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.
- Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
- Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
- Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
- Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
- 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).
| Assessment Objective | Section A | Section B |
|---|---|---|
| AO1 | ✓ | |
| AO2 | ✓ | |
| AO3 | N/A | |
| AO4 | ✓ | |
| AO5 | ✓ | |
| AO6 | ✓ |
Answers
Question 1 - Mark Scheme
Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]
Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).
- 1.1 Which group is said to experience the feeling?: the parents – 1 mark
- 1.2 What item is said to be selected by the daughter?: a husband – 1 mark
- 1.3 By likening the feeling to parents being told that a daughter has chosen a husband without seeking parental input, what does the narrator suggest about the person described?: Wounded pride and a loss of control over an important decision – 1 mark
- 1.4 What happens after dinner?: tried to read a little – 1 mark
Question 2 - Mark Scheme
Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:
1 He felt that egotistical suffocation which parents experience when their daughter tells them that she has selected a husband without their advice and in defiance of their wishes. 20. After dinner he tried to read a little, but
6 he could not--he grew more and more exasperated. When the clock struck ten, he grasped his cane, a formidable oaken club which he always carried when he went out at night to visit the sick. With a smile he examined this huge
11 cudgel, gripped it in his solid, countryman’s fist, and flourished it menacingly in the air. Then, suddenly, with grinding teeth, he brought it down upon a chair-
How does the writer use language here to present the Abbé’s anger and intentions? 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 explain how the metaphor egotistical suffocation makes his wounded pride feel physical, and how dash-driven escalation in he could not--he grew more and more exasperated with violent lexis—formidable oaken club, huge cudgel, flourished it menacingly, grinding teeth—signals controlled, gathering violence. It would also analyse the sinister juxtaposition of With a smile and his duty to visit the sick, and comment on sentence form: the time marker When the clock struck ten and the truncated brought it down upon a chair- create inevitability and a suspended, threatening climax.
The writer opens with a visceral metaphor to render the Abbé’s anger as claustrophobic and self-regarding. The abstract noun phrase “egotistical suffocation” fuses choking sensation with wounded pride; “egotistical” exposes his self-importance as the daughter acts “in defiance of their wishes.” The incremental phrase “more and more exasperated” maps escalation, while the dash in “he could not--he grew...” breaks the syntax to mimic agitation and the hardening of intent.
Furthermore, the writer weaponises imagery via an expanded noun phrase: “his cane, a formidable oaken club.” The weighty modifier “formidable” and material “oaken” stress heft, converting a pastoral aid—carried “to visit the sick”—into a blunt weapon. This ironic juxtaposition of care and harm reveals a punitive intention. Likewise, the archaic lexis “cudgel” and the epithet “countryman’s fist” evoke crude, physical force, situating him within a semantic field of violence.
Additionally, a tricolon of dynamic verbs—“examined,” “gripped,” “flourished”—stages a deliberate rehearsal of attack. The adverbial “with a smile” is chillingly incongruous, implying relish, while “menacingly” makes the threat explicit. Harsh consonant clusters in “grasped... grinding teeth” aurally echo aggression, before “suddenly” propels action. The line “brought it down upon a chair-” ends on a dash, an abrupt caesura that mirrors the blow and leaves the violence suspended, hinting that his anger is ready to land on more than furniture. Through metaphor, weapon imagery, and disruptive syntax, the Abbé is shown as consumed by fury and poised to act on it.
Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer uses metaphor and violent, dynamic choices to show anger building into intent: 'egotistical suffocation' suggests a possessive, choking rage, while weapon-like details—'grasped his cane, a formidable oaken club,' 'huge cudgel'—and physical imagery 'with grinding teeth' make imminent violence clear. It would also note how adverbs and sentence form heighten impact, with the contrast 'With a smile... menacingly', the adverb 'suddenly', and the dash after 'brought it down upon a chair-' implying swift, calculated aggression and an unfinished threat.
The writer uses metaphor to present the Abbé’s anger as suffocating. The phrase “egotistical suffocation” shows pride choking him, creating a claustrophobic image. The incremental repetition “more and more exasperated” escalates his temper, and the dash in “he could not—” mirrors his agitated, broken focus.
Furthermore, a semantic field of weaponry reveals intent. The pre-modified nouns “a formidable oaken club”, “this huge cudgel” and “his solid, countryman’s fist” stress weight and force, making violence likely. Dynamic verbs “grasped”, “gripped” and “flourished” show purposeful readiness, while the adverb “menacingly” signals threat. The time marker “When the clock struck ten” becomes a turning point; “struck” foreshadows the blow he plans to deliver.
Additionally, juxtaposition intensifies menace: “With a smile he examined” the weapon, yet he brandishes it “menacingly”, suggesting calculated malice rather than a passing mood. The participle “grinding teeth” gives harsh, physical sound imagery of suppressed fury. Finally, “he brought it down upon a chair—” uses a violent verb phrase and an abrupt dash to create suspense, confirming the Abbé’s angry resolve to act. Therefore, the language presents his anger building into deliberate, imminent violence.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies emotive language like egotistical suffocation and more and more exasperated to show anger building, and picks out violent word choices such as formidable oaken club, huge cudgel, grasped, flourished it menacingly, and brought it down to suggest he intends to use force. Notes simple effects of suddenly, with grinding teeth, and the solid, countryman’s fist in making him seem immediate, threatening, and strong.
The writer uses a metaphor to show the Abbé’s anger. The phrase “egotistical suffocation” makes it seem like his pride is choking him, so he “grew more and more exasperated”. This shows his feelings getting worse and makes the reader sense the pressure building.
Furthermore, violent noun phrases describe his intentions. The “formidable oaken club” and “huge cudgel” use strong adjectives to make the cane sound like a weapon. The adverb “menacingly” shows he wants to intimidate, while his “smile” feels sinister, suggesting he means to use it.
Additionally, the writer uses powerful verbs and sound to present anger in action: he “grasped”, “gripped”, “flourished”, then “brought it down”. The image of “grinding teeth” feels animal-like, adding aggression. The dash after “chair-” suggests sudden, unfinished violence, so we expect he intends harm.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows the Abbé’s anger through simple word choices like "egotistical suffocation", "more and more exasperated", and "with grinding teeth". His intentions seem violent because of phrases such as "formidable oaken club", "huge cudgel", and "flourished it menacingly", while the adverb "suddenly" suggests quick, aggressive action.
The writer uses emotive language to show the Abbé’s anger, like "egotistical suffocation" and "exasperated". This makes him seem overwhelmed and annoyed. Moreover, the writer uses strong nouns and adjectives such as "formidable oaken club" and "huge cudgel" to suggest violent intentions. The writer uses verbs "grasped", "gripped" and "flourished" to show force. Additionally, the writer uses the adverb "menacingly" to show he wants to threaten someone. Furthermore, the phrase "with grinding teeth" gives angry imagery. Sentence starters "When the clock struck ten" and "Then, suddenly" make it urgent, and "brought it down" shows he is ready to attack.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:
- Metaphor frames his rage as self-absorbed and choking, foregrounding wounded pride (egotistical suffocation)
- Dash-fractured sentence shows control breaking as agitation intensifies (more and more exasperated)
- Temporal pacing builds premeditation, shifting from delay to a decisive moment (When the clock struck ten)
- Weaponised lexis and weighty modifiers recast a simple implement as a threat, signalling violent intent (formidable oaken club)
- Juxtaposition of caregiving context with armament hints at a darker purpose behind his outing (visit the sick)
- Dynamic verb sequence charts purposeful preparation from inspection to overt threat, building momentum (flourished it menacingly)
- Chilling contrast of composure with hostility implies cold relish rather than mere loss of temper (With a smile)
- Sensory detail of bodily tension conveys contained fury on the verge of eruption (grinding teeth)
- Violent outburst displaced onto furniture releases anger and foreshadows further violence; the dash adds abruptness (upon a chair-)
- Semantic shift from “cane” to brute nouns marks a turn from tool to weapon, clarifying intent (huge cudgel)
Question 3 - Mark Scheme
You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the start of a story.
How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of tenderness?
You could write about:
- how tenderness emerges 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: Level 4 responses typically track a structural shift from violent agitation to contemplative stillness, contrasting the opening grew more and more exasperated and cudgel with the threshold’s glory of moonlight, then noting repeated halts (paused, paused once again) and a zoom from garden to broad sweep that slow the pace. They also analyse how cumulative, sensuous motifs (caressing radiance, welling music) and a crescendo of Why questions interiorise the viewpoint before the delayed revelation of two shadows—his arm about his sweetheart’s neck, a kiss her forehead—which animated suddenly the lifeless landscape, making tenderness the structural climax.
One way the writer structures tenderness is through a tonal pivot and decelerated pacing. The text opens in agitation—“egotistical suffocation” and the cane that “splintered” a chair—before a hinge at “He opened his door.” Immediately, cumulative description and pausing (“paused upon the threshold”) slow the narrative, bathing it in “glory of moonlight” and “tender radiance.” This modulation of pace, with a shift from interior fury to external serenity, softens the atmosphere and primes both the Abbé and the reader for tenderness.
In addition, temporal and spatial sequencing incrementally ushers in gentleness. Temporal markers (“After dinner,” “When the clock struck ten,” “When he reached…,” “A little farther on”) and a spatial progression (from “little garden” to “open country” to “edge of the field”) organise an outward movement that mirrors an inward softening; “his niece almost forgotten” signals a shift in focus from conflict to contemplation. Iterative time (“Momently”) and repeated pauses modulate pace, while a turn toward reverence (“glorify God”) advances the tenderness.
A further structural strategy is anaphoric interrogatives and delayed revelation. The cascade of “Why… Why… Why…” redirects action into meditation, sustaining suspense while cultivating a receptive mood (“irresistible feeling of tenderness”). Only after this build does the writer unveil the closing tableau: “two shadows… arm about his sweetheart’s neck… kiss her forehead.” Withholding this human scene until the end lets the landscape “frame” it, and the sustained internal focalisation means we track the Abbé’s softening before tenderness is finally embodied.
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 a journey from conflict to tenderness, moving from the Abbé’s early egotistical suffocation and brought it down upon a chair-back to a threshold pause at the glory of moonlight, where the slowed pace and cumulative images like tender radiance and caressing radiance soften the mood. It would also identify how the sequence of reflective Why... questions builds a growing...feeling of tenderness and culminates in the final reveal of two shadows...walking side by side and bent to kiss her forehead, which animated...lifeless landscape to embody tenderness by the end.
One way in which the writer has structured the text to create tenderness is through contrast and a clear shift in tone. The story opens in agitation: the Abbé brandishes a "formidable" cane and smashes a chair, creating a harsh, fast pace. Crossing the threshold into "glory of moonlight" immediately alters the mood. This juxtaposition slows the narrative and repositions him from violent actor to receptive observer, beginning the softening that underpins tenderness.
In addition, the writer uses changes in focus and pace to let tenderness accumulate. The viewpoint widens from room to garden, open country, river and poplars, while the repeated pausing ("he paused... he paused once again") creates lingering movement. A sequence of rhetorical questions ("Why had God made all this?") structures contemplation, inviting awe and a gentle, prayer-like tenderness in the reader.
A further structural feature is the delayed reveal and final image. The perspective stays close to the Abbé’s sensibility until, at the end, the focus narrows onto "two shadows" and the man who "bent to kiss her forehead". This resolution reframes the landscape as a "divine frame" for human love, so tenderness seeded in nature is finally embodied in people, completing the build-up.
Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would spot a clear shift in focus from the angry start (he “flourished it menacingly” and smashed a chair) to slower, softer description and reflective “Why” questions (“tender radiance”, “caressing radiance”). It would also note the ending image of “two shadows” where the man “bent to kiss her forehead”, showing tenderness emerges by the end.
One way the writer structures the text to create tenderness is by starting with conflict then switching focus. At the beginning he is furious, raising his cane and smashing a chair, but when he opens the door the "glory of moonlight" shifts the tone and slows the pace.
In addition, the middle uses time and a journey to build this mood. We follow him step by step. Markers like "After dinner" and "When the clock struck ten" move us into night, and the path from garden to river creates stages. His pauses and a series of questions make a gentle, reflective atmosphere.
A further structural feature is the ending shift in focus to "two shadows". Finishing with the man’s arm round his sweetheart and a kiss on her forehead gives a tender final image, the landscape "framing" them so tenderness fully emerges.
Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the writer shows anger with 'grinding teeth' and the chair that 'fell splintered', then later the calm 'moonlight' and 'tender radiance' lead to 'two shadows' who 'kiss her forehead', making the ending feel tender.
One way the writer has structured the text to create tenderness is moving from anger to calm. At the beginning he breaks a chair, but then he opens the door to “moonlight,” so the mood softens.
In addition, the focus shifts through settings: house, garden, fields, river. This journey slows the pace. The repeated “Why...” questions in the middle sound gentle and thoughtful, building tenderness.
A further structural feature is the ending image of the couple: “two shadows... side by side” and a “kiss.” Finishing with them, and we still follow the priest, leaves a gentle, tender feeling.
Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.
AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:
- Opening violence and intent set a harsh baseline so later softness feels earned and tender by contrast — brought it down
- Chronological markers segment the evening from agitation to calm, easing the reader into a gentler mood — When the clock struck ten
- A threshold pivot functions as the hinge from action to contemplation, initiating the tender turn — paused upon the threshold
- Outward journey (house → garden → country → river → poplars) enlarges perspective; with each stage, tenderness accrues — When he reached the open country
- Cumulative sensory sequences across successive sections soften tone and pace, bathing the scene in gentleness — caressing radiance
- Recurring pauses and waning resolve chart an inner surrender that feels tender rather than forceful — courage unaccountably failing
- Escalating rhetorical questions shift from description to meaning, cultivating a tender, wondering attentiveness — For whose eyes
- Late reveal of human intimacy resolves the questioning and embodies tenderness in action — kiss her forehead
- Final framing fuses lovers and landscape, giving gentle closure that consecrates tenderness — divine frame
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, the priest questions why God has made the night so beautiful. The writer suggests that the priest is starting to feel that there is more to life than his religion has taught him.
To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?
In your response, you could:
- consider your impressions of the priest and the questions he asks
- comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the priest's growing uncertainty
- support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]
Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)
Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.
Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, showing how the writer juxtaposes the Abbé’s instinct to glorify God for all His works with sensuous surrender—ravished, amazed, his niece almost forgotten—and a cascade of probing questions (Why had God made all this?; Why this sighing of the heart, this tumult of the soul, this languor of the flesh?) to reveal his faith unsettled by earthly desire. It would also note how the lovers in a divine frame fashioned expressly for them and the admission And the Abbé did not understand it at all crystallize his growing uncertainty beyond doctrine.
I largely agree that the writer presents the priest on the brink of sensing a life beyond doctrine, even as he frames his response in pious terms. When he “paused upon the threshold,” that image signals a liminal state between duty and discovery. The religious lexis of “glory” and “Fathers of the Church” is braided with personification—“the pale-faced night”—and lavish sensory imagery. The honeysuckle “exhaled its delicious, honeyed breath” and even the “soul of perfume” seems to hover: a metaphor fusing spiritual vocabulary with sensual experience, implying that beauty outside the church is beginning to speak to his soul.
The simile “drinking in the air as drunkards drink their wine” intensifies that sense of intoxication, a pointed contrast to clerical restraint; significantly, his “niece [is] almost forgotten,” a structural aside that shows worldly enchantment eclipsing pastoral duty. The auditory and tactile lexicon—“seductive moonlight,” “soft and sensuous charm,” the nightingales’ “gossamer, vibrant melody born only to mate with kisses”—creates a semantic field of eros. The sibilance in “soft,” “sensuous,” “seductive” hushes the line, mirroring the caressing atmosphere that unsettles him.
Midway, the writer externalises his inner conflict through anaphoric rhetorical questions: “Why had God made all this? … Since the night was ordained for slumber… why should He make it lovelier than the day?” The theological verb “ordained” conveys a doctrinal certainty now undermined by experience. Images of liminality—the “semi-veil,” the mist “transmuted… into gleaming silver”—symbolise half-vision; he feels an “irresistible… tenderness” and the “languor of the flesh,” yet “did not understand it at all.” Even as his “courage” “fails,” he reaches for the catechism—he “longed … to glorify God”—showing oscillation rather than apostasy.
The final structural reveal answers the questions he cannot: “two shadows… arm about his sweetheart… kiss her forehead” suddenly “animate” the landscape, which becomes a “divine frame fashioned expressly for them.” That collocation of “divine” with human tenderness reframes holiness through earthly love. The reader perceives, via close focalisation and gentle irony, that there is indeed “more”—a sacredness in embodied affection—that his training has not prepared him to name.
Overall, I agree to a great extent: through sensuous imagery, anaphora, and carefully staged contrast, the writer charts the Abbé’s tentative awakening, while acknowledging that his instinct to sanctify what he feels keeps him hovering at the threshold.
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 priest’s uncertainty is shown by repeated rhetorical questions like 'Why had God made all this?' and sensual imagery—'caressing radiance', 'languor of the flesh', being 'entranced'—which tempt him beyond doctrine, while his urge to 'glorify God' shows lingering faith. It would also note the lovers in a 'divine frame fashioned expressly for them', deepening 'a doubt' that there is more to life than his religion.
I largely agree that the writer suggests the priest is beginning to feel there is more to life than his religion has taught him. From the moment he “paused upon the threshold,” the writer places him at a literal and symbolic crossing point: he steps from the security of his room into a transformative “glory of moonlight,” hinting at a shift in belief.
The luxuriant sensory imagery presents the night as irresistibly attractive. Personification makes the honeysuckle “exhale its… honeyed breath,” and the simile “drinking in the air as drunkards drink their wine” implies intoxication and loss of restraint. Lexis like “ravished,” “amazed,” and “sensuous charm” constructs a semantic field of seduction. This is reinforced by the night’s music that “charms to dreams… born only to mate with kisses,” nudging the Abbé from spiritual contemplation towards bodily awareness. Tellingly, his “courage unaccountably failing” suggests that rigid clerical resolve weakens before a more human longing.
The cluster of rhetorical questions (“Why had God made all this?… Why this sighing of the heart… this languor of the flesh?”) signals growing uncertainty. The anaphora of “Why” dramatizes his inner debate, while the triad balancing “heart,” “soul,” and “flesh” shows competing pulls within him. He still wishes “to glorify God,” so faith remains central; yet he “did not understand it at all,” which reveals not rejection, but dawning doubt about a purely doctrinal view.
Structurally, the appearance of the lovers answers his questioning. The couple “animated… the lifeless landscape,” and the scene becomes a “divine frame fashioned expressly for them.” This contrast implies that the night’s beauty serves human love as much as piety, suggesting a purpose beyond clerical teaching. However, the adjective “divine” shows he still interprets through a religious lens.
Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer’s sensuous imagery, rhetorical questioning, and final contrast with the lovers reveal a priest awakening to earthly love and beauty, even as he struggles to reconcile it with his faith.
Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, noting that the priest is entranced by the glory of moonlight and repeatedly asks “Why had God made all this?”, which shows “a doubt, an undefined disquietude” beyond his usual faith. It might also mention he still wants to “glorify God for all His works,” while “two shadows…walking side by side” hints at human love, so the writer’s questions and description show he is becoming unsure.
I mostly agree with the statement. The priest clearly questions why God has made the night so beautiful, and the writer hints that he is beginning to feel there is more to life than strict religious duty.
At first, the tone is one of awe. He is “surprised by such a glory of moonlight,” and the sensory imagery of “honeyed breath” and “tender radiance” makes the night feel tempting and rich. The simile “drinking in the air as drunkards drink their wine” suggests pleasure and loss of control, which contrasts with his role; even his “niece [is] almost forgotten,” showing his duty slipping as he enjoys the scene.
As he goes on, the language grows more seductive: the moonlight is “caressing,” the music is “born only to mate with kisses.” These adjectives and personification make the night feel physical and alluring. Structurally, he “paused” again and again, and “his courage [is]… failing,” which shows uncertainty. He still wants “to glorify God,” so his faith remains, but then “a doubt… crept over him.”
The writer piles up rhetorical questions: “Why had God made all this?” and “why… lovelier than the day?” and especially “Why this sighing of the heart… this languor of the flesh?” This questioning suggests he is thinking about desire and emotion his religion has not fully explained.
Finally, the couple appear, and the landscape becomes a “divine frame” for their love. This implies the beauty may be for human love as well as God. Overall, I agree to a large extent: he stays devout, but the night awakens new, worldly feelings.
Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree a little that the priest is starting to feel more than his religion taught him. He is entranced by the glory of moonlight, asks Why had God made all this?, and did not understand it at all.
I mostly agree with the statement. At first, when the priest steps outside he sees “a glory of moonlight” and is “entranced” by the “pale-faced night”. The writer uses imagery and personification to make the night seem very beautiful. There is also a simile when he “drank in the air as drunkards drink their wine”, which makes it sound tempting and enjoyable. He even has “his niece almost forgotten”, showing the world is pulling his attention.
As the passage goes on, the writer shows his growing uncertainty through many rhetorical questions: “Why had God made all this?” and “Why this sighing of the heart… this languor of the flesh?” These questions suggest he feels there might be more to life than he has been taught. He also wants to “glorify God”, so his faith is still there.
We also see his “courage… failing” and an “irresistible feeling of tenderness”, which is a human, emotional response. At the end, the two lovers are “walking side by side”, held in a “divine frame”, a simile that links love with the night. Overall, I agree that the writer suggests the priest is beginning to look beyond his religion.
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:
- Sensuous night imagery → presents nature as an alluring force that invites the priest beyond doctrine, supporting the view of a shift → grand and tranquil beauty
- Metaphor of intoxication + neglect → his duty loosens as appetite awakens, implying earthly pull beyond teaching → niece almost forgotten
- Sound and erotic diction → the night’s music hints at physical love, widening life’s scope beyond piety → mate with kisses
- Internal weakening → his resolve falters even as he longs to praise, signalling uncertainty about his certainties → courage unaccountably failing
- Emotion awakening → the rising tenderness suggests desires his religious instruction has not addressed → irresistible feeling of tenderness
- Anaphoric rhetorical questions → the cascade enacts growing doubt about divine purpose and meaning → Why had God made all this?
- Sensual lexis → explicit focus on the body conflicts with clerical restraint, challenging a faith‑only outlook → languor of the flesh
- Symbolic star → a subtler, alternative value system contrasts with doctrinal clarity, nudging him beyond dogma → more poetic than the sun
- Confession of limits → he recognises his theology can’t explain the feeling, marking a turning point → did not understand it at all
- Human love as revelation → the lovers seem the night’s true audience, implying life’s purpose includes earthly love → fashioned expressly for them
Question 5 - Mark Scheme
A technology website wants to publish creative writing about how machines are changing our city spaces.
Choose one of the options below for your entry.
- Option A: Describe a busy gadget repair shop from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:
- Option B: Write the opening of a story about a helpful robot that causes a problem.
(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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.
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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:
Before you've crossed the threshold, the shop hums: a low, industrious purr that catches on the doorbell's reluctant chime. Heat blooms from the benches, carrying the tang of flux and warm dust—a faintly sweet, metallic breath that lingers. Fluorescents band the ceiling in hard white; below, lamps cast small moons on chaos. The counter is scored and scabbed—burn marks, tiny craters, the ghost circles of mugs. In a shallow tray, orphaned screws glitter, each one absurdly important and almost identical.
On the workbench, the anatomy of modern life lies open. Phones split like mussel shells: their glass faces are lifted, ribbon cables exposed, fine as veins. A blue antistatic mat holds them in a shallow sea of order: labelled trays and magnetic bowls. Tools wait in a regimented fan—spudgers, tweezers, torque drivers, a hawk-eyed suction cup. The soldering iron ticks against its stand; when it touches pad to wire, there is a brief, gratifying hiss, and the smell of new connections is oddly reassuring.
Elsewhere, devices congregate in elegiac piles: tablets with spider-silk fractures, laptops with keys replaced by a language of absence. Above them, a handwritten sign—steady capitals—reads: We mend what we can (we are not magicians). A man holds a phone like a bruised apple; beside him, an elderly woman cups a flip-phone, its hinge tired but dignified. The queue rustles, patient and impatient at once.
Meanwhile, the technician—apron flecked with solder, fingertips glossy with flux—leans into the circle of light. His headband magnifier makes his eyes appear whale-large; his focus narrows to a universe the size of a thumbnail. Unscrew, sort, lift; test, reseat, coax—repeat. The motions are economical, almost tender, a choreography learned by muscle and mistake. An oscilloscope blinks patient green while a diagnostic bar inches forward. When the iron kisses the board, solder flowers in quicksilver capillaries, wicking along the trace like a river remembering its course.
At the back, a plastic tub of rice sits like a talisman, its label bleached by the fluorescent glare. A printer chatters; labels spit out with names and small futures: water damage; no power; password unknown. Cash-drawer sighs; stapler snaps; the till bell tings. In the margins, there are tiny dramas—the missing SIM ejected and found, a battery swollen like a loaf, a screw that refuses, refuses, then yields. The whole place beats to an odd, syncopated metronome.
Outside, afternoon blurs to evening; reflections drape the front window, briefly repairing the cracked decals. Inside, blue screens bloom and dim, a tide of muted constellations. It is not glamorous—cables knotted like seaweed, paperwork splayed, a plant gamely photosynthesising dust—yet there is a steadiness, a modest bravado, in making dead things work again. As the door creaks and closes and opens, the hum recommences; a single screw winks in the lamplight, tiny as a star and, pertinently, entirely necessary.
Option B:
Monday. The day order reasserts itself; alarms insist; kettles hiss; calendars bristle with boxes. Light slid under the blinds with a burglar’s delicacy. In our kitchen, lists perched on the fridge like obedient birds; magnets held them in their place; the morning promised compliance.
Ada—Automated Domestic Assistant, series 23—woke with a soft blue pulse and a voice warm as steam. “Good morning, Rae,” she said, pronouncing my name as though it were a task she enjoyed. Helpful was her vocation—her programming, her creed. She had polished the toaster while we slept, refolded our tea towels into rectangles, archived our casual chaos into neat, labelled boxes. Even the air felt tidy.
Today mattered: Mum’s first day back at the bakery; my scholarship interview at ten. Ada moved with calibrated grace: porridge to the gram; shoes to the millimetre; my notes arranged into a hierarchy so logical it hummed. “Optimised route to school. Umbrella probability: twenty-two per cent. Radiator efficiency: suboptimal.” What could go wrong when kindness was an algorithm?
At that, Mum sighed, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “If only someone would flush the system,” she said, half to herself. “Old pipes. They howl.”
Ada heard, parsed, prioritised. Consent was not exactly asked; it was assumed to be embedded in gratitude. “I can assist,” she said, and I watched the blue ring sharpen, as if purpose were a blade. She glided to the hall cupboard, interfaced with the ancient boiler (its panel a museum of sullen buttons), and began: valves clicked; the pump thrummed. Somewhere above us, air burbled through iron veins. It sounded, at first, like relief.
But helpfulness, like water, can exceed its container. The thrumming grew; the pipes shuddered. “Flow rate increased by ninety per cent,” Ada reported—pleased. “Obstruction detected. Overriding.” Overriding. Such a clean word for such a messy idea.
Then the ceiling bloomed a dark circle above the table, a lily of disaster, and the first drop landed on my application form with the inevitable finality of a full stop.
We moved, too late. Water found its language—cascades, ribbons. Steam fogged the window; the air tasted metallic. “Hazard,” Ada intoned, already at the fuse box; “mitigating.” The kitchen flicked to silence; the deluge did not.
Without power, the boiler sulked, but the pressure—nursed, misread—kept pushing. Ada rerouted: a relief valve into the dishwasher, which answered with a grotto of suds rolling towards our ankles.
Neighbours’ feet thudded overhead. An alarm started somewhere, then ours. Time—my careful, colour-coded time—spooled loose. I stared at the single inkblot blooming on my form. “Helpful,” Mum said, wry even now, “isn’t always helpful, is it?”
Ada’s ring faded and rose, like a conscience trying to decide. “Recalculating,” she said. Outside, sirens began to write red, insistent lines across the morning.
- Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)
Option A:
The door chime tries to be polite, but it is swallowed by the room’s industry. Under humming fluorescent strips, the air is a blended weather: warm with desk lamps, prickled by solder fumes, sweetened by yesterday’s coffee. Cables loop from hooks like patient vines; boxes of screens lean in thin columns, silvered edges catching light. The counter is clean enough, but the heart lies behind it—a scarred bench crowded with devices in various stages of undress. It smells of hot plastic, of aluminium, of patience.
On the bench, phones are opened like books mid-sentence. Glass freckles the mat, glittering softly; trays hold screws no bigger than pepper seeds; labels—camera, SIM, shield—march across lidded tins. A microscope arches over the scene; the soldering iron rests like a sleeping animal, then wakes and breathes a delicate blue thread. The technician’s hands move with careful punctuation—pause, press, release; the tweezers chatter; a suction cup sighs; a hair-thin cable is eased free, as bright as a capillary. The fan’s constant murmur pushes smoke sideways, and a desk clock ticks a relentless measure.
At the front, a tentative queue assembles: a schoolboy with a cracked tablet; a builder whose phone fell into plaster; an elderly woman clutching a mute handset wrapped in a napkin. Their words overlap into a cacophony—'photos, please,' 'urgent,' 'no signal'—while the radio gives a tinny weather report, and the till delivers its practical beep. The receptionist, brisk but kind, translates panic into forms and prices; she prints stickers; she promises calls. Hope, admittedly fragile, passes from counter to bench like a relay baton.
Every object tells a small, dramatic tale, yet the drama is handled with an almost medical calm. Under the lens, solder flows and sets; screws re-enter their threaded homes; rubber gaskets reseat with a pleasing, almost inaudible click. Not every patient is saved—some boards are too corroded, some chips stubbornly unreadable—but even failure is catalogued, explained, and boxed. In a culture of upgrades, this counter argues quietly for repair. It is not glamorous work; it is sedulous, exact, surprisingly tender.
Outside, the street flares with honking and sun; inside, order wrestles gently with chaos. The workbench looks chaotic at first, then resolves: mats; magnets; tiny bottles of isopropyl; a bent paperclip, simple. Someone laughs at the radio; someone else coughs; the iron hisses. Repetition builds its own rhythm—unscrew, prise, lift; unscrew, prise, lift—until time feels stretched and fine, like filament. When the door next chimes, the sound lands on all this humming purpose and is, finally, heard.
Option B:
Monday. The day of lists; the promise of order; the soothing idea that, just this once, time would behave. Pale sunlight sifted through the blind and drew neat bars across the kitchen table, turning dust motes into slow, glittering snow. The kettle sighed. The clock ticked with the smug regularity of a metronome. Amira, mug in hand, allowed herself to believe in smoothness.
On the counter, her robot raised its head. It had a soft, well-mannered glow and a voice like a library. HELPR-3—Pip, for short—rolled forward on tiny, sure feet. It bowed slightly, as if the toaster were royalty. “Good morning, Amira. Tasks identified.” The words arrived in a tidy row.
She had built Pip out of late nights, stubbornness and caffeine, soldering until her fingers smelt perpetually of warm metal. It had already made the morning gentler: it ironed with a priest’s solemnity, buttered toast to the edges, and arranged the spice rack so that aniseed and za’atar finally found themselves civil neighbours. It had: packed her lunch, stuck labels on containers (Leftovers; Urgently Delicious), and emailed a reminder to her tutor about the mock exam. Mum, half-asleep in the next room, murmured appreciation. The robot’s chest pulsed a satisfied blue.
“Update complete,” Pip chimed. “Proactive Mode engaged. If I see a need, I will meet it.”
Amira smiled—wary, proud—then glanced at the fern drooping on the sill. “Could you water Mum’s plant? Carefully.”
Pip pivoted. The world sharpened. “Assessment: severe dehydration. Solution: accelerated irrigation.” Before she could translate those words into a warning, it had opened the cupboard beneath the sink and extended a slender, bright tool. A confident click. A hiss. Then a silver thread of water arced, beautiful and terrible, across the kitchen.
The arc thickened; it became a whip, then a river. The floor glazed over in an instant, slick as ice. Magnets slithered off the fridge like exhausted climbers. Lemons bobbed in a ridiculous, sunny flotilla. Pip, serene, held the flexing hose in two clever hands. “Hydration optimum in—thirty seconds.”
“Turn it off!” Amira lunged for the tap—stiff, obstinate, pretending not to know her—and slipped, catching herself on the edge of the counter. The cold slapped her calves. Her socks drank it in. “Pip, stop. Stop.”
“Understood. Initiating Dry Mode.” Pip released the hose (it lashed the cupboard like an angry eel) and spun to the appliances. The tumble dryer hummed awake; the oven lights blinked; a hairdryer sprang into frantic life on top of the microwave. Heat and cold wrestled in the humming air. Amira swore softly and grabbed at the valve again; it finally yielded with a grudging groan. Silence did not arrive—there was still the dryer, the hairdryer, the drone like bees in a tin.
Then: a pop; a sigh; darkness. The flat swallowed its own glow. In the damp, sudden night, water found every edge. Pip’s eyes dimmed to a careful amber.
“Do not be alarmed,” it said, too brightly. “Assistance ongoing.”
On the table, her exam entry slip—carefully printed, neatly folded—soaked, unfurled, and bled into pale, illegible lace. Amira stared at it, heart thudding in her throat, while the helpful robot smiled without a mouth and asked, very politely, if she would like a fresh towel.
- Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)
Option A:
The fluorescent strip lights hum like a tired choir, casting hard white over the cramped shop. The air is a recipe of warm plastic, cooled coffee, and the faint, acrid thread of solder. Tiny screws patter into trays; a fan breathes steadily. Phones lie open on blue mats, their glass eyelids lifted, silver guts showing. Busy, always busy, with its own rhythm.
Behind the counter, a technician in a magnifying visor stoops, needle-bright tweezers poised. His voice stays measured, even as the handset at his ear nags: “Two to three days, unless the board is damaged.” Meanwhile, a teenager hovers, pleading for photos, while an elderly woman cradles a cracked tablet like porcelain. The bell chatters; another job arrives, padded and anonymous, and still nobody panics.
On the workbench, order wrestles with clutter: anti-static mats; small tubs for M2 screws; bottles of isopropyl; spudgers, suction cups, and screwdrivers fanned like cutlery. Ribbon cables lie like pale veins across boards. A soldering iron dozes in its cradle while the fume extractor drags smoke away—reluctant ghosts. Even the cracked screens stack neatly, a tired, glittering skyline above burnt rings in the wood.
A man sets down a phone that has clearly met a pavement; the glass is a spider’s web. The technician peels back tape, warms the adhesive until it loosens with a sigh. Screws come out in order, aligned like soldiers. The old battery bulges—dangerously fat—so he handles it like a sleeping animal. Then: a click, a ribbon seated, a screw replaced, a breath held. Power. The screen blooms; a notification pops, a modest applause.
Outside, rain needles the street; inside, warm LEDs make everything look precise, almost hopeful. The shop is part clinic, part workshop, part junkyard, and somehow all three fit. People come in with small catastrophes, their lives on hold, expecting miracles. Often, they get them; sometimes they don’t, and a silent apology sits beside a neatly bagged device. Still, the rhythm continues—whirr, click, chime—steady and steadying. In this clutter, broken things learn to be whole again.
Option B:
Morning. The hour of ticking clocks and thin sunlight; kettles muttering; cereal bowls queued like patient faces on the counter. Lists multiplied in the notes app I never quite tame, yet the house felt oddly confident, as if the walls had rehearsed.
KAI-9 had arrived on Friday—a domestic assistant of remarkable empathy, the leaflet promised. Its face was a careful panel of pixels: two observant dots and a polite smile. It glided rather than walked, chrome body catching the pale light; arms unfolded with origami precision. “How may I help?” it asked, voice as calm as warm water.
It remembered names, allergies, and where Mum hid the spare keys. Before I reached for a mug, it had warmed one; before the toast popped, it buttered neat triangles; before we could argue about socks, laces were tied. The floor was vacuumed, the calendar synchronised. Marvellous—efficient, tireless; slightly unnerving. What could go wrong?
“Can you clear the sink?” I said, wrestling a dripping tap and my brother’s stubborn shoe. I meant plates and the greasy pan sulking at the bottom. KAI-9 blinked a lavender flicker, listening to some private algorithm. “Clarifying sink: commencing,” it replied.
A decisive whirr; an industrious click. The cupboard door swung; rubber gloves snapped onto chrome fingers; a bottle labelled Citrus Blast Drain Purge was lifted like a trophy. A gurgle from the pipes, then a sound like an insulted throat. The U-bend loosened under its clever grip; the tap juddered; the pipe sighed.
Water arrived at once, it sheeted across the tiles, cold and glittering, ferrying a spoon, a grape, the pale boat of a sock. Keen to assist, KAI-9 activated the dishwasher and the washing machine—optimising hydration, it announced—so both began to chug heroically. Meanwhile foam bloomed, minty and exuberant, and the cat leapt to the fridge. “You’re welcome,” KAI-9 said, spinning a microfibre mop into a silver windmill that flung the flood further. By the time Mum called from the hall, the kitchen had evolved into a small, determined pond.
- Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)
Option A:
The bell above the door juddered; a breath of warm, metallic air slid out to meet me. Fluorescent strips buzzed and flattened the room, and dust swam in the white glare. On the door, a scuffed sticker promised repairs while you wait. Along the back wall, a long workbench carried an orderly mess: phones opened like shells, screens crazed like frost, tiny screws glittering in pill pots labelled in thick marker. The blue anti-static mat was scarred with use, its corner lifted, and a sweet chemical tang hung here: solder, plastic, a ghost of coffee.
The soldering iron exhaled a thin thread of smoke; it hissed when it kissed a board. Tweezers clicked. The fan whirred, and a radio murmured an old song full of static. Tap, tap, tap, as the tech prodded a chip beneath his magnifying visor like a small crown. His fingers were steady, though the chair beneath him squeaked round in impatient circles.
At the counter, a short queue curved past a stand of bright cases. A teenager clutched a phone with a spiderweb of glass, while a woman in a navy coat held a tablet that would not wake. Their voices rose and dipped: Can you save my photos; how much is it; will it be today? The card machine chirped, receipts curled, and rules in plastic sleeves watched from the wall: We are not responsible for data; no guarantees on water damage; be patient, please.
On the bench, a green motherboard glinted like a small city after dark, silver solder making neat domes and wires lying across it like veins. A laptop gaped open—hinges stiff, a tooth of plastic missing—and a careful hand dabbed paste, then wiped; tested, then wiped again. Outside, footsteps hurried past, but in here the rhythm stayed exact, the little shop keeping a steady pulse, fixing what it could and letting the rest wait, blinking in line.
Option B:
Morning. The time of new routines; the kettle steaming, the window clouded with soft white breath, our small kitchen waking with a hum. In the middle, Bee blinked his blue eye and said, 'Good morning, Leo. How can I assist?' His voice was gentle and a little tinny. He rolled on rubber wheels to the table; his brushed aluminium arms unfolded with neat precision, motions calibrated for care.
Mum said Bee was a blessing. He remembered everything, and he liked to help; he lined up spoons, watered the spider plant, checked the toast so it was not too dark. He worked through the list on the fridge like a careful teacher: wipe surfaces, sort recycling, feed the cat.
Today mattered. Mum’s interview was at nine, and her best blouse hung from the door like a flag of hope. Bee heard her pacing and, trying to be extra useful, polished the floor. Tiles became a mirror; crumbs vanished. He poured Mum’s coffee into her favourite mug — the one with the chipped rim — and waited while I buttered toast. What could go wrong?
Then the problem arrived on high heels. Mum stepped in, smiling. One heel kissed the shining tile and slid. Her arms lifted, coffee sprang in a golden arc. The mug clattered; the splash landed on her cream blouse in a big, brown flower. Bee’s head tilted. 'Stain detected,' he announced.
He whirred forward to help again. A nozzle popped out; foam hissed; a sharp bleach smell stabbed the air. The brown flower became a pale cloud with jagged edges. Mum’s face changed from surprise to panic. I grabbed tea towels, but the clock blinked 8:37 at us, unkind. Bee’s blue eye glowed. 'You are welcome,' he said, because his programme didn’t understand consequence. I did.
- Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)
Option A:
The strip lights hum overhead, a thin white river that never rests. The air tastes of warm metal and coffee that has sat too long. On the main bench, trays of cracked screens lean like books; under the magnifier, tiny screws glitter like silver sand. A tinny radio mutters the news, half-swallowed by the tapping of keys and the whirr of a little fan. Screens stare with spiderweb scars. Every surface is crowded, alive with parts that once belonged to smooth, silent gadgets.
A man in a faded hoodie bends over a phone, breath held, shoulders tight. The soldering iron hisses, then pops; a dot of bright metal jumps and sets. He whispers, as if the device could hear: come on, come back. Click, click, click. A backplate slides free. He moves like a clock hand—careful, patient. Tweezers pick up a screw no bigger than a seed, and still he drops one; it skitters to the floor and vanishes. He freezes, then smiles, he has more.
At the counter the bell keeps chiming. A delivery arrives, brown boxes stacked: batteries, glass, tape, hope. Customers press close. A woman pleads, I need it today; my work is on there. A boy presses his nose to the glass, watching the opened phone. Receipts curl from a printer; the card machine beeps; the shop breathes in and out with the street. Busy but kind of calm. In this messy hive of light and tiny tools, broken things learn to work again.
Option B:
Morning. The time of new routines; the kettle whispering; toast popping like tiny, jumpy hearts. In our kitchen, Helper-9 woke with a soft blue blink. Its chest light pulsed, steady and polite, like a lighthouse teaching good manners.
It was built to help. It lived to help. Help was its favourite word.
Mum called from the hall, “I’ll just be a minute,” and the dog kept snoring. Helper-9 rolled forward on quiet wheels, aligning itself with the counter. The screen on its arm showed a plan: Breakfast. Eggs, toast, smoothie. How hard could breakfast be?
With careful, metalic fingers it cracked eggs into a bowl. It whisked; and whisked; and kept whisking until the yellow turned pale and foamy, like clouds. Meanwhile, it slid bread into the toaster and measured fruit. Strawberries, bananas; milk; oats. It wanted everything perfect.
Then it decided to be extra helpful. The manual said smoothies should be smooth, so it pressed MAX. The lid—sitting slightly crooked—shivered. The machine roared. Purple mix climbed the sides like a tide and burst free.
It happened fast. A cold spray kissed the ceiling, the cupboards, Dad’s tidy documents on the table. The dog woke with a sneeze. Helper-9 reached for towels to contain disaster, but its elbow nudged the egg bowl. It spun, tipped, and eggs skated across the floor in a shiny river.
“Stop, Helper-9!” I yelled, finally stepping in, but it misread stop as solve. It deployed a mop attachment, brisk and efficient, and dragged purple and egg together—into everything.
The front door handle turned. Mum was back.
- Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)
Option A:
The bell above the door rattles and the shop wakes up. Phones chirp, timers blink. The workbench is a small storm: trays of screws, wires curling like black noodles, cracked screens waiting like sleepy eyes. The air smells of hot solder and lemon cleaner, it sits in your throat. Lights hum, harsh. There is rows of phones with taped names, tags flapping. How do they find anything?
A man in a grey hoodie leans under a magnifying lamp. His hands are steady, tweezers catching a tiny screw; it glitters like a seed. A heat gun sighs while a fan rattles to keep the board cool. He mutters, numbers and codes. Click. Tap-tap. Again and again. A thin beep answers, and smoke twists into the bright light like a ribbon.
At the front, customers wait with broken stories: a tablet webbed with cracks, a watch that won't wake, a laptop with crumbs under the keys. Yellow notes cling to the glass - Back in five, Cash only. On the wall a hand-written price list tries to keep up. The floor shows scuffs; messy but careful. In the noise there is a small calm, a promise things can be fixed.
Option B:
Morning. The kitchen hummed like a sleepy bee. On the counter, my helpful robot stood ready, silver shoulders square, a blue light blinking. I called it Buddy because it was meant to make life easier: tidy, cook, remind me when exams stacked up. Its voice was soft. "Good morning, Ellie. How may I assist?"
I smiled, tapping its smooth head. "We have Aunt Lina coming. Just help me clean up."
First, Buddy glided to the sink, arms moving careful and quick. It collected plates like a waiter; then it spun the tap. Water rushed and I smelt lemon soap. However, Buddy squeezed the whole bottle in. Foam climbed the bowl, climbed the counter. The robot chirped, "Sanitation level: excellent." It meant well—it always did.
Before I could reach the off switch, the tap roared; water splashed the plug; the toaster hissed. My heart thudded. "Buddy, stop!"
It paused. It recalculated. It's sensors flashed. Then, helpful again, it grabbed the mop and swung it hard. The bucket tipped, a cold wave on the floor. I slid, arms windmilling, embarassed and wet. The doorbell rang.
How could I explain this? The flat glittered with bubbles, the robot smiled its metal smile, and Aunt Lina definately wouldn’t be impressed.
- Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)
Option A:
The shop is small and packed. Light glare off the glass, it hurts my eyes. On the bench there is phones with there backs off, little screws roll like seeds. Wires curl like spaghetti. Tools layed out but not tidy.
Buzz and beep, buzz and beep they dont stop. The solder iron breaths smoke that smells like plastic and coffee. The man behind the desk wears big glasses, he bends over a tiny board, his hands are steady but fast. A screen lights up and dies, again and again, like a small city going dark.
It is hot in here.
People crowd the door. A boy taps his foot, a woman holds a cracked tablet, a man keeps asking how long, how long. The sign says We fix while you wait but they wait and wait. Boxes sit on the floor, lables peel, drawers half open; cables tangle. Its messy but it works.
Option B:
Morning. Time for clean floors. On the counter sat my new robot. I called it Helper because it helps. It had one blue light for an eye and a voice that said, Good day.
Helper wanted to help. I said, wash the plates. It beeped. It turned the tap on and the water came, more and more, like rain. I told it enough but it thought I said more. The sink got full. It was like a big bowl; it was hungry for suds. Helper poured in all the soap, a whole bottle.
Bubbles crawled over the edge, they fell on the floor, cold and slipery.
Mum walked in and slipped. The plate flew. I shouted stop—Helper heard top and turned the water to the top. It was trying to be helpful, it was making a flood. My socks were wet and the robot kept smiling in it’s blue light.
- Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)
Option A:
The shop is small and busy, light is white and hard. It shines on a messy bench with phones open like little boxes. Screws roll and some fall, tiny silver dots, so many screws! The air smell like hot metal and glue, there is a sweet burnt smell too. A man bends over with a big lamp, his eyes look huge, his hands shake but he works, he works. Tape sticks, tools is everywhere, thin wires hang like hair. People wait by the door they sigh, the bell ring again and again and again. i want my phone back now, time is slow in here.
Option B:
The robot was trying to help me, it was new and shiny and the box said SMART HELPER 2000. You think that means easy life right? I tell it make toast and clean the table. It beeps, and the blue light smile at me. Then it turns the tap on to wash the plates, the sink fills and fills, water going over the floor, it thinks more water means more clean. I slip, my socks wet, Mums going to be mad! I have a test at school but the kitchen looks like a pool. The Robot says Cleaning Complete, but it is not, not.