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

Mark Scheme

Introduction

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

Level of response marking instructions

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

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

Step 1 Determine a level

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

Step 2 Determine a mark

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

Advice for Examiners

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

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

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

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

AO2

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

AO3

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

AO4

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

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

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

AO6

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

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

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

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

• 1.1 What did the narrator avoid?: a hole – 1 mark
• 1.2 Where had somebody been digging?: on the slope – 1 mark
• 1.3 Where was the artificial hole that the narrator avoided?: On the slope – 1 mark
• 1.4 What does the narrator say about the purpose of the hole on the slope?: The narrator finds the purpose of the hole impossible to determine. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:

1 “I avoided a vast artificial hole somebody had been digging on the slope, the purpose of which I found it impossible to divine. It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit, anyhow. It was just a hole. It might have been

6 connected with the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do. I don’t know. Then I nearly fell into a very narrow ravine, almost no more than a scar in

11 the hillside. I discovered that a lot of imported drainage-pipes for the settlement had been tumbled in there. There wasn’t one that was not broken. It was a wanton smash-up.

How does the writer use language here to present waste and carelessness, and the narrator’s reaction to it? 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 interrogate the writer’s contrasts and irony (the diminishing from 'vast artificial hole' to the short declarative 'just a hole', the sardonic 'philanthropic desire' linked to 'criminals') to expose purposeless waste, unpack the environmental metaphor 'a scar in the hillside' and careless verb 'tumbled' to show negligent disposal, and analyse the absolute phrasing 'There wasn’t one that was not broken' with the colloquial denunciation 'wanton smash-up' to convey total, reckless destruction. It would also evaluate sentence form and voice, noting clipped asides like 'I don’t know.' and bafflement in 'impossible to divine' to signal the narrator’s exasperated, condemnatory reaction.

The writer uses loaded noun phrases and evaluative adjectives to foreground waste. The “vast artificial hole” is stripped of purpose—its aim “impossible to divine”—so the elevated verb “divine” ironically magnifies the narrator’s bafflement, while the indefinite “somebody” implies faceless negligence. The adjective “artificial” itself highlights pointless human meddling. His clipped declaratives, “It was just a hole… I don’t know,” and the adverbial aside “anyhow” produce a staccato, dismissive rhythm that signals mounting impatience with mindless labour.

Moreover, the writer employs metaphor to present carelessness as injury: the ravine is “no more than a scar in the hillside”. This personifying image recasts the landscape as a wounded body, suggesting permanence and pain, and it juxtaposes with the earlier “artificial hole” to imply gratuitous human damage. Waste becomes a wound, and the narrator’s near fall sharpens his alarm, aligning physical shock with moral dismay.

Furthermore, a destructive lexical field exposes wastefulness. “Imported” drainage-pipes—costly and purposeful—have been “tumbled” into the ravine, a verb connoting reckless dumping. The emphatic double negative, “There wasn’t one that was not broken,” stresses total ruin before the pejorative, hyphenated compound “wanton smash-up” delivers a contemptuous verdict. “Wanton” condemns the damage as needless, while the violently colloquial “smash-up” voices his scorn. Additionally, the sardonic phrase “the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do” satirises official pretence, so that the very diction mirrors the narrator’s disdain for wasteful, performative schemes.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses clear, evaluative language and metaphor to show waste and carelessness: the short sentence "It was just a hole." and ironic "philanthropic desire" to giving the criminals something to do suggest pointless work, while the metaphor "scar in the hillside", the passive "had been tumbled in there", and the emotive "wanton smash-up" emphasise reckless damage to costly imported drainage-pipes and total waste ("There wasn’t one that was not broken"). The narrator’s reaction is shown through uncertainty and frustration in "I found it impossible to divine", "I don’t know", and the perilous "I nearly fell".

The writer uses adjectives and repetition to present waste. The “vast artificial hole” sounds man‑made yet purposeless, and the repeated, blunt clause “It was just a hole” strips it of any value. The negation and listing, “It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit,” dismiss possible uses, reinforcing pointlessness for the reader. The verb “divine” in “impossible to divine” suggests the narrator finds the purpose unknowable, showing bafflement and irritation.

Furthermore, irony exposes carelessness. The phrase “philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do” is sarcastic, implying authorities mask useless schemes as charity. The short sentence “I don’t know.” creates a pause, signalling exasperation and loss of patience.

Moreover, imagery presents damage: the ravine is “no more than a scar in the hillside.” This metaphor of a “scar” implies careless injury to the land. The passive construction “had been tumbled in there” and the verb “tumbled” suggest irresponsible dumping with no owner taking blame, while “imported drainage-pipes” hints at expensive materials squandered.

Additionally, the emphatic double negative “There wasn’t one that was not broken” underlines total destruction, and the evaluative noun phrase “a wanton smash-up” conveys condemnation. Altogether, the language presents waste and the narrator’s disgust at needless carelessness.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might point out simple sentence forms and word choices to show waste, e.g. 'It was just a hole', 'There wasn’t one that was not broken', and imagery like the metaphor 'a scar', the verb 'tumbled', and the harsh phrase 'wanton smash-up' to suggest pointless destruction. It would also note the narrator’s puzzled, critical reaction through uncertainty in 'I don’t know' and 'impossible to divine', with a slightly sarcastic tone in 'philanthropic desire'.

The writer uses descriptive adjectives and repetition to present waste. The phrase “a vast artificial hole” makes the digging seem huge but pointless, and the short sentence “It was just a hole” is blunt, showing there was no purpose. The negatives “It wasn’t a quarry or a sandpit” underline uselessness.

Furthermore, the metaphor “a scar in the hillside” suggests damage done to nature. The verb “tumbled” for the “imported drainage-pipes” implies they were dumped carelessly, and “There wasn’t one that was not broken” shows complete waste. The emotive phrase “a wanton smash-up” makes the destruction sound reckless.

Additionally, the narrator’s reaction is shown through sarcasm: “the philanthropic desire of giving the criminals something to do” hints at bitterness. The short admission “I don’t know” shows confusion and frustration. Overall, these choices present careless waste and the narrator’s disapproval.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses words like "just a hole", "tumbled", "broken", and "wanton smash-up" to show waste and carelessness. The image "a scar" and short sentences like "It was just a hole." and "I don’t know." make the narrator sound confused and unhappy.

The writer uses adjectives like “vast” and “artificial” to show waste, making the hole seem pointless. The short sentence “It was just a hole” emphasises carelessness. Moreover, the phrase “impossible to divine” and “I don’t know” show the narrator’s confused, irritated reaction. The metaphor “a scar in the hillside” suggests damage to nature. Furthermore, the verb “tumbled” shows the pipes were thrown carelessly, and “There wasn’t one that was not broken” shows total waste. Additionally, the emotive phrase “a wanton smash-up” suggests needless destruction and the narrator’s disapproval.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Adjectives foreground scale and artificiality → magnifies pointless human interference as wasteful → (vast artificial hole)
• Modality of uncertainty → purposelessness emphasised; narrator baffled at the pointlessness → (impossible to divine)
• Negative definition and anticlimax → strips away legitimate function, reducing it to emptiness → (It was just a hole)
• Ironic high-minded phrasing → mocks tokenistic schemes and hints at careless busywork → (philanthropic desire)
• Colloquial aside → terse, dismissive voice signals frustration with senseless activity → (I don’t know)
• Sequential shift and near-miss → momentum of hazards shows cumulative consequences of negligence → (Then I nearly fell)
• Injury metaphor → portrays human impact as scarring the land, intensifying the sense of damage → (scar in the hillside)
• Economic lexis with careless verb → costly materials dumped heedlessly, underscoring mismanagement → (tumbled in there)
• Totalising double negative → stresses complete ruin; nothing salvaged from the waste → (wasn’t one that was not)
• Emphatic evaluative noun phrase → blunt condemnation frames the destruction as reckless and needless → (wanton smash-up)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace the spatial progression and tonal shift from futile colonial “work”—the 'vast artificial hole', 'wanton smash-up' of pipes and ironic refrain 'The work!'—into the grove’s 'Inferno', where anaphoric negatives ('not a breath... not a leaf... not enemies... not criminals... nothing earthly now') dehumanize the 'black shapes' before a narrowed focus on the 'black bones' with a 'bit of white thread'. It would then show how the final shift to the “vision” of 'a white man' in 'snowy trousers', 'white cuffs', 'varnished boots' structurally heightens the moral and visual contrast between imperial display and the 'helpers' who have 'withdrawn to die'.

One way in which the writer structures contrast is by opening with a catalogue of purposeless industry against the hillside. The narrator passes “a vast artificial hole,” then a ravine jammed with “drainage-pipes” of which “not one” is unbroken, a “wanton smash-up.” This linear sequencing of wreckage, punctuated by the sardonic “philanthropic desire,” establishes a tonal irony and frames futility as the baseline. The brisk shift from object to object quickens pace, priming a sharper moral opposition to come.

In addition, a clear structural volta arrives with “At last I got under the trees,” pivoting focus from landscape to bodies. The writer withholds specifics—“Black shapes… in all the attitudes of pain”—before the delayed disclosure, “They were dying slowly.” This withholding intensifies the contrast between the ironised refrain “The work!” and human unworking. The perspective then narrows in a zoom to “a face near my hand” and the “white worsted” on a “black neck,” a binary motif that threads the sequence and crystallises moral dissonance.

A further structural method is the climactic juxtaposition at the end. After fleeing “the shade,” the narrator meets “a white man” presented through cumulative listing—“starched collar… snowy trousers… varnished boots.” The repeated “white” forms an arresting counter-image to “greenish gloom” and “black shadows.” By placing this immaculate “vision” immediately after the dying “helpers,” the sequencing intensifies the contrast, while sustained first-person focalisation makes the disparity land as a personal shock.

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 contrast through shifts in setting and tone: from futile colonial activity—'just a hole', smashed 'drainage-pipes', the ironic exclamation 'The work!'—into a hellish grove described as an 'Inferno' where 'Black shapes' are 'dying slowly'. This builds to a final juxtaposition at the station, where the 'greenish gloom' and contorted bodies are set against the immaculate 'white man' with 'snowy trousers', 'varnished boots' and a 'green-lined parasol', intensifying the contrast by the end.

One way the writer structures contrast is through a clear shift in focus. The narrator moves from a "vast artificial hole" and "imported drainage-pipes... broken" to, "At last", the trees, setting futile construction against a natural space figured as a "gloomy... Inferno". The soundscape also juxtaposes the "uninterrupted, uniform" rapids with the "mournful stillness" of the grove, changing the mood and unsettling the reader.

In addition, the writer uses a structural zoom to heighten contrast. The collective "black shapes" resolves into "a face near my hand", so the narrative narrows from crowd to individual. The stark image of "white worsted" on a "black neck", followed by rhetorical questions, slows the pace. Repetition and negation ("not enemies... not criminals") recast the men as "black shadows", opposing legal "time contracts" to human suffering.

A further structural choice is to delay the starkest juxtaposition until the end. After the "greenish gloom" and "moribund shapes", the focus switches to an "unexpected elegance": "high starched collar... varnished boots" under a parasol. Ending on this image intensifies the contrast and undercuts the earlier exclamation "The work!", exposing the gulf between colonial polish and nearby death.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response typically identifies that the writer structures the passage by moving from puzzling man-made activity (“just a hole”, broken “drainage-pipes”) into a darker scene (“gloomy circle of some Inferno”, “black shadows”), so the contrast grows stronger. It also spots the final switch to the tidy “white man” with “white cuffs” and “varnished boots”, explaining that this sudden change in focus and mood highlights the difference between suffering and “unexpected elegance”.

One way the writer structures contrast is through a shift in setting at the beginning. He first notices man‑made damage, “just a hole” and “broken” pipes. Then, in the middle, he steps “under the trees” into an “Inferno”. This change in focus turns the mood from puzzled to fearful, unsettling the reader.

In addition, the writer contrasts movement and stillness. We hear the “headlong” rush of the rapids against the “mournful stillness” of the grove. The exclamation “The work!” beside “helpers had withdrawn to die” sets up a stark contrast, making the suffering and the bitter irony stand out.

A further way is the end focus. The text zooms in from the group to one face and the “white worsted” on his black neck, then finally shifts to a “white man” in “snowy trousers”. By the ending, this makes the contrast stronger and shocks the reader.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows contrast by moving from early damage like the 'hole' and 'wanton smash-up', into the 'gloomy... Inferno' with 'black shapes', and finally to a 'white man' with 'unexpected elegance'. This beginning-to-end shift in setting and mood makes the contrast clearer by the end.

One way the writer structures the text to create contrast is by starting with damaged things, then moving to people. We see a 'vast artificial hole'; then 'At last I got under the trees,' the mood darkens.

In addition, the focus shifts to suffering bodies, like 'black shapes' and the 'gleam of the eyes.' This change in focus from objects to people makes the contrast clear and shocks the reader.

A further contrast comes at the end. After the grove, the narrator meets 'a white man' with 'snowy trousers.' This final shift makes the contrast stronger between misery and neatness.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening contrast between professed purpose and observed futility: a sardonic nod to philanthropic desire collides with the reality of just a hole.
• Cumulative sequence (hole → ravine → smashed drainage-pipes) escalates dysfunction, opposing “settlement” to ruin and ending in a wanton smash-up.
• Threshold shift into the grove flips expected relief into torment, reversing light/shade into a hellish some Inferno.
• Juxtaposed sound and silence—rushing noise against mournful stillness—set kinetic force against paralysis to heighten dissonance.
• Structural zoom from crowd to individual—Black shapes to black bones—intensifies pathos by moving from mass suffering to intimate encounter.
• An abrupt detonation and the bitter refrain The work! interrupt the scene, opposing ongoing industry to a place “where…helpers…withdrew to die.”
• Tripled negation reframes identity (not enemies, not criminals) into erasure, climaxing in nothing earthly now to contrast human life with spectral remnants.
• Parenthetic questioning halts pace around the token white worsted; its stark visibility on a black neck foregrounds cultural and visual opposition.
• Final pivot to an impeccably dressed white man amplifies contrast: pristine details—snowy trousers, green-lined parasol—after the grove’s greenish gloom.

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 neatly dressed man appears, his clean clothes seem shocking after the scene of death. The writer suggests this man is completely cut off from the suffering around him.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the elegant white man with white cuffs
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest his detachment from suffering
• 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, through stark juxtaposition and symbolism, presents the man as largely insulated from suffering: the grotesque 'bundles of acute angles' and 'as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence' shift to the 'unexpected elegance of get-up' with 'white cuffs', intensifying the shock. It would further analyse how the 'green-lined parasol' and 'penholder behind his ear' metonymically signal bureaucratic detachment, making him a detached 'vision' and thus supporting, to a great extent, the view that he is cut off from the misery around him.

I largely agree that the man’s immaculate clothes are shocking after the preceding scene of death, and that the writer presents him as insulated from the suffering around him. Conrad engineers this shock through sustained contrast, colour symbolism and meticulous visual detail so that the “elegant” figure reads less like a person and more like an emblem of bureaucratic detachment.

The passage first immerses us in a hellish tableau. The Dantean allusion to the “gloomy circle of some Inferno” and the cumulative aural imagery of an “uninterrupted, uniform, headlong, rushing noise” steep the grove in a funereal atmosphere. Dehumanising metaphor turns people into “black shapes” and “black shadows of disease and starvation,” while the tricolon “pain, abandonment, and despair” establishes a semantic field of extremity. Anaphora underscores moral innocence—“they were not enemies, they were not criminals”—yet the exclamative aside “The work! And this was the place where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die” injects bitter irony, indicting the system that permits such scenes. Even before the white man appears, whiteness intrudes as a startling motif: the boy’s “bit of white worsted” is “from beyond the seas,” its “startling” pallor against his “black neck” foreshadowing the jarring purity of the later figure.

Against this, the man arrives in a structurally pointed pivot: “When near the buildings I met a white man,” the narrator moving out of the “shade” of death towards the “station.” The description becomes a catalogued inventory—“high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clean necktie, and varnished boots”—whose asyndetic listing and dense adjectives (“starched,” “snowy,” “varnished”) fetishise cleanliness. The repeated colour term “white” and the hyperbolic reaction—“in the first moment I took him for a sort of vision... He was amazing”—frame him as unreal, a spectre of order in a charnel landscape. Synecdoche and metonymy reduce him to functions and props: a “big white hand,” a “penholder behind his ear,” and a “green-lined parasol” that literally shelters him, a private, curated shade mirroring and negating the grove’s “greenish gloom.” The effect is of a man hermetically sealed from the “moribund” bodies a few steps away.

One might argue we are shown only surface—his “get-up,” not his inner life—so his “detachment” is a constructed impression rather than proven indifference. Yet this is precisely Conrad’s point: the immaculate exterior, bureaucratic tools and parasol-stagecraft signify a systematised aloofness. Overall, I agree to a great extent: through stark juxtaposition, colour symbolism and meticulous listing, the writer suggests this man’s pristine modernity is not merely incongruous but emblematic of being cut off from, and complicit in ignoring, the surrounding suffering.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, identifying the sharp contrast between the dying 'black shadows' and the man's 'unexpected elegance', with the list of 'high starched collar', 'white cuffs', 'snowy trousers', 'varnished boots' making him seem like a 'vision' and shockingly out of place. It would also note details like the 'green-lined parasol' and 'penholder behind his ear' as signs of bureaucratic comfort that suggest detachment from suffering, while acknowledging we are not shown his inner feelings.

I agree to a great extent that the man’s immaculate appearance is shocking after the grove of death, and that the writer presents him as insulated from the suffering, though “completely” cut off may overstate what we can infer.

The shock is created through structural juxtaposition. We move straight from “black shadows of disease and starvation” and a “gloomy circle of some Inferno” to “a white man, in such an unexpected elegance of get-up that … I took him for a sort of vision.” This immediate contrast heightens the reader’s astonishment. The cumulative list—“high starched collar, white cuffs, a light alpaca jacket, snowy trousers, a clean necktie, and varnished boots”—forms a semantic field of cleanliness and refinement. The repeated colour imagery of “white” and “snowy” sharply opposes the earlier “black shapes” and “greenish gloom,” reinforcing a sense of separation.

Specific details underline his detachment. The “green-lined parasol” held in a “big white hand” symbolises protection and shade, suggesting he literally shields himself from the harsh environment. “Varnished boots” and “hair parted, brushed, oiled” feel impractical and self-regarding in a place “where some of the helpers had withdrawn to die,” implying he is not engaged with their suffering. The “penholder behind his ear” works as metonymy for bureaucratic, clerical work, hinting that his role is administrative rather than humanitarian.

Conrad also seeds this alien whiteness earlier: the “bit of white worsted” that looks “startling round his black neck” foreshadows how startling the elegant white man appears “near the buildings.” Finally, the narrator’s evaluative diction—“amazing,” “vision”—and the hyperbolic tone make the figure seem unreal, heightening the impression of detachment.

However, we are only given Marlow’s viewpoint and no direct response from the man, so calling him “completely” cut off goes beyond the evidence. Overall, I largely agree: through contrast, listing and colour symbolism, the writer portrays the man as strikingly incongruous and insulated from the surrounding misery.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response would mostly agree, pointing out simple contrast: the man’s unexpected elegance of get-up—with white cuffs, snowy trousers, and varnished boots—makes him seem a sort of vision under a green-lined parasol. These details suggest he is detached from the suffering around him.

I mostly agree that the neatly dressed man is shocking after the deaths, and the writer presents him as detached from the suffering.

Before he appears, the writer builds a hellish mood with strong imagery. The grove is an “Inferno,” full of “black shapes” in “pain, abandonment, and despair.” The people are “nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation,” and the scene looks “as in some picture of a massacre or a pestilence.” This semantic field of death and the “greenish gloom” create a miserable tone, so the later figure stands out sharply.

When the white man arrives, the detailed list of clothes—“high starched collar, white cuffs… snowy trousers… clean necktie… varnished boots”—and the repeated colour imagery (“white,” “snowy,” “clean”) make him seem spotless. The narrator even calls him “a sort of vision,” showing his own shock at this “unexpected elegance.” Items like the “green-lined parasol” and the “penholder behind his ear” suggest comfort and office work, not physical labour. This implies he is protected from dirt and pain, unlike the “black bones” and collapsed bodies we have just seen. The contrast in adjectives and the structural juxtaposition between death and polish suggest he is cut off from the reality around him.

Although we don’t hear his thoughts, so we can’t say he is completely uncaring, the writing strongly implies detachment. Overall, I agree to a large extent: through contrast, colour imagery and careful listing, the man’s cleanliness is shocking and he appears separate from the suffering.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree he is completely cut off, simply noticing that after black shadows of disease and starvation the man’s clean white cuffs and snowy trousers make him a sort of vision.

I mostly agree with this statement. The man’s clean clothes are shocking because, just before he appears, the writer shows a place of death and pain. We see “black shapes” who are “nothing but black shadows of disease and starvation.” It is “as in some picture of a massacre,” which gives a very bleak picture. This dark imagery makes a grim mood, so anything clean would stand out.

Then the white man appears and the writer lists his clothes: “high starched collar, white cuffs… snowy trousers… varnished boots.” The repeated colour “white” and adjectives like “starched” make him seem very neat and perfect. He is called “amazing” and “a sort of vision,” which suggests he doesn’t belong here or notice the suffering around him. The “green-lined parasol” also makes him seem concerned with comfort and appearance, not with the dying people nearby. This creates a strong contrast and shows his detachment.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The contrast between the suffering people and his clean, bright outfit makes him seem cut off from the suffering around him. The writer’s imagery and list of details about his clothes support the idea that he is separate from the horror in the grove.

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:

• Juxtaposition heightens shock: the ravaged grove is followed by a pristine figure, implying detachment from suffering (unexpected elegance of get-up)
• Colour imagery of whiteness signals separation and superiority amid surrounding misery (white cuffs)
• Near-mystical description makes him seem unreal, outside the human pain nearby (sort of vision)
• Detailed clothing catalogue foregrounds self-presentation over compassion, suggesting emotional distance (varnished boots)
• Comfort props imply insulation and self-concern in a place of deprivation (green-lined parasol)
• Bureaucratic symbol points to administrative, not humanitarian, involvement, reinforcing detachment (penholder behind his ear)
• Narratorial evaluation steers readers to see him as out of place and insensitive (He was amazing)
• Spatial placement by the station, not the grove, marks physical remove from the dying (near the buildings)
• The prior scene of devastation makes his cleanliness feel morally jarring, intensifying the sense of cut-offness (picture of a massacre)
• Limitation: the text shows only appearance, not words or deeds, so “completely” may overstate the case (I met a white man)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

The student-run sports blog at your college is inviting short creative writing for its launch week.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a velodrome during practice from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a comeback.

(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 velodrome holds its breath; then releases it in a soft, circular exhalation as wheels whisper past. Honeyed boards bank at improbable angles; the track curves like a giant’s cupped palm. Painted lines — black measurement, cerulean stayer’s, scarlet sprinter’s — form a stave upon which the day writes its music. Light drizzles from rafters; lamps fizz. The air tastes faintly of resin, warm rubber and the lemony ghost of last night’s cleaning.

They rise out of the bend, filing like a school of metallic fish; jerseys gleam; calves taut; heads and shoulders perfectly still while legs spin a quicksilver cadence. Silence is impossible. There is the hiss and hum and the tiny percussion of chain on cog; there’s a breathy rush that tugs at hair on your arms. On the banking the centripetal pull is unapologetic; they lean into it — trusting speed, trusting line, trusting timber. The track doesn’t buckle; it murmurs. A lap board flickers; numbers climb and drop as if counting heartbeat.

Concurrently, down on the infield, the ritual is precise: cones aligned like punctuation; a whistle’s thin syllable; a stopwatch’s blink; a coach’s voice — pared, economical — carving the air. On rollers at the edge, a rider warms up, wheels singing against drums; sweat beads at the temple and threads south, a salty embroidery. There is a scent of metal and oranges, of chalk from a hand that marks splits on corrugated card. Myriad small sounds — cleats clicked, tape torn — assemble into a practised litany.

Beyond the inner fence, rows of seats arc upwards, empty but watchful; their plastic backs hold cool, anonymous faces. A custodian moves along the aisle with a long-handled brush, her steps mapping out a quiet counter-rhythm. Up near the roof, banners stir in a draft and settle again, like lungs that never quite finish sighing. The scoreboard glows a resolute blue while digits blink with bureaucratic patience.

Lap after lap, the oval makes a metronome of ambition. Knees pump; faces tighten; mouths open to the cold air; one rider drifts a fraction — corrected instantly — and the line rethreads. A bell rings — a silver suggestion — and three silhouettes rise, accelerate, compress. Then, a decrescendo: freewheels clicking; the pack unspools, slowing, sitting up. The velodrome inhales again. Its boards hold a dust no one notices; its corners hoard the echo of tyres; and, while the clock keeps blinking, the circle keeps its secret — that going nowhere can feel like flight.

Option B:

Saturday night. The hour when red curtains remembered applause; programmes rustled; chandeliers held their breath. In the gilt hush of the concert hall, second chances hovered at the edges, wary as wildlife at a treeline. Comebacks are peculiar: they clink like tin yet taste, improbably, of honey.

Backstage, Mara rubbed the pale seam of a scar from wrist to palm, a silver thread stitched through time. She flexed her fingers in sequence—thumb to little—testing the ache with practised defiance. Her dress was deliberate, severe; her shoes were whisper-thin so she could feel the stage, the grain that would ground her. The piano, immodest under the safety light, lay with its lid slightly ajar as if mid-sentence. The room smelt of polish—sharp, medicinal—and somewhere a rope creaked.

Twelve months ago—exactly, to the day—she had stepped into an identical ellipse of light and been erased by it. Mid-Liszt, the cadenza slipped; her mind, once a metronome, began to stutter; her hands forgot the map. Silence did what silence does in a crowd: it expanded. Someone coughed. She stood, sat, stood—an absurd marionette—then walked off, each footstep an accusation. By morning, the clip was everywhere.

She did not touch the keys for weeks. Instead, she swam; she watched fog unspool along the river. She learnt to listen: to kettles, to sparrows turning on air, to metronomes. Slowly—laboriously, even—she returned: scales first, then etudes, then the brawny phrases she had once taken for granted. Not back to before; never that. Back to now.

“Two minutes,” the stage manager murmured. Anodyne words, yet her pulse obeyed. Mara reached for her rituals: a mint snapped between her teeth; the coin her grandmother had pressed into her palm; a breath held for four, released for eight. Confidence is a muscle; she had been rehabilitating it, quietly, away from cameras.

Even so—because honesty matters—fear prowled, bright-eyed and patient. What if her memory winked out again, mid-phrase? Yet another voice, gentler, insisted: You are not the you of then. A comeback is not a triumphant U-turn; it is a looped return that arrives with company—doubt, grit, grace.

The red light above the wing flicked to green. The audience’s murmur condensed into a susurrus, a small sea awaiting tide. Mara smoothed her dress; the gesture was, admittedly, theatrical. She smiled—wry, complicit—then stepped.

Light pressed against her like a warm hand. The piano—black mirror, old accomplice—gleamed. She crossed the boards, found the bench, sat. She had missed this soundless second before sound, this precipice. She placed her hands—scar and all—above the keys. Then the first note rose, clean as water, and the hall remembered how to breathe.

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

Option A:

The light in the velodrome is unusual: a pale, chalky glow skimmed from high windows and the cold jewellery of strip lamps. The track rises in a honey-coloured ellipse; black, red, and blue lines cinch its waist. It leans like a decision. At the furthest curve, the bank looks unreasonable, almost vertical; yet it beckons. A hush gathers before the wheels begin.

Then they come, one by one, then in twos; a metal whisper that fattens into a hum. Tyres kiss timber—soft, sticky, repeatable. Round and round, round and round. Disc wheels murmur like distant thunder; spoked rims chatter, insistent, like a warning. Helmets gleam like beetle shells, dark and streamlined. The track answers with its own low voice—a resonant drum—as they surge through the bend. The air moves; you feel it tick the hairs on your arms even from the stands. The pale blue band (a whispering ribbon that warns, not welcomes) glints at the edge; nobody lingers there.

Down in the infield is another scene: a compact city of tripods and toolboxes, roller drums rotating beneath shoes, the brief clink of chain links being coaxed to behave. A whistle slices; a stopwatch blinks. A finger draws a line on the whiteboard—16.2, 16.0, 15.8—numbers that are stern, almost sympathetic. Someone coughs; someone laughs too loudly, a little nervous. Cleats snap into pedals with a dry click, a decisive sound. “Hold the black! Three more!” a coach shouts, voice climbing into the rafters. The tannoy coughs and falls silent.

On the back straight a rider floats. His shoulders are still, his gaze pinned to the faint black—no, measurement—line as if to a tightrope. His suit is a second skin, a slick cobalt that denies drag; his calves write their own metronome. Breath in, breath out; breath in, breath out. He rises into the bend and the bike rises with him, obedient, as if the wood had offered him a shoulder. What keeps him from sliding? Momentum, physics, practice; faith. He drops, knifes the straight, hears wind speak through the vents, tastes tin at the back of his throat.

Around him others orbit at different heights, a quiet constellation governed by rules older than today: look before you move, hold your line, be predictable. Sometimes a junior wobbles; a hand shoots out—steady—and the mistake dissolves before it becomes a story. The lap counter flips again; the numbers fall like dry leaves. Up in the seats, rows of blue plastic watch without blinking. Outside, afternoon leans toward evening, but in here time loops; it is counted not by clocks but by cadence, by the lilt of the whistle, by the smooth urgency of speed. Practice ends not with an ending but with a gentling: the hum thins, brakes sigh, shoes unclip, and the track exhales, almost relieved.

Option B:

The hall had a memory, or at least it behaved as if it did. Dust swam through the spotlight like tiny planets; the worn red curtain breathed in and out as the heating clicked and sighed. Old posters curled along the corridor, faces of people who had dared before me, their printed smiles fading to a soft patina. If I stood very still, I could hear the hush that lives beneath every applause—the held breath before beginning, the attentive silence that feels like a hand placed gently on your back: steady now.

I sat at the dressing table with its oval mirror and a ring of bulbs that made my skin look expectant and pale. My black case lay open like a mouth, swallowing the clutter I had collected for courage—chalk for my fingers, a small metronome (my father’s, walnut and dented), a silk scarf the colour of rainclouds. I turned the metronome over; it ticked, patient and exact, measuring time I had wasted and time I had remade. The last time I was here, the metronome had stayed at home; the last time, the room had felt narrower, as if the walls had leaned close to listen. Notes had slid away from me then, quick and cold, and I had stood under the incandescent glare and heard only the audience’s breathing sound like sea on shingle. When nothing came, someone coughed. Then another. The silence grew enormous and hungry. Headlines followed—cruel ones, of course—and I avoided mirrors for months.

A knock: two brisk taps, no drama. “Five minutes, Mara.” The stage manager’s voice was clipped and kind. I answered—“Thank you”—but my throat stayed tight, a violin string wound a fraction too far. What if the silence came back? The question arrived like an unwelcome guest and sat down beside me, taking up space I needed for breath.

I stood, because standing is a decision. The scarf slid around my neck; it felt cool, a weight I could bear. Comebacks are not about erasing what happened; they are about building a bridge over it, one careful plank at a time. My hands were not steady exactly, but they belonged to me, and I flexed them until the familiar ache returned—work, memory, muscle. My father used to say: play what remains. Not the wish, not the fear—what remains.

The corridor’s length seemed to change with my footsteps, stretching and shrinking like the throat of a giant instrument. At its end, the curtain waited—red, heavy, forgiving. Someone pressed a bottle of water into my palm; someone else adjusted my sleeve. I stepped into the warmth of the wings and watched the stage glow under its constellation of lights. Beyond, the audience rustled and stilled; a collective attention coalesced.

Then I walked out, one measured pace, then another. The piano’s keys shone like porcelain teeth, neat and slightly intimidating. I sat. The bench creaked—human, ordinary. A breath—a long one, planted deep. My fingers hovered, not shaking now, just poised. For a heartbeat the hall and I shared a single thought.

Begin.

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

Option A:

The velodrome holds its breath. A wooden bowl under a roof of cold, white light; a smooth ellipse stitched with colour: the blue, the black, the red. Before the wheels arrive, there is only the hush of air-conditioning and the click of a lap counter.

Then the riders slip onto the boards and the quiet folds back. Round and round they go, a silver chain of bodies threading the curve, tyres whispering. The banking gathers them and leans them until logic feels like trust. Helmets tilt; calves grind while shoulders stay calm. On the infield, the coach stands with a whistle—sharp, controlled, repetitive.

Sound rises and settles in waves. The hum of hubs is a low choir, overlaid by the dry hiss of rubber; now and then a clack as a tyre skitters over a join. Oil, varnish and warm dust make a clean, wooden odour. Pale, narrow planks run beneath them; the surface is smoothed, yet it is not forgiving. Above, empty rows scallop the bowl, flags hardly moving.

Meanwhile, a rider eases up to the blue band, hovers, then drops—steeper than it looks—knifing down to join the line. He takes a wheel, leaves a breath’s width, holds it there. Cadence becomes a metronome. The black line is a guide and a demand. Sweat slicks his back; his mouth is open, drawing air that tastes faintly of resin. Chalk scuffs, the gloss of tape, an anodised chainring flickering past—he does not look up; he listens to the wheel ahead and trusts its circle.

Gradually, the pace slackens; the chain loosens into something almost easy. One peels to the rail, then another. Laps tick down. The hum fragments into separate noises: a freehub ticking in memory, the scrape of cleats, a bottle set down by a distracted hand. For a second the bowl is almost still. Then the coach’s whistle flicks the air, and the line rises, reorganises, returns to work. Round and round, steady and intent, until the light in the roof feels less distant and the wooden curve seems to breathe.

Option B:

The lights hummed above the ring, a white square afloat in the dark like a raft stitched from tape and hope. Ropes glowed with resin; the crowd lapped, a tide of faces and phone screens. Liniment salted the air. Somewhere, a bell was tested—one hard note, then silence. The room held its breath with him.

Luca sat on the bench and laced his boots, fingers moving like careful spiders. He tightened, re-tightened (the old strap still frayed), and felt the familiar pinch at his ankles. He rubbed resin into his palms; grit bit the lines. He glanced at the mirror bolted to the locker: the cut above his brow now a pale comet, the shoulder a shadowed slope. He could almost hear the commentary flattening—his name thinning in the speakers. He told himself to ignore it, to look down, to breathe.

It happened quickly and slowly at once. A feint; a slip; a punch he didn’t see and a landing he felt in every rib. Then the shoulder faltered like a rusted hinge, and the canvas came up to meet him. He walked out under merciless fluorescents to applause that was really relief. After that, weeks blurred: ice, tape, physio, the metronomic ache of exercises that looked like nothing but took everything.

Not a miracle; just a message from a kid he once coached: You don’t quit, do you? He didn’t answer. Instead, he set alarms before dawn and ran along the river while the city yawned. He counted breaths; listened to footfalls; let the cold knife his lungs until they warmed. Coach Mara watched, dry as tinder: Feet, then hands. Again. Again. He stitched himself together with small rituals—water, sleep, repetition; stubbornness.

Even now, his heart stuttered, then steadied. The other corner glittered with a younger man’s grin and new gloves. Luca stood. He should have stayed home, he didn’t. But he was here. He climbed the steps, touched the rope. The crowd swelled. He narrowed to the square—the only country he trusted. The bell lifted its voice.

Round one.

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

Option A:

A low hum coils around the velodrome, folding itself into the wood. The track is a wide, tilted ring, its honey-coloured boards stitched with black nails and crisp painted lines. Light pours from high lamps; it shines in stripes along the banking. Even when empty, the curve looks fast, like a held breath.

Then the riders arrive. A pack skims past, tight as a shoal, shoulders level, eyes set. Wheels whisper. Tyres press and release; the sound is like a zipper never stopping. Their bikes are bare—no brakes, no gears to save them—only legs looping a strict circle. On the bends they rise and drop, drawing ovals. One rider drops to the black line; his skinsuit flashes, the boards seem to sing.

Down in the infield, a coach raises a hand. The whistle is short, a note that cuts; a stopwatch clicks. Someone calls split times that bounce from the seats. On metal rollers, another cyclist warms up, head bowed, the front wheel blurring until it disappears. There is the sharp smell of oil and hot rubber, and sweat like salt. A toolbox is open—Allen keys, chain lube, tape—small things that keep the speed alive.

Above it all, the lap counter turns and the bell hangs like a promise. When it rings, the sound is bright; it slices the circle into now and after. Breathing grows rough; jerseys darken; a glove taps a hip to signal a change. They do not speak, but the language is clear: a nod, a tilt, a line left open. Around and around they go, the whole building taking part, rafters humming. At last the pace drops; the hum slackens—not silence, but a softer tide, as if the place itself is catching its breath.

Option B:

Evening. The hour when stadium lights wake, the hour when doubts get loud. A comeback sounds like thunder to the crowd, but up close it is smaller: tape tearing, laces tugged tight, a heart practising its beat.

I sit on a wooden bench. Sweat from earlier fights hangs in the air with the sharp bite of disinfectant and liniment. My hands look bigger once the gauze wraps them, careful as bandages on a secret. The scar over my eyebrow is pale now, not angry, and it pulls when I smile. I haven't stepped between the ropes since the night the canvas met me hard. People said I should quit, that I was finished. I heard it; I pretended I didn't.

I pick up my mouthguard. It tastes of rubber and mint, like schoolyard chewing gum, and something metallic I don't name. Coach knocks the door twice—our old signal, simple as a drumbeat. 'You ready, Jay?' he asks, voice low so the corridor won't steal it. Ready. The word rolls in my skull. Ready to lose? To try? My breath counts to four; my fear counts higher, but I keep counting anyway. I tie my boots again, though they are already tied, because my fingers need a job that isn't shaking.

The corridor is narrow and cold; it squeezes me forward. Posters of younger faces stare from the walls. Mine used to be here years ago, when my body obeyed. Steps thud, thud, thud. The announcer is a distant storm gathering; the crowd answers like rain. I walk towards that sound, towards the ring that remembers me and the mistake I made. Maybe they will boo. Maybe they will cheer. The ropes open like a slow mouth, and I climb through.

I didn't come back to prove them wrong. Not really. I came back to begin again.

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

Option A:

The track is a giant wooden bowl, banked so steep it crawls up the air, the boards a pale honey under strip lights. The lights are harsh, they flatten the air. Rubber smells mix with oil and a sweet tang of sweat; coffee drifts from the infield. You can hear it: the hiss, the thrum, the steady rattle of chains.

Riders flow past in a loose train on the red line, helmets low, backs flat like blades. Their wheels make a whispering noise, like rain on a roof. At the bottom, the blue band glows; at the top, the curve looks like a wave about to tip. "Change!" a coach calls, clapping his hands, and the front rider peels up the banking, another slides through - neat, careful, practised. Meanwhile, a stopwatch clicks, a pencil scratches, someone coughs. The infield is a village of small sounds: pumps, zipped bags, a tyre popped with a quick sigh.

Then the pace picks up. A motorbike hums along the black line; legs answer, gears bite, faces tighten. Breath comes loud now - the hot, metallic kind you taste. Sweat falls onto the wood and leaves faint dark moons. Around and around and around.

Up in the seats the colours are empty, but they watch anyway. A scoreboard flickers, the numbers ordinary and stern. The track keeps its rhythm; it holds them and releases them, over and over. When the coach finally says "last lap", the noise rises like a hand, and it breaks, slowly, into silence.

Option B:

November. Frost stitched white lace across the black track; each breath came like steam from an old kettle. Floodlights hummed over a thin crowd. I walked the inside lane with slow, careful steps, toe to heel, heel to toe, as if the ground might break under me. The stadium smelled of rubber, coffee, and nerves.

Last spring: a snap, like a branch; a fall; silence after the roar. Then hospital walls, a boot, crutches, hours that dragged. While my team trained, I counted ceiling tiles. Comeback felt like a word too big for my pocket, too shiny to belong to me.

Coach said, steady, don't chase, let the first bend come to you. Mum's scarf burned in the grey stands. My chest thudded with adrenaline and something else—fear, I guess. What if it goes again? What if it doesn't? I pressed my fingers into the scar; it was a thin moon under skin.

They called us to blocks. I crouched, hands flat, track cold and gritty against my palms. The starters pistol cracked, we jumped; the pack surged like a single animal. I was a step behind, then half, then the bend opened and the ache in my leg was a whisper.

Lean. Breathe. Drive. Small words I could keep.

The crowd began to find its voice—little claps turning into a wave. My name rose with it, enough. I didn't look back-wards. I looked forward, to the line, to the place I left, and the place I was running to.

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

Option A:

The velodrome hums. It is only practice, but the air trembles like a hive. Fluroscent strips spread a thin light over the steep wood; the track leans up like a wall. Black, red and blue lines circle the oval, tight rings. The boards are pale and dusty, tiny splinters catch the light. Wheels whirr and chains whisper. They go fast. Riders tip into the bend, helmets low, shoulders set, like arrows about to fly. They slide past in a blur of kit, colours streaking the corner, then they are gone, then back again. Round and round and round.

On the infield a coach claps, sharp. Keep it smooth, keep it steady, she calls; the stopwatch clicks like teeth. A bell pings once. The smell is rubber, hot metalic hubs and clean varnish. By the blue line a small pacing bike buzzes, quiet as a bee, and the line of riders rise and drop, one peels up, one drops down—changing, breathing. The banking holds them, the brown wave never breaks. Someone skids a little, a soft hiss, everyone tense for a heartbeat, then it settles. In the seats, a few bags, a jacket, posters with loud advertisments watch. The oval keeps its rhythm: again, again, again. It is only practice.

Option B:

Autumn. The time of returns; boots on wet grass, crowds in coats, breath like smoke in the air. At the edge of the pitch the white lines looked fresh and bright, like someone had drawn them just for today. Floodlights hummed, watching.

Maya pulled the tape tight around her knee, a careful loop, then another. The scar itched; the memory of slipping on frozen turf pressed in. She had sat on the bench for months, counting physio visits, counting days, counting tries. Could she really do it? She swallowed, tasting mud and mint gum. First, she stretched her legs. Then she tied and untied her laces, twice. Finally, she stood; this was the moment—her comeback. The word felt big in her mouth, important. Coach clapped her shoulder and said, “Steady now”, but her heart thudded anyway. It was like a small drum and it made her fingers shake.

The whistle cut the air, she jogged on, not fast, not slow, testing the ground. The first pass came rolling towards her, a shy thing. She met it with the inside of her boot, and the ball went clean and true. Again.

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

Option A:

The velodrome is huge and warm. Light falls on the wood, it shines like honey. The air smell of rubber and sweat. It hums like a bee that never stops. Lights buzz above like flys.

Riders go round and round. They bend there heads and push. Wheels hiss and click and whisper on the lines, red and blue and black, they follow like a train. Their backs are flat, they was quiet, only breathing.

The coach claps his hands and a whistle goes. One rider comes out, another drops in, it keeps going. The boards creak on the bend. My heart thumps, I feel the rush.

The bank is like a wall and they fly up it. They lean hard, they dont fall, the bikes tilt, the pedals go like a drum. A bottle rolls and rattles by the rail. The place is turning, turning, around and around.

Option B:

Morning. The pitch looked new, shiny from last nights rain. My boots felt old. Mud on them like scars. Today was suppose to be the day I come back.

I tied my laces tight, too tight, and my fingers shook. The Coach said its only a friendly, but it wasnt for me. The smell of grass was strong. I kept saying, come back, come back.

I remember the fall. The snap. Weeks of sitting, watching there goals on my phone, I could of deleted it but I didnt. I wanted to hear it. I wanted to hate it.

The whistle went and my legs felt heavy like stone, and then not so heavy. I jogged then ran. The ball rolled to me, slow, like it was waiting. I touched it and it was soft, it was home.

I was back.

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

Option A:

The velodrome is big and round, the track is like a brown ring. Bikes go around and around, around and around. The wheels make a soft hiss and a hum, its loud in here under the lights. A coach shouts, his voice echoing, Go faster, go faster! You see helmets and bright shoes, knees pumping. The air smells of ruber and sweat, sweet and sharp. Above there are seats, empty, a flag hangs down crooked. I feel a rush of wind when they pass me. Then the bell rings and they stop but not all of them, there going again.

Option B:

Morning comes. The pitch is wet and cold. I stand there again, my boots feel heavy like stones. Last time I fell and everyone watched, it was loud. Today is the come back, I tell myself, just do it. A bus goes past and brakes squeal, I look away and my homework. The coach blows the whistle. My heart is banging, I ain't ready. I run, slow at first, my legs shake like a foal, I think of mum on the fence. The ball rolls to me... I swing, miss, then hit it. It goes in. I am back!