang up along the verges, teenagers played cricket in pale, improbable sunshine, and her uncle burned his nose at a New Year barbecue. In March the cherry trees burst extravagantly; in April the allotments steamed and strawberries blushed early; by May the heat felt used-up, exhausted—as if the year had run too fast and needed to lie down. People adjusted because that’s what people do: ice-cream vans sold soup—an incongruous jingle trailing behind hot ladles; the council gritted nothing and then everything; shop windows offered sandals beside de-icer. Old sayings faltered. What good is a rhyme about April showers when rain refuses its lines?

At the bus stop, breath lifted from waiting mouths in small, disciplined clouds. A child gave a lopsided snowman sunglasses; a robin watched from the shelter as if it, too, was learning the rules. Lena checked the time—two minutes—and stepped forward when the bus yawned to a stop.

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

Option A:

The valley is a bowl of breath, lipped with dark trees and filled with pale, patient mist. It hovers over the river in soft folds, a loose blanket that sifts the light and hushes the earth. Ahead, the river winds like a dull ribbon of pewter; its surface is glassy except where a slow, secret current creases it. Spider webs net the hedgerow and the gateposts, each thread beaded with dew—minute pearls that wink as dawn loosens. The air is cold and clean on the teeth, metallic almost, and damp earth exudes a smell like mushrooms and rain. Sound is muffled, tucked away: a rook coughs in the copse; water whispers against the roots of an alder; the distant bleat of something alive is smudged into the white. The mist moves as if breathing—out and in, out and in—laying itself over field and reed.

As the light grows, it spills carefully, then more willingly, into the valley. The eastern sky pales to a muted apricot, and the first true glint touches the river so that, briefly, it seems to luminesce. Reeds stand in ranks, their seedheads sodden and precise; each flick of the breeze makes a soft, papery sound. On the slope, bleached grass clumps look like sleeping animals. A heron lifts with a deliberate effort, legs trailing like broken twigs, its grey wings slicing the fog. Nearby, the wooden footbridge darkens with moisture; its planks are slick, its rails jewelled. The footbridge waits, nobody has crossed it yet. Somewhere behind me, a twig clicks—then silence again—then a flood of tiny ripples as a trout noses the surface and is gone. Concurrently, up on the ridge, the horizon sharpens and the last of the stars thin away, while down here everything is softened, rendered gentle and slightly unsure.

Beyond the bend, the river slows and widens: a pool of smoky silver where reeds make a scruffy fringe. Patches of ground appear and vanish as the mist unthreads itself. The valley begins to declare its shapes—hedge, track, the squat shadow of a cottage—each revealed with care. When the sun finally clears the trees, the fog lifts in slow scrolls, climbing, loosening, giving back the colours it borrowed. It is quietly ordinary and, somehow, astonishing; the world waking by increments, again and again, until the day stands up.

Option B:

July arrived wearing a scarf. The sun rose late and thin, pale as milk, and frost scribbled its signature across the windscreen of Dad’s car. The calendar declared summer; the garden disagreed. Roses hunched like sulky children; the lawn crackled underfoot. This was the year the seasons reversed, as if someone had turned the globe with gloves on, smudging everything out of place.

At first, we laughed; it felt like a prank pulled by the planet. We wore woolly hats with our school polo shirts—an incongruous pairing—and posted breath like smoke signals into the brittle morning. Mum made cocoa in July—extra cinnamon—while the dog, usually sun-drunk, curled by the radiator. The news read statistics in a calm voice that didn’t match the glitter of ice on the roses.

By August the joke had chilled. It wasn’t just the cold; it was the confusion: the tart scent of blackberries ripening then tightening back to green; bees bumping against the shed, disorientated; the council scattering grit on a seafront that smelt of brine and chips. We learned to layer. We learned to look at the sky and guess.

Then December blazed. Heat rose from the tarmac in waves, and Christmas lights squinted in the glare. Tinsel clung to sweaty fingers; the tree sighed resin into the living room like hot breath. Gran’s snow-globes looked like lies. Carols felt strange in sunglasses, but we sang anyway because the calendar insisted and some habits are stubborn.

On the morning of my thirteenth birthday, I packed sunscreen beside a cracker and a paper crown. It was an absurd arrangement—useful, festive, slightly embarrassing—and it made me think about all the other things to rearrange: exams moved, harvests shifted, lambing weeks inked into new months. If the world could change its mind, perhaps I could too.

Spring came, eventually, in October: a soft, luminous thing that crept under hedges and along verges as if apologising for being late. Daffodils flared beside conkers; a fox trotted through mist with burrs in its tail. I carried a coat and a bottle of water; I checked the sky; I listened. Something else was turning, not just the year, and I could feel it begin.

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

Option A:

The valley holds its breath. Mist has pooled in the curve of the land, a pale sheet laid carefully between the dark shoulders of the hills. It drifts and folds, feathering the hedges, softening the grey rocks; even the fence posts look patient. The river underneath is a suggestion, a silver thread stitched loosely through the cloth. Cold air touches my face and hands. It smells of wet leaves and clean water, faintly metallic. A hush lies on everything, not empty but expectant, as if the day is waiting to speak.

A heron stands ankle-deep at the bend, stern and still, its reflection broken by shy ripples. Reeds rustle very quietly. Cobwebs hang from the gate like gossamer flags, each strand pricked with dew — tiny, trembling beads that catch the thin light. The sun is there but not yet strong, a diluted coin behind the ridge, and the mist answers it, glowing softly, soft, softer. Somewhere under the white veil, the river chuckles; low, private laughter. When a trout turns, a circle widens and widens, then fades back into milk.

On the far bank, willows lean, their long fingers combing the fog. A cattle grid glints faintly. From a farmhouse, distant, a dog gives a single bark, then another, and a thread of smoke lifts straight up. The path is slick, and boot prints look like dark petals pressed into the mud. I taste the damp on my tongue: cool, earthy, not unpleasant. Time stretches — slow as breath — while colour creeps in. The hills change from charcoal to green. By the time the first bird calls clearly, the valley exhales, and the river shows itself. In the shallows, pebbles appear, clear as coins, and a faint blue breaks the grey.

Option B:

Spring wore a coat that year. Summer hid in the hedges, shivering. The calendar still turned, neat blocks and ordinary numbers, but the air refused to listen; it had its own plan. Blossom fell in December like confetti at a wedding, and in June the pavements crisped with ice that squeaked under our trainers.

Leah stood by the door with a bag that didn’t make sense: gloves, sunglasses, a wool hat, a bottle of aftersun. She zipped and unzipped it, unsure, fingers fumbling as if the zip could tell her the order of things. Her mum fussed with the scarf, then stopped, laughing softly at herself. “See? Even my hands forget,” she said, and shook her head.

Outside, the garden looked shocked. The roses had tried to bloom early and froze mid-sigh; the pond wore a thin window of ice, translucent and mean. Their breath came like little ghosts. Somewhere a blackbird sang anyway, stubborn, a bright pin of sound in the brittle morning.

Leah remembered December, when heat lay over the town like a heavy curtain. Christmas lights sagged in the glare. People bought ice lollies and then watched them drip down wrists, sticky and sweet. The fan in her bedroom rattled like a loose tooth; snowflakes on wrapping paper felt like a joke. They ate cold salad on Christmas Day and her dad grilled in the garden, a Santa hat stuck to his forehead with sweat.

Now the bus squealed into the street and everyone climbed on, a jumble of bobble hats and shorts, winter boots with bare knees. Conversations steamed the windows; it smelt of wool and mint gum. Leah found a seat and held the bag tight.

Would the year keep going backwards, she wondered, or would it balance itself again? She looked at the pale sun, thin as a coin, and thought of beaches that might arrive in October, of leaves that might fall up. It was strange, and a little bit frightening—but also, quietly, exciting.

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

Option A:

At first the valley feels like it is sleeping. Mist folds over the ground like a pale blanket, soft and damp. The river winds under it, a silver ribbon almost hidden. Dawn is a thin finger of light on the ridge. It is quiet; even the birds hold back. I smell wet earth and cold reeds, the air taste faintly of metal.

Then shapes begin to form. A fence leans from the whiteness, posts dark as charcoal. The mist hangs low, it curls around the willow trunks and slides across the water. The surface is smooth, glassy; every so often a circle widens and fades, widens and fades, as if the river is breathing. Spider webs hang like little necklaces; each bead is a drop.

Meanwhile, the hills wait at the edges. A heron lifts slowly and the wind brushes the grass, a whisper that barely stirs. Colours begin to change—grey to blue, blue to a weak gold. The sun is a pale coin - shy at first - behind the trees.

By the time the first ray slips into the bend, the mist loosens. It thins in streams and clears above the current; reeds show green, pebbles brown. The river keeps winding, steady and sure. Slowly, slowly the day spreads, and the quiet is not empty—it is full.

Option B:

January smelled of cut grass. The pavement steamed, as if the town had been slipped under glass, and the sun sat on the roofs like a lazy cat. Daisies poked through the frost that never came; the calendar sulked on the wall, all blue snowflakes and mittens, lying to us. People walked past with their coats hanging open, faces shiny in the heat. I watched a bee wobble between the fairy lights still looped across our gutter from December, and it felt like the world had shuffled its cards and lost count.

I reached out of my bedroom window; warm air stroked my fingers. Mum stood in the kitchen with a glass of water and said, 'This can't be right,' and Dad kept refreshing the weather app. The newsreader tried to smile and told us seasons were reversing, a word like 'anomaly' crawling along the bottom of the screen. School sent a message: sports day moved to January, bring hats and suncream. I mowed the lawn while Christmas cards flapped on the shelf, and butterflies scattered from our holly bush.

At first, everyone laughed. We ate ice cream on New Year’s Day, we said it was a treat. But by May, a thin cold crept under the door, sharp as nettles. In June, leaves turned brittle and fell; our breath made ghosts in the morning. I walked to the bus in July wearing gloves. The year had flipped over, and I began to wonder what else could turn itself inside out—us, maybe.

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

Option A:

Mist lies low over the river, like a blanket someone forgot to fold. The water slides around the bend; it murmurs against stones I can’t see. It is early, the kind of cold that nips fingers, and the grass is wet and shining. A bluish-grey breath sits between the banks. The air smells of damp earth and reeds, a clean, new smell.

The far trees are not trees at first; they are only shapes, soft silhouettes pressed on the hill. A spider web hangs from the gatepost, delicate with tiny beads. At first the valley is quiet. Then sound creeps in: a blackbird clears its throat, a sheep coughs, a small splash. The path is thin – almost invisible – but it leads down, careful, careful, to the slow curve.

Across the field the mist lifts and drops, back and forth, back and forth, as if it breathes. I breathe too, and my breath joins it. Soon a faint stripe of gold opens on the horizon, and the edges of things sharpen. Grass tips glow; the river shows its silver skin. The day begins, but it isn’t loud. I stand and listen, and watch. The valley wakes, not fast, and the river just keeps going.

Option B:

Spring was never like this. That year the seasons turned upside down, like someone had shaken the globe on the teacher’s desk. In June, leaves fell like dry confetti, tapping on roofs; in December the air was warm and sticky, like hot jam. How were we meant to know what to wear? The calendar was wrong, the birds were wrong; people stood on doorsteps staring at clouds. It was supposed to be spring, the lawn was stiff as glass and the daffodils shut their faces.

That morning, Mum gave me a coat and sunglasses and said, just try both. I was thirteen, and I wanted to understand it, so I kept a notebook: dates, temperatures, sketches of clouds that looked like burnt toast. At first it felt exciting. We wore scarves in August and flip-flops at Christmas. But after a while it was wierd. The blackberries froze on the fence, then they melted into purple mush. I planted tomato seeds in winter and they sprouted in frost; the plants looked confused – small, green, stubborn. By night the streets steamed, by morning they crackled. It felt like the world had turned over in its sleep. Something had shifted.

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

Option A:

The pale sun is still hiding. Mist sits on the river like a sheet, white and slow. The valley is quiet, it feels like the world has held its breath. Water slips round the bend and the light touches it, it looks silver and grey. I can smell wet mud and cold grass. My shoes are damp.

The trees stand up thin, their tops lost in the mist - they look like they are cut off. The bank is dark. I see a heron, it is still as a stick, it watches the slow water that goes and goes, backwards and forwards.

Dawn is trying to start. The sun peeks and the mist lifts a bit, it moves like breath. There was birds on the far field and a cow calling, far, far away. The river just keeps on, it dont hurry, it just keeps on.

Option B:

Winter came first that year. The months got mixed up, like clothes in a wrong drawer. Snow fell on July, it made the grass crunch under my trainers. The sun was up but it looked tired like an old torch.

Then autumn started in the spring, leaves went brown while small flowers tried to grow. The wind pushed at the windows and shouted down the street. It was cold. It was wrong.

I pulled on my wooly hat for the bus to school. My breath puffed like smoke. I touched the fence and it bit my fingers cold. Mum said its just weather and to hurry up, but I knew it was wrong.

It should of been warm.

In December the trees were green again, kids had paddling pools out, it felt sticky, like summer got lost and came late. The year had turned over, like a book upside down.

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

Option A:

The river is long and grey in the morning. Mist sit on it like a blanket and it creeps over the grass, cold on my shoes. The sun is not up right, only pale light, and the water moves slow, going round the bend. I hear one bird, it sounds far away. Trees is dark and wet, the trunks look black. The air smells damp, like stone and soil. Low hills hide in it. There is a path and a old fence and nobody is there, me and the fog, I think of home and tea, a car hums.

Option B:

Spring was wrong. Snow came and the sky was grey and heavy, it should be warm but it wasnt. The lambs looked cold like me. Summer was next and it was still cold with frost on the grass and the swings, my breath was like smoke. Mum said its okay, its just a wierd year and we just get on with it. I put on a coat for July and my ears hurt and the bus was late and I forgot my lunch. Leaves grew in December and fell in May, we was waiting for normal but it didnt come.