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 Mrs Hall and Hall think the front door did?: open and shut – 1 mark
• 1.2 After passing Hall in the passage, what did Mrs Hall do next?: Mrs Hall ran on first upstairs – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which sound occurred on the staircase?: a sneeze – 1 mark
• 1.4 How many steps behind was Hall following?: six steps – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 10 of the source:

1 As they came up the cellar steps they both, it was afterwards ascertained, fancied they heard the front door open and shut, but seeing it closed and nothing there, neither said a word to the other about it at the time. Mrs. Hall passed her husband in the passage and ran on first upstairs. Someone sneezed on the staircase. Hall, following six steps behind, thought that he

6 heard her sneeze. She, going on first, was under the impression that Hall was sneezing. She flung open the door and stood regarding the room. “Of all the curious!” she said. She heard a sniff close behind her head as it seemed, and turning, was

How does the writer use language here to create confusion and unease as Mrs. Hall enters the room? 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: Through hedging and passive distance, the parenthetical it was afterwards ascertained and tentative fancied they heard cast doubt on perception, while the abrupt, simple sentence Someone sneezed on the staircase and shifting misattributions—thought that he heard her sneeze and was under the impression that Hall was sneezing—destabilise focalisation to blur agency and create confusion. Aural, proximate detail like sniff close behind her head, qualified by as it seemed, alongside the sudden dynamic flung open and the startled exclamation Of all the curious!, heightens unease by making an unseen presence feel immediate yet unverifiable.

The writer layers uncertainty from the outset, using parenthesis and a passive construction to distance events: 'it was afterwards ascertained' suggests retrospective narration, while the tentative verb 'fancied' is epistemic hedging that undermines the reliability of perception. The negatives in 'seeing it closed and nothing there' and the collusive silence of 'neither said a word' heighten unease. Even the hypotactic, multi-clause opening sentence meanders with qualifications, mimicking their mental fumbling and creating a fog of confusion 'at the time'.

Moreover, auditory imagery is weaponised to unsettle. The abrupt simple sentence 'Someone sneezed on the staircase' deploys an indefinite pronoun to posit an agentless sound, a sharp jolt after the flowing syntax. Then balanced parallelism intensifies misapprehension: 'Hall... thought that he heard her sneeze. She... was under the impression that Hall was sneezing.' The mirroring and shifting focalisation trap the reader between viewpoints, while pervasive sibilance in 'sneezed... staircase... she... sneezing' whispers through the line, suggesting secrecy and making us strain to listen.

Additionally, dynamic verbs (she 'ran' and 'flung open the door') create breathless urgency, before the pause of 'stood regarding the room' suspends action to prolong dread. The exclamative 'Of all the curious!' and the lexeme 'curious' (strange) mark bafflement. Finally, the onomatopoeic 'sniff' 'close behind her head' invades intimate space, yet the hedge 'as it seemed' reasserts doubt. The closing suspended clause 'and turning, was' leaves perception literally unfinished, sustaining the atmosphere of confusion and unease as Mrs. Hall enters.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Confusion is built through the long, multi-clause opening with the hedging aside it was afterwards ascertained and the indefinite, abrupt short sentence Someone sneezed on the staircase, while the conflicting perceptions he heard her sneeze and under the impression that Hall was sneezing show both characters are mistaken. Repeated sound verbs like heard and sniff, plus the hedge as it seemed and the detail close behind her head, heighten unease about an unseen presence.

The writer uses tentative language and hedging to present confusion as Mrs. Hall enters the room. The parenthetical clause “it was afterwards ascertained” and the verb “fancied they heard” suggest uncertainty and retrospective doubt. Likewise, the qualifiers “thought that he heard” and “was under the impression” emphasise unreliable perception. This makes the reader unsure who, if anyone, is present, building unease.

Moreover, sentence forms heighten this mood. The opening complex sentence, packed with commas, mimics a muddled thought process, while the abrupt simple sentence “Someone sneezed on the staircase” is startling in its brevity. The indefinite pronoun “Someone” deliberately withholds identity, creating ambiguity. The dynamic verb “flung” in “She flung open the door” conveys haste and tension as she enters.

Furthermore, the writer relies on auditory imagery: “sneezed”, “heard”, “sniff” to suggest a presence that cannot be seen. The exclamative “Of all the curious!” signals her alarm, while “a sniff close behind her head, as it seemed” uses proximity and the qualifier “as it seemed” to make the moment feel invasive and uncanny. Altogether, these choices clearly create confusion and a growing sense of unease.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer creates confusion with vague, uncertain phrases like "thought that he heard her sneeze" and "was under the impression that Hall was sneezing", so we’re not sure who made the sound. The vague, short sentence "Someone sneezed on the staircase" and eerie details like "a sniff close behind her head" and "as it seemed" build unease by hinting at something unseen nearby.

The writer uses uncertain phrasing to create confusion. “it was afterwards ascertained” and “fancied they heard” show doubt about the sounds, so the reader is unsure what is real. The indefinite pronoun “Someone sneezed” adds mystery: we don’t know who, which makes us uneasy. Furthermore, the similar lines “he heard her sneeze” and “she… was under the impression that Hall was sneezing” show both characters are mistaken, increasing confusion. Additionally, sound imagery like “sneezed” and “a sniff close behind her head” is creepy because it suggests an unseen presence right next to her; the phrase “as it seemed” keeps things uncertain. Moreover, the long opening sentence and the exclamation “Of all the curious!” show her shock and the strangeness of the room. Overall, these language choices create confusion and unease as Mrs. Hall enters.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might spot vague phrases like "fancied they heard", "under the impression" and "as it seemed" that show uncertainty, and notice the short sentence "Someone sneezed on the staircase." and the sound detail "a sniff close behind her head" to say this makes it confusing and uneasy.

The writer uses vague words to show confusion. Phrases like “fancied they heard” and “was under the impression” make it unclear, so the reader feels uneasy. Moreover, the short sentence “Someone sneezed” is sudden and makes tension. Furthermore, the repetition of “sneeze/sneezing” and the mix-up of “he heard her” and “she…was under the impression” shows no one knows who did it, which confuses us. Additionally, “a sniff close behind her head” and “as it seemed” sound creepy as Mrs. Hall enters, while the long opening sentence with many commas adds to the muddle. Therefore, the language creates confusion and unease.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Retrospective aside distances the account, making events seem second-hand and uncertain, which breeds confusion (it was afterwards ascertained)
• Tentative verb choice signals doubtful perception, unsettling the reader about what was truly heard (fancied they heard)
• Sensory contradiction pits hearing against sight, creating cognitive dissonance and unease (nothing there)
• Suppressed dialogue heightens tension; their silence stops clarification and lets suspicion grow (neither said a word)
• Indefinite subject hints at an unseen presence, intensifying anxiety about who is there (Someone sneezed)
• Spatial separation primes mishearing; the gap makes the sound’s source ambiguous (following six steps behind)
• Mirrored misreadings show each blaming the other, reinforcing the theme of mutual confusion (under the impression)
• Invasive sensory detail suggests an unknown figure invading personal space, provoking fear (close behind her head)
• Hedging qualifier undermines even immediate sensations, deepening uncertainty (as it seemed)
• Truncated clause cuts off mid-action, suspending the moment to create suspense and unease (and turning, was)

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 story.

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

You could write about:

• how disorientation intensifies throughout 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 how disorientation intensifies across the whole extract: beginning with conflicting perceptions (they fancied the front door open and shut; Someone sneezed while each is under the impression the other did), accelerating via cumulative sequencing (Immediately after... Then... and then) and tonal jolts (laughing drily, then abruptly everything was still), then swerving to communal stasis (a great deal of talk and no decisive action) before uncanny agency (of its own accord) and relentless staring culminate in a percussive slammed door—structural turns that keep cause and effect unstable and the reader off-balance.

One way in which the writer structures the passage to create disorientation is by beginning with retrospective narration and misaligned focalisation. The narrator’s aside—“it was afterwards ascertained”—immediately casts the present action as contested, as if pieced together from conflicting testimonies. That indeterminacy is reinforced by the indefinite “someone sneezed” and the pronominal criss-crossing—“he heard her sneeze… she… was under the impression”—so our point of reference keeps slipping. Even space refuses to settle: a “sniff close behind her head” is contradicted by Hall being “a dozen feet off”. Structurally, the writer builds a platform of uncertainty before anything overtly uncanny occurs, so the reader is already off-balance.

In addition, the writer accelerates the narrative through parataxis and anaphoric “then” to create a kinetic crescendo that overwhelms orientation. The bedclothes “gathered… leapt… jumped,” the hat “hopped… dashed,” “then as swiftly” the sponge, “then the chair”—a piling of active verbs and successive clauses that speeds the tempo and denies causal explanation. Anthropomorphised furniture “impelled” the couple out, the door “slammed… and was locked”: agency appears everywhere and nowhere. This flurry is followed by an abrupt caesura—“then abruptly everything was still”—a jarring gear-change that leaves the reader dizzy, as if the narrative itself had lurched.

A further structural choice widens the focus to a debating chorus, slowing time with digression—“Anglo-Saxon… government”—before a volte-face as the door “opened of its own accord”. The deictic “Look there!” misdirects, this door motif “slammed,” and the closing silence—“Not a word…” with the “alternative unsaid”—suspends resolution, sustaining disorientation.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer structures the extract to intensify disorientation: it opens with conflicting, misheard cues—fancied they heard, Someone sneezed, under the impression—then escalates to impossible actions as objects leapt up and the chair charged, before an abrupt pause when everything was still. It then shifts from private chaos to a hesitant crowd—where there was a great deal of talk and no decisive action—delaying clarity until the door opens of its own accord and the stranger, staring, slammed the door, keeping the cause unknown.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create disorientation is through shifting focus and retrospective intrusion. Opening in medias res (“as they came up the cellar steps”) and the aside “afterwards ascertained” unsettle chronology. Focalisation flickers between Mrs Hall and Hall—“thought that he heard her sneeze” / “she… was under the impression”—so the same sound is misread, and the surprise “to see Hall a dozen feet off” scrambles spatial certainty.

In addition, the writer manipulates pace through cumulative listing and temporal adverbials. A rapid chain—“Immediately after… then… then”—hurls bedclothes, hat, sponge and chair at Mrs Hall. The repeated “then” and short main clauses produce a staccato rhythm that overwhelms cause and effect, before a jarring gear-change—“then abruptly everything was still”—wrong-foots the reader.

A further structural choice is the tonal and setting shift to communal debate, then a sudden reversal. The focus widens to passage and street; dialogue slows action—“a great deal of talk and no decisive action”—prolonging uncertainty. This lull is exploded by “suddenly… the door… opened”, the recurring door motif (heard, slammed, opened, slammed) framing a misdirection—“Look there!”—and an anticlimactic slam, leaving stunned silence.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies that the writer builds disorientation by moving from small confusions like "Someone sneezed" to fast, unpredictable events signalled by "suddenly", "Immediately after" and "abruptly". Notes a shift in pace and focus from "a great deal of talk and no decisive action" to the shock when the door "opened of its own accord" and then "slammed", showing how the structure intensifies confusion.

One way in which the writer structures the opening to create disorientation is by beginning with uncertain sounds and mixed viewpoints. At the start they “fancied they heard” the door and each thinks the other sneezed. This shift between “she” and “he” makes the reader unsure what is real.

In addition, the pace speeds up with a sequence of actions. Signalled by “a most extraordinary thing happened,” the bedclothes, hat, sponge and chair move in a list, and a short clause like “She screamed and turned.” Change in pace and contrast of “everything was still” add confusion.

A further structural feature is the change in focus at the end. The scene switches to the crowd talking, which slows the pace, then the door “opened of its own accord” and the stranger appears. This shift in perspective and the final slam act like a cliff-hanger, keeping us disorientated.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer creates disorientation by starting with mixed-up sounds like "Someone sneezed" and people "under the impression" the other did it, then using lots of "then" and "suddenly" as things "opened of its own accord". It ends with shocks like "The door slammed violently" and a sudden calm, "abruptly everything was still", which leaves the reader confused.

One way the writer structures disorientation is at the start. We get “someone sneezed” and each thinks the other did it. This unclear focus makes the reader unsure.

In addition, the action then comes in a quick sequence: bedclothes leap, hat flies, chair charges. This order and short bits of action speed the pace and feel chaotic.

A further structural feature is a change in focus and mood. After panic, there’s calm talk downstairs, then suddenly the door opens and the stranger slams it. This abrupt ending disorients the reader.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Retrospective uncertainty and withheld speech at the outset: reported perception and silence seed doubt and a disorientating baseline (fancied they heard)
• Crossed attribution of the sneeze: split perspectives make cause and source unstable, dislocating the reader’s grip on events (under the impression)
• Spatial dislocation on the stairs: a rapid jump from distance to proximity unsettles where bodies are in relation to each other (a dozen feet off)
• Cumulative escalation via chained sequencing: each beat tops the last, quickening pace and intensifying chaos (and then the chair)
• Inanimate agency/personification: familiar objects act willfully, overturning domestic order into uncanny spectacle (dance of triumph)
• Whiplash pacing: frenetic movement followed by a jarring halt amplifies shock and bewilderment (abruptly everything was still)
• Tonal and setting pivot to homely normality (restoratives, errands) undercuts the uncanny, keeping readers off-balance (golden five o’clock sunshine)
• Crowd deliberation stalls momentum: talk replaces action, stretching suspense and diffusing focus across voices (no decisive action)
• Recurrent door motif—heard, slammed, locked, then self-opening—repeatedly resets boundaries and expectations (opened of its own accord)
• Exclusion and unresolved close: the group is shut out, silence follows, and the scene leaves judgement hanging (left the alternative unsaid)

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 chair charges at Mrs Hall, the attack seems more comical than genuinely scary. The writer suggests the supernatural events are meant to feel bizarre and chaotic rather than simply terrifying.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the attack on Mrs Hall
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the supernatural events
• 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 argue that the writer largely makes the scene comical and bizarre rather than purely terrifying, analysing the personified farce of objects laughing drily and executing a dance of triumph, the slapstick shove gently but firmly, and the villagers’ bathetic dithering—the Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government, A door onbust... ye can’t onbust—while still evaluating how flashes of menace in verbs like charged and slammed violently sustain an undercurrent of threat.

I largely agree that the attack reads as more comical than terrifying; the writer crafts a sequence of bizarre, chaotic incidents whose very incongruity undercuts sustained fear. From the outset, the narrator’s framing—“a most extraordinary thing happened”—invites curiosity rather than dread. The domestic objects are animated through vivid personification: the “bed-clothes gathered themselves together, leapt… and then jumped,” a tricolon of dynamic verbs that feels playful and balletic. Likewise, the hat “hopped” and “described a whirling flight,” a jaunty choreography that positions the poltergeist activity as spectacle. The cumulative listing, signalled by connective adverbs—“Immediately after,” “Then”—accelerates the pace into a comic cascade of flying trifles (hat, sponge) before the scene escalates to the chair, amplifying chaos over horror.

When the chair “charged,” the writer pointedly blends militaristic lexis with bathos to deflate menace. The chair “laughing drily” in a voice like the stranger’s is a striking piece of anthropomorphism; the very notion of furniture “laughing” transforms threat into absurdity. Even the apparent aggression—“seemed to take aim… and charged”—is immediately undercut by the adverbial qualification “gently but firmly,” so that the attack becomes more like a polite ushering-out than an assault. The formal diction of “impelled” further satirises the violence, and the aftermath—chair and bed “executing a dance of triumph”—converts the scene into triumphal slapstick. There are flashes of menace (“She screamed,” the door “slammed violently”), but the tonal centre is comic incongruity.

In the aftermath, the narrative voice continually punctures fear with irony. The fainting Mrs Hall is treated with a dry, cod-scientific register—“the restoratives customary in such cases”—which trivialises the crisis. Dialogue in dialect (“’Tas sperits… He’s put the sperits into the furniture”) exposes the villagers’ credulity, and Mrs Hall’s sentimental lament—“My good old furniture… To think it should rise up against me now!”—is knowingly bathetic. Structurally, the scene widens into communal farce: in the “golden five o’clock sunshine,” a placid pastoral backdrop, the “Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government” turns the crowd into a talkative, dithering chorus—“a great deal of talk and no decisive action.” Even the supernatural continues to be presented as odd rather than awful: the door opens “of its own accord,” the stranger’s “unreasonably large blue glass eyes” are grotesque yet cartoonish, and his “Look there!” to a mere “bottle of sarsaparilla” is a masterstroke of bathos before he “slammed the door” again. The closing understatement—“Well, if that don’t lick everything!”—leaves us bemused, not horrified.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: through personification, cumulative pacing, ironic narrative asides and comic juxtaposition, the writer renders the episode riotously bizarre and chaotic, with only fleeting notes of genuine fear.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that while there is some threat in the chair 'charged at her' and the door 'slammed violently', the comic personification and bathos—the chair 'laughing drily', 'executing a dance of triumph', and the narrator’s 'Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government'—make the scene bizarre and chaotic rather than terrifying. It would also note anticlimax and mundane detail, such as the stranger pointing to a 'bottle of sarsaparilla' and villagers’ dialect ('’Tas sperits'), to show how humour undercuts fear.

I largely agree that the attack feels more comical and chaotic than genuinely frightening. From the start, the writer’s language makes the objects behave like mischievous performers rather than threats. The bedclothes “gathered themselves,” “leapt up,” and the hat “hopped” and “described a whirling flight,” which uses playful dynamic verbs and an oddly precise phrase (“the better part of a circle”) to create a bizarre, almost slapstick sequence. The simile “as if a hand had clutched them” hints at menace, but the cumulative, polysyndetic listing (“Immediately after… Then as swiftly… and then the chair…”) builds breathless chaos more than dread.

When the chair attacks, anthropomorphism makes it comic: it is “laughing drily” and “seemed to take aim… and charged.” Although “charged” sounds violent, the action is undercut when the legs come “gently but firmly” against Mrs Hall, almost ushering her out. Even the furniture’s “dance of triumph” is humorous personification. There are flashes of fear—“the door slammed violently and was locked”—but the tone quickly lightens.

The townsfolk’s reactions turn the scene into farce. The formal, ironic narrator says they applied “the restoratives customary in such cases,” and Mrs Hall’s dialect (“’Tas sperits… He’s put the sperits into the furniture… My good old furniture!”) is comic in its melodrama. The satirical aside about the “Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government” and the crowd’s “great deal of talk and no decisive action” slow the pace and mock their dithering. Mr Wadgers’ proverb (“ye can’t onbust a door once you’ve busted en”) adds to the humour.

Finally, the structure delivers a bathetic anticlimax: the door opens “of its own accord,” the stranger points—“Look there!”—not to a threat, but to “a bottle of sarsaparilla,” before “viciously” slamming the door. The last line—“Well, if that don’t lick everything!”—leaves a tone of amazed comedy.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: through personification, comic diction, and ironic narration, the events feel bizarre and chaotic, with only brief spikes of genuine menace.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Typically, a Level 2 response would partly agree, noticing that personified actions like "laughing drily" and a "dance of triumph" make the episode bizarre and comic. It might also note that although the chair "charged at her" it moves "gently but firmly," and the crowd’s "great deal of talk and no decisive action" adds chaotic humour rather than real terror.

I mostly agree that the attack on Mrs Hall feels more comical and chaotic than truly frightening. The writer makes the furniture act like mischievous performers. The bedclothes “leapt” and “jumped… as if a hand had clutched them,” which is a playful simile. The hat “hopped” and the sponge flies next, creating a fast, chaotic list with “Immediately after” and “then,” so the action feels busy rather than horrific. Even the chair is personified as “laughing drily,” which adds humour. Although the chair “charged” at Mrs Hall, it only pushes her “gently but firmly,” so the verb “charged” is undercut by the adverbs, making the moment less scary. The “dance of triumph” after the door “slammed violently” also turns the threat into something odd and ridiculous.

After this, the tone becomes even more comic with the villagers. The “golden five o’clock sunshine” contrasts with the supposed ghosts, making the scene feel normal and not spooky. The mock-serious talk—“a great deal of talk and no decisive action”—and Wadgers’s dialect about you “can’t onbust a door once you’ve busted en” sound like satire. Structurally, the tension drops into debate in the passage, which is an anticlimax. Finally, the door opens “of its own accord,” and the stranger appears with “unreasonably large blue glass eyes,” which is bizarre. He just points to “a bottle of sarsaparilla” and slams the door, and Wadgers says, “Well, if that don’t lick everything!” This ending feels comic and strange rather than terrifying.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: there are brief scary touches (the “violently” slammed door, Mrs Hall’s scream), but the writer mainly creates a bizarre, chaotic, and humorous atmosphere.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree it feels more funny than scary, noticing simple details like the chair "laughing drily" and the furniture doing a "dance of triumph". It might also point out the odd, busy movement when the hat "hopped" and the chair "charged", showing bizarre chaos rather than real terror.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, the attack feels strange and busy, and often funny rather than scary.

At the start, the bed-clothes ‘leapt up’ and the hat ‘hopped’ and ‘whirled’. These lively verbs make the scene jumpy and comical. The writer also uses a simile, ‘as if a hand had clutched them’, to show the unseen force. The chair is personified: it is ‘laughing drily’ and ‘seemed to take aim’, which sounds silly like a game. When the chair hits Mrs Hall it is ‘gently but firmly’, so it doesn’t feel brutal.

Afterwards the furniture does a ‘dance of triumph’. This image is funny and bizarre. Mrs Hall’s speech about ‘’tas sperits’ and ‘my good old furniture’ rising up is also comic and chaotic, because she blames the bottles and his ‘goggling eyes’. The villagers talk a lot, with ‘a great deal of talk and no decisive action’, which adds to the fuss more than fear.

However, there are some scary parts: the ‘door slammed violently’ and Mrs Hall is ‘almost in a faint’. The stranger ‘viciously’ slams the parlour door. Overall, I agree the scene is more comical and chaotic than simply terrifying.

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:

• Anthropomorphic ventriloquism makes the furniture a comic performer, undercutting fear with mockery (laughing drily)
• Slapstick escalation of flying objects creates frantic, bizarre energy rather than horror (whirling flight)
• Euphemistic, restrained contact frames the attack as an orderly ejection, not violence (gently but firmly)
• Celebratory choreography from inanimate things invites laughter at their victory lap (dance of triumph)
• A jolt of menace remains in the forceful control of space, momentarily sharpening tension (slammed violently)
• Mrs. Hall’s superstitious misreading is comic literalism, blaming enchantment of everyday objects in her dialect (sperits into the furniture)
• Sentimental attachment to household items turns threat into a melodramatic domestic betrayal, more funny than frightening (my good old furniture!)
• Cheery daytime setting juxtaposes calm normality with claims of haunting, easing fear (golden five o’clock sunshine)
• Dry narrative irony satirises village indecision, making the scene bureaucratically comic (Anglo-Saxon genius for parliamentary government)
• The stranger’s stiff descent ends in bathos as he merely points out a bottle of sarsaparilla, deflating suspense (Look there!)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Before the long coach ride to a coastal field trip, your year group is putting together a booklet of creative pieces to read on the way.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a city canal with swans from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a journey that changes everything.

(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 canal runs like a pewter seam through the city's brickwork, stitching warehouses to terraces, its afternoon surface a bruise-coloured mirror. Under the bridge the world narrows; traffic mutters overhead and each footfall becomes a hollow drumbeat. The arch, soot-soft and moss-greened at the edges, frames two mute swans gliding as if drawn on runners, white as spilled milk. Their passage leaves cursive behind them—ripples inscribing a script that writes itself and is promptly erased.

Beneath the arch the air cools and smells of iron and algae, of old rain and newer diesel. Graffiti blisters the brick—names over names, a palimpsest of shouting—while thin threads of water drop from the stonework, counting seconds. A cyclist bursts into echo; then he is gone, and the canal’s slower arithmetic resumes. The swans do not startle; they rearrange the city by moving through it, their necks question marks that decline to ask. Close to, their feathers are not blankness but detail: barbs and filaments, a scalloped architecture.

Beyond the bridge, colour returns. Houseboats in faded livery line the towpath; ropes creak; a tin watering can gleams. A child tears a heel of bread into hopeful crumbs; the pieces stipple the surface and the swans collect them with lazy authority. A gull squalls from the mooring pole; somewhere a chain clanks. The city keeps talking—sirens far off, a bus sighing—yet here it sounds held at arm’s length.

One bird carries a faint stain along one wing, a tea-tint; another wears the last shadow of youth, grey lingering like smoke. Their eyes are bead-hard, and if their grace curdles into a hiss, it is only because the world comes too close. The canal takes it and returns it: backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, until even the disturbances smooth.

Now the light leans; panes of office glass kindle and their rectangles fall into the water and shiver. The bridge, once a throat, becomes a proscenium; the swans take centre in a quiet ballet, repeating a step until it becomes calm. In that shifting pewter, those pale bodies row the evening onward; they keep time with their feet; they keep the peace as they pass. When they slide under the arch and the shade swallows them whole, the canal breathes, and the sentence of the street—blunt, relentless—finds its comma.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of thresholds; the platform’s rim glittering with hoarfrost, clouds unspooling into light, rails humming like taut violin strings. Even the air seemed to hesitate—suspended, silver, expectant—before the day tipped forward.

As the tannoy cleared its throat, Mira tugged her father’s old rucksack from beneath the bed, its canvas scuffed, its buckles cold. She folded and refolded her winter sweater; slid a dog-eared photograph into the inner pocket; lifted the shoebox of letters that had, decisively, rewired her life last night. She tried to fit it all—jumpers, toothbrush, the sharp-edged truth—into forty litres of fabric, and laughed once at the absurdity of compressing a life.

Her ticket lay flat on the table, black type without mercy: ONE WAY. It weighed almost nothing and everything simultaneously. She tried to swallow. The kitchen clock ticked a small, implacable metronome; the house, with its soft bruises of memory, listened without comment.

The station was already waking although the sun was only an implication in the east. Ozone and coffee tangled in the air; brake dust lifted in a fine metallic bloom. A boy hugged a violin case; a woman in paint-splashed boots yawned as if the day were a corridor (long, fluorescent, endless). The announcement crackled—flat, impersonal—stitching the concourse to the rails: Platform Four for the 06:12 coastal service.

She had read the last letter at midnight, kitchen light bleached to bone. If you’re reading this, I suppose it’s time. What we kept was love; what we hid was origin. The paper had been thin as a leaf and heavy as a planet. She had felt the room tilt; she had watched the map of her town shrink until the coastline—somewhere she had only stared at on weather maps—was the only direction left that made any sense.

The train sighed into the platform like a long animal. She stepped forward; her legs were obedient but hollow, brittle as spun sugar. This is just a journey, she told herself—a line, a sequence of stops—but the rails were already stitching through the city’s ribs, drawing a straight insistence toward elsewhere.

What if the truth is smaller than the story? What if it is larger—so large it breaks the frame? She did not know. She knew this: there are doors that open only once.

She did not look back. Not yet. Because she had promised herself one thing: to keep going until the halted parts of her began, finally, to move.

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

Option A:

The canal slips through the city like a low, secret artery; under the brick bridge the water darkens to pewter and the swans arrive, pale and deliberate. Their bodies are alabaster hulls; their necks draw clean S-shapes. Light needles into ripples and splinters into glitter. It smells of cold iron and nettles and diesel; it smells of bread. A bicycle bell peals; a lorry sighs; a pigeon claps once. Stillness seems arranged, yet everything moves.

The bridge squats, red brick upon red brick, its arch a throat swallowing light. Mortar sweats; graffiti scrawls itself across the curve. Above, traffic drums; down here the noise turns low, a softened thunder. Drops fall from the lip in patient metronome. The swans slip into shade and white bleaches to chalk, then to ash; their eyes become beads of ink. Webbed feet comb the silt; a V unfurls behind each — crisp, inevitable.

On the towpath, life edits itself into small scenes: a man in hi-vis strides, a cyclist flicks a bell, a dog skitters and thinks better of it. A child in a red coat throws bread; it breaks into blooms; the swans draw closer, purposeful, a little arrogant. One hisses — not rude, just firm. Water creases, then irons itself; the crumbs vanish. What do they make of us, who rush and chatter?

Narrowboats lie moored, their paint flaking into constellations; ropes groan; an enamel mug trembles on a lid. A thin chimney exhales woodsmoke, faintly sweet. An oil sheen writes a shy rainbow on the surface — bruise-coloured, beautiful, a little wrong. A woman waters a pot of thyme; a cat, a sullen admiral, watches the flotilla. A moorhen fusses in the reeds; a crisp packet leans into the eddy and refuses to sink (the canal is not a river).

Here is the city stitched by water: warehouses reborn in glass; towers leaning to admire themselves; gulls and graffiti sharing this narrow lane. The swans preside, old royalty on a public thoroughfare — faintly comic when they heave onto the bank and shake like wet laundry. Evening buttons on the lamps; amber beads tremble across the surface. They slide under the bridge, untouchable, and the canal remembers how to be still.

Option B:

Dawn: the hour of decisions; the moment when iron rails remember their purpose and the station yawns awake. The air tasted of coffee and coin, steam lifting in thin ribbons from paper cups. Fog unstitched itself along the river; even the gulls hovered on the cold edge of morning.

Amara stood beneath the stuttering light of Platform 3, her ticket a small, stubborn rectangle of courage. On her shoulder hung a rucksack that felt heavier than its contents: jackets, a dog-eared paperback, the folded shirt Mum had ironed with unnecessary care—and the letter. She had opened it until the creases whitened. Today, she told herself, she would step out of maybe and into the actual.

A crackle from the Tannoy; a train’s white eye rounding the bend; a whistle like a blade. People collected themselves. The doors sighed and parted. Amara moved with the mild current of bodies and climbed inside, a careful swimmer in a river made of cloth and elbows.

Inside, the carriage held a catalogue of strangers. A man in a paint-spattered coat typed like a cautious pianist; a child pressed her nose to the glass; a woman drew on lipstick as if lifting armour. Amara took a window seat and watched brickwork blur; the platform loosened, then slid away—the chip shop, the tidy roofs, the square where she had waited and waited—receding as if tugged on strings.

Mum had been awake when she left. The kitchen was a shallow pool of yellow light; steam rose from two mugs; the clock made its dry, patient sound. “You don’t have to go,” Mum had said, not quite looking. But his letter lay between them like something that might burn if they touched it. After years of tidy silence, he had written from a city three hours away, careful and apologetic, asking her to come. It was startling how a few sentences could tilt a life.

Fields unrolled like a green film; pylons marched; puddles flashed with sky. Amara pressed her palm to the cold window, as if reading what was already there. What if he didn’t remember? What if she couldn’t forgive? The questions crowded, then thinned with the rhythm of the tracks. Too late! The town was gone. The rails made a stern music—insistent, irreversible. Somewhere ahead, a stranger might look up and change her name. She felt the hinge turn.

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

Option A:

The canal threads the city like a quiet seam, holding together streets that would rather come apart. Under the brick bridge, its arch soot-smudged and lichen-dusted, the water deepens into a soft, green shade; beyond, it gleams like a sheet of hammered glass. The air is damp and faintly metallic, with a slip of diesel and wet stone. Somewhere a delivery lorry sighs; somewhere a gull makes a thin, elastic cry that stretches and snaps on the sky.

Two swans ride the shallow current, white as torn paper and yet whole; their necks curve with slow certainty. They barely disturb the skin of the canal. When they do, ripples spread like rings on old wood, then restitch themselves—patient, practised. The brick arch lowers over them like a brow, and for a heartbeat they are candle-bright in the shade, a soft radiance moving through the city’s under-breath. Feathers lift and settle. A wing tip skims the surface, leaving a trail of commas.

Meanwhile, on the towpath, lives pass in quick edits: a woman in a scarlet coat marching to time, a child in a buggy pointing with a mittened fist, a dog towing its owner toward smells only it can read. Bicycles flick by—bell, flash, gone—and the echo of their wheels slides under the bridge and returns with a hollow clap. On the far bank a narrowboat moors, its paintwork chipped into constellations; ropes creak; the water clinks against metal. There is graffiti on the bricks, names and arrows faded to ghosts, and the swans carry on as if they understand none of it and all of it at once.

They turn the corner under the arch and come out into light again. The afternoon thins; clouds soften like ash; even the siren that moans up the avenue seems to hush as they pass. A boy leans over the parapet, drops a crust, waits. One swan regards it, then declines, drifting, stately, indifferent. Not everything here needs our hands. The canal keeps its own small ceremony—branches dipping, barges sighing, ripples knitting and unpicking—while the city speaks above it. And the swans, pale stitches on a dark cloth, go on gliding, gliding, until the bridge swallows them once more.

Option B:

Dawn lifted the town like a pale curtain; shutters were still drawn, pavements rinsed by night rain. I stood on the platform with a backpack that tugged at my shoulder and a ticket softened at the edges by my thumb. The train idled—a long, grey animal whose breath curled into the cold. Everything looked ordinary; it felt like it shouldn't. Inside my pocket, the envelope pressed a small, square certainty against my palm.

I hadn't planned to go this morning. I had planned to give it another day, perhaps pretend the letter didn't exist; I had planned to stay where the walls knew our arguments and the clock clicked. But the house felt too tight around me. The name written in a careful, unfamiliar hand had loosened something, as if a knot had sighed and slipped. So I stepped into the carriage, the door thudding behind me as if it agreed.

Opposite me, a woman with a red scarf fed wool through quick fingers; a boy with bleached hair slept, headphones leaking whispers. The floor trembled; the train shivered, then moved, then gathered itself—reluctant, then resolute. We slid past bricked gardens, a fox tidying its tail, then fields iced with mist.

I was leaving the heaviness of last night's conversation, the sentence that ended in a slammed door. I was going toward a meeting I had never thought possible, a name heard only as a rumour. Was I running toward, or away? Perhaps both; perhaps it is the same motion.

'First time on this route?' the woman with the scarf asked without looking up. I wanted to tell her this isn't a route, it's a fault line; to say I was trying to reroute my life, but I only managed a nod and a thin, 'Yes.' She smiled—wrinkles opening like maps. 'Good,' she said, as if she knew.

Outside, the river unspooled. The city rose, a patient silhouette. I exhaled; the window fogged, and I wrote my name, then wiped it away. Whatever waited at the end—answers, apologies, a stranger with my smile—I felt my life tilt, like the carriage taking a curve. There was no going back.

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

Option A:

Under the low brick bridge, the canal keeps a soft darkness that the afternoon cannot quite push away. Sooty bricks arch over water that smells of rust, algae and faint diesel. Light flickers in and dances across the surface in trembling coins. Graffiti names scrawl along the curve; moss clings in ragged green. On the towpath, grit crunches under shoes. A cool breath slides out from the tunnel and touches the cheeks of anyone who lingers.

Then the swans arrive, mute and sure, white as folded paper against the city’s grime. Their long necks curl like question marks; their orange beaks glow. They drift forward as if pulled by invisible thread. A narrow, neat V forms behind them and shivers along the walls. Under the bridge they lower themselves, backs grazing the shadow, and the water seems to make room. They say nothing, yet everyone on the path slows to look.

Around them the city keeps talking: bicycle bells; the thud of trainers; a siren smeared thin by distance. A narrowboat chugs past—engine coughing—while its rope knocks lazily against a post. A man in a suit checks his watch; a child leans too far and is tugged back by a tired voice. A dog noses the water, then stiffens at a quiet hiss. High above, traffic hums like a held note, and gulls argue over nothing at all.

Still, the canal refuses to hurry. It carries small things: sky cut into long strips, a leaf circling and circling, a silver crisp packet snagging under a ladder rung. The swans move on like a pale seam stitching this place together; they are ordinary and somehow royal. Who would expect such calm between warehouses and bus routes? Their reflections tremble into broken scales, then gather again. Back and forth, the water takes and returns, until even the footsteps seem softer.

Option B:

Dawn. The kind of pale light that turns rooftops into paper cut-out silhouettes; the air cool and damp as a held breath. Our street was quieter than ever, as if the morning itself had paused, listening. At the corner, the bus coughed, then settled into a low purr, impatient, ready.

I stood on the step with my rucksack dragging my shoulder down. It wasn't big, but it held more than clothes: a paperback, a bottle of water, and that creased envelope with my name on it—heavy for its size. I found it in the kitchen, under the baking tray, the night the electricity flickered. Inside, a single line: You deserve to know. That sentence knocked something loose; since then I couldn't un-hear it.

Behind me the house waited. Dad was sleeping on the sofa, the television muttering, the clock in the hall keeping its small, stubborn beat. I wanted to say goodbye out loud but the word caught, so I wrote a note and left it under the salt pot. It felt brave. I closed the door slowly. The latch clicked like the end of a song.

On the bus, the driver nodded without looking up. The card reader beeped; the doors shushed shut. I took the seat by the window because I always do, because I like to see things leave. Houses and shops slid past. Roads had always been circles to me, bringing me back to the same place, the same face, tea at the same time. Today, the road felt like a line: a line out.

My stomach flipped like a coin. Fear on one side, hope on the other. I could taste metal and mint from the gum I chewed too fast, my hands were sweating on the strap. Still, as light spread, I pressed the envelope, and I didn't get off.

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

Option A:

The canal slips under a low brick bridge, its surface dark as bottle glass and scratched by passing wind. From the shade two swans glide; their necks are slow question marks, writing calm over the shaken water. Above, cars roll over the arch; the bridge rumbles—like a stomach.

On the towpath the city keeps walking. A cyclist flicks a bell, trainers thud, someone laughs into a phone. Diesel lingers with the smell of wet leaves and chips; there is grafitti on the bricks, loud colours trapped in squares. A narrowboat dozes by the bank; its rope creaks.

Still, the swans act like they own it. One dips its head and the white body tilts, tail sticking up like a small sail. The other glides straight, then pauses: a thin hiss escapes, almost secret. Rings spread around them, back and forth, back and forth. Their feathers look clean even in this brown green water; bright as paper, but heavy too.

Under the bridge the light is chopped into coins and their faces slide across it. Who would expect swans here in the city’s elbow? The bridge keeps its curved eye on them, the traffic hums, and the canal seems to breathe. I watch until the pair drift into the tunnel of shade, smaller and smaller, and the ripples smooth out; the surface holds its breath. For a moment it’s quiet, then the bell rings again and life goes on.

Option B:

The morning didn’t look special; a thin rain stitched the pavement and the sky was the colour of dishwater. Our street yawned like it always does, bins leaning, cats slipping under cars. Nothing hinted at change. Except the letter, creased from being read again and again.

I had found it two nights ago, tucked inside Mum's cookbook. A name, an address, and one sentence: Come if you want the truth. The words sat in my mind like a pebble, small but impossible to ignore. So I packed. Slowly, clumsily, like I was learning how to leave.

I folded clothes into my frayed backpack: a T-shirt, a faded jumper, toothbrush, Dad's photo, and the old brass key, cool in my palm. I hesitated at the mirror. I didn’t look brave, I looked ordinary, but my heart still thudded.

At the bus station the air was a mixture of diesel and vinegar from chips. Fluorescent lights flickered. The 7:10 groaned into place and the driver asked if I was going far; I said, “Just to the end,” which wasn’t an answer. He gave me a ticket and a tired smile.

Inside, the seats were damp. The bus trembled like it was nervous too. Rows of houses slid by in a wet blur, the familiar getting smaller. Before, everything felt seperate and stuck – school, home, the same arguments.

Now the road opened like a ribbon. Go. By the first bend the town was behind me, and so, maybe, was the person I was yesterday.

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

Option A:

At first the canal looks like a strip of dull glass, squeezed between warehouses and flats. The water holds pieces of sky; a faint blue, a cloud, a crane’s shadow, and diesel hangs with the smell of damp brick. Above me a low bridge arches, its bricks dark and wet, and under it two swans slide out, white as folded paper. Their necks bend like question marks, then they glide, glide, until ripples run to the banks.

Meanwhile bikes whisper past on the towpath and a bell tings. Graffiti shouts colour on the walls—orange, green, names layered and half broken. The swans drift near the bread someone threw, they seem calm but I hear a small hiss. Under the bridge the sound changes; the city is muffled, a drop of water ticking, ticking.

In the distance a siren starts, but here the canal tries to be calm – patient and slow. The swans slide under the brick again like kings returning to a hall. Light slips along their backs and turns silver. For a second the city looks softer: the water tucks the noise away, I breathe colder air, then I walk on.

Option B:

Morning. The bus stop was wet, the sky a dull sheet of tin. I stood with my backpack and the old suitcase that squealed when it rolled over puddles. My hands smelt of metal from the handle and my breath made little clouds; I tried not to look back at our flat. Windows like blank eyes. Mum had gone to work already, she left a note on the fridge. Good luck, be brave.

The bus arrived with a sigh, as if it didn’t want to work today either. I climbed on, heart knocking, and chose a seat near the window so I could see everything. First, the bakery with the warm bread steam, then the park, trees dripping from last night’s rain. I said the name of each street in my head like I was packing them. No one knew I carried a letter in my pocket that could change my life: the college had said yes. Yes felt big and a bit scary, like the bus turning round a sudden bend - you grip, you stay on.

Then the city signs started to appear; the road opened, wider, louder. This journey wasn’t just miles, it was a line I was crossing.

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

Option A:

The canal runs through the city like a long line. It is narrow and the water moves slow.

Swans glide on it, white and still, they slide under a brick bridge. The bricks are dark and wet from old rain. I hear buses on the road above, and a bike bell. There is people walking, they look down and then they go. The water taps the stone, drip, drip, drip. A can floats by and a leaf too, and the swans was not bothered, they go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Its quiet under the bridge but loud outside.

I smell damp and petrol. The city breathes and the lights blink in the water. I watch them under the bridge. I watch and it feels slow and soft. Then a siren shouts and fades. The swans do not care.

Option B:

Morning. The road was wet and long. The bus breathed smoke and the doors opened like a mouth. I had my old rucksack on my back. It rubbed my neck.

I stuffed clothes in it last night, socks and a photo and a apple. Mum said, don't be late. She smiled like it was fine but her eyes was not. She told me it will be fine, she always says that.

I looked back once. I looked back twice. The house looked small, even the cat looked surprised. My heart was banging like a drum. I ain't ready, but I stepped forward anyway, I had to.

The driver nodded, I climbed on. First the bus shook, then it rolled away and the town slid back, the streets, the shop, the old tree, all of it. I hold the pole and the window shows my face and it is new somehow, I think. This journey would change everything.

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

Option A:

Water in the city canal is dark and still. The swans are white and they slide under the brick bridge. Their necks bend like a soft S. I hear little splashes and a bus in the road, it is loud and the air smells damp. The bricks look old, some are broken. A feather floats back and forth, back and forth. I try to walk slow but my shoes tap. The swans look at me and then look away, they dont care. Somewhere a bike bell rings and a shop sign rattles. The sun is there but cold, like glass.

Option B:

Morning was cold and the road long. I stand at the bus stop with my old red bag. The wheels wobble, my hands shake like a tiny lamb, silly I know but I can't help it. Mum said go, you can do this! but her eyes was wet. I get on the bus and the doors shut and it feels like a click in my chest, like a lock. I were thinking about school and also the sea for no reason, the smell of chips. This journey will change every thing, I told myself, gonna make me new. The bus moved and I didn't look back.