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 turned cold?: the air – 1 mark
• 1.2 What had passed away?: the odour of frying and dust – 1 mark
• 1.3 Where were the great, pale, silver trails?: in the middle of the river – 1 mark
• 1.4 According to the narrator, how do the sounds from the quays change at twilight?: The sounds from the quays become softer and more mournful. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 Laurent, resting on his skulls, allowed the boat to drift along in the current. Opposite, rose the great reddish mass of trees on the islands. The two sombre

11 brown banks, patched with grey, were like a couple of broad bands stretching towards the horizon. The water and sky seemed as if cut from the same whitish piece of material. Nothing looks more painfully calm than an autumn twilight. The sun rays pale in the quivering air, the old trees cast their leaves. The country, scorched by the ardent beams of summer, feels death coming with the

How does the writer use language here to present the river at autumn twilight and the mood it creates? You could include the writer's choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how muted colour imagery and layered figurative language create an oppressive stillness: the simile 'like a couple of broad bands' flattens perspective, the metaphor 'cut from the same whitish piece of material' merges river and sky into a drained monotone, while 'great reddish mass of trees' and 'sombre brown banks, patched with grey' support the declarative hyperbole of an autumn that is 'painfully calm'. It would also track personification and syntax to the death-tinged mood: 'The sun rays pale in the quivering air', 'the old trees cast their leaves', and 'The country... feels death coming', alongside the passive motion in 'allowed the boat to drift', suggest inexorable decline at autumn twilight.

The writer uses colour imagery and simile to render the river’s autumn twilight as drained and funereal. The “two sombre brown banks, patched with grey, were like a couple of broad bands stretching towards the horizon.” The adjective “sombre” and the ashen “grey” suggest funeral tones, while the simile “broad bands” draws on textile imagery; the plosive alliteration of “brown… banks… broad… bands” creates a heavy, measured rhythm, as if the scene is bound or bandaged. Coupled with Laurent who “allowed the boat to drift along in the current,” the river’s motion feels passive and inevitable, establishing a mood of resigned melancholy.

Furthermore, the writer extends this textile conceit: “The water and sky seemed as if cut from the same whitish piece of material.” The verb “cut” and the phrase “same… piece of material” imply a single sheet, effacing boundaries so that world and water are bleached into uniformity. “Whitish” evokes a shroud, so the river and sky are metaphorically wrapped in funeral cloth, deepening the sense of lifeless calm.

Moreover, the aphoristic sentence “Nothing looks more painfully calm than an autumn twilight” uses hyperbolic absoluteness and the oxymoron “painfully calm” to make stillness oppressive. Personification intensifies this hush: “The sun rays pale in the quivering air, the old trees cast their leaves.” The verbs “pale” and “cast” suggest a deliberate ebbing of vitality, and the asyndetic pairing gives a tolling, elegiac cadence. Additionally, the country “scorched by the ardent beams of summer, feels death coming,” a stark personification that juxtaposes past “ardent” heat with impending mortality.

Thus, through muted chromatic choices, a sustained fabric metaphor, and poised personification, the river at autumn twilight becomes a shrouded corridor of inevitability, creating a mood that is tranquil yet ominously terminal.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Colour imagery like "sombre brown", "grey", and "whitish", and similes such as "like a couple of broad bands" and "as if cut from the same whitish piece of material" present the river as flat and drained of life, creating a muted, oppressive calm. Personification in "sun rays pale", "old trees cast their leaves", and "the country... feels death coming", together with the assertive statement "Nothing looks more painfully calm than an autumn twilight," builds a melancholic, foreboding mood.

The writer uses muted colour imagery and gentle verbs to present the river as subdued, creating a hushed, melancholy mood. Laurent “allowed the boat to drift,” and the “sombre brown banks, patched with grey” suggest passivity and a drained palette, so the scene feels heavy and reflective.

Moreover, the simile “like a couple of broad bands stretching towards the horizon” turns the banks into flat ribbons. “Broad bands” implies uniformity and length, while “stretching” conveys drawn-out slowness, so the river feels endless at twilight.

Furthermore, the textile simile “water and sky seemed as if cut from the same whitish piece of material” merges elements, erasing boundaries. “Whitish” connotes pallor, so the mood becomes bleached and still. The short declarative sentence “Nothing looks more painfully calm…” is hyperbolic, and the oxymoronic “painfully calm” intensifies an uneasy quiet.

Additionally, personification deepens the sense of decline: “The sun rays pale in the quivering air, the old trees cast their leaves,” and “The country… feels death coming.” Verbs like “pale” and “cast,” plus the listing of natural actions, slow the rhythm to a drift, presenting the river at autumn twilight as tranquil yet ominous.

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 identifies adjectives/colour imagery like 'great reddish mass' and 'sombre brown banks' to show a dull, heavy scene, and spots the simile 'like a couple of broad bands' to suggest the banks stretch out. It may also say 'cut from the same whitish piece of material' and 'painfully calm' create bleak stillness, while the personification 'feels death coming' hints at a gloomy autumn mood.

The writer uses colour imagery and verb choice to present the river at autumn twilight. Phrases like “great reddish mass” and “sombre brown banks” make the scene dull and heavy, while Laurent “allowed the boat to drift along.” This suggests slow movement and a calm, slightly lifeless mood.

Moreover, the simile “like a couple of broad bands” shows the banks as flat and stretching to the horizon. Also, “water and sky… cut from the same whitish piece of material” makes them blend together. This creates stillness and sameness, so the river feels empty and hushed.

Additionally, personification and sentence form build the mood. The short statement “Nothing looks more painfully calm” emphasises quiet. “The sun rays pale in the quivering air” and “the country… feels death coming” make nature seem tired and dying. Altogether, the writer creates a calm but eerie atmosphere at twilight.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses describing words like "sombre brown banks" and "whitish" and a simile "like a couple of broad bands" to show the river is calm and dull at autumn twilight. Phrases such as "painfully calm" and "feels death coming" make the mood sad and gloomy.

The writer uses adjectives to show the river and the mood. Words like “sombre brown” and “grey” make the banks seem dull and sad. The simile “like a couple of broad bands” shows the banks are long and stretched, creating a quiet, empty feeling. Moreover, “cut from the same whitish piece of material” makes the water and sky blend, so it feels still. Furthermore, personification like “sun rays pale” and “the old trees cast their leaves” suggests the day is fading. Finally, “painfully calm” makes the autumn twilight seem calm but heavy.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Languid verb choice suggests surrender to nature, setting a lethargic, resigned mood: drift along in the current
• Muted colour palette evokes decay and gloom, painting the banks as aged and lifeless: patched with grey
• Simile flattens the landscape into strips, implying monotony and loss of detail: like a couple of broad bands
• Expansive horizon phrase widens the scene to vastness, creating a sense of inevitability and time stretching on: stretching towards the horizon
• Fabric comparison fuses sky and water, suggesting unnatural stillness and uniformity: same whitish piece of material
• Short, declarative paradox intensifies quiet into unease, making calm feel oppressive: painfully calm
• Personification and fading light convey fragility at dusk, the world trembling as brightness drains: quivering air
• Deliberate verb for shedding personifies ageing nature, hinting at release and loss: old trees cast their leaves
• Seasonal contrast from summer’s heat to mortality frames twilight as decline, foreshadowing endings: feels death coming
• Heavy noun choice makes the treeline feel bulky and immobile, deepening the scene’s weight: great reddish mass

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace the structural tightening from the expansive calm of Twilight came and Nothing looks more painfully calm to the confined approach into the small arm of the river, sombre and narrow, with the distant softened melody of a nearby boating party ironically intensifying dread by placing help just out of reach. It would then analyse the jolt in pace and focus as Then Laurent rose breaks the lull, foreshadowed by Thérèse, rigid and motionless, while the repetition Thérèse! Thérèse! and the skiff creaked and danced ratchet urgency, before a structural twist to aftermath and deception—Laurent’s lamentable voice for help—extends the tension beyond the attack.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create tension is through a slow-burn opening that uses pathetic fallacy and a narrowing focus. The calm of “Twilight” and “huge shadows” is laced with funereal imagery—“Night falls… bringing winding sheets”—foreshadowing death. Long, cumulative description is then punctured by abrupt minor clauses: “The air freshened. It turned cold.” Spatially, the approach “to a small arm of the river… sombre and narrow” funnels space towards an inescapable channel.

In addition, the writer engineers a decisive pivot that accelerates the pace. Structural delay appears in Laurent’s “uneasiness” and Thérèse “waited”, but the clause “Then Laurent rose” breaks the stasis. Direct speech interjects (“It would not be pleasant… head foremost”), ironically prefiguring the plunge. Parataxis and dynamic verbs—“grasped”, “gave a jerk”—quicken rhythm, while iteration “Thérèse! Thérèse!” and the “stifling, sibilant voice” amplify panic. Focus tightens from hands at the “throat” to Thérèse’s fixed gaze, a shift in focalisation that makes the reader witness the “hideous struggle.”

A further structural feature sustaining tension is the chilling aftermath, where juxtaposition and dramatic irony replace open conflict. Tightly sequenced parataxis—“without losing a second… raised… capsized… calling”—stages an alibi in real time. The perspective then widens to the boating party, whose rescue suggests resolution, yet the narrator undercuts it: Laurent “searched for Camille in places where he knew he was not to be found.” This irony keeps the reader uneasy, so the piece moves from ominous calm to violent crescendo to a morally disturbing denouement.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify that the writer builds tension by moving from the calm opening — Twilight came, painfully calm — to increasing isolation as the boat enters a small arm of the river that is sombre and narrow, which traps the characters. It would also note a turning point — Then Laurent rose — leading to rapid, violent action and repeated cries (Thérèse! Thérèse!), followed by the staged accident (capsized the skiff, rescued the immerged couple) that keeps tension high through panic and deception.

One way the writer structures the text to create tension is by beginning with slow, panoramic exposition that foreshadows danger. The twilight, softened sounds and the phrase “painfully calm” create foreboding, while funereal imagery like “winding sheets” hints at death. As they “approached the islands” and enter “a small arm… sombre and narrow”, the focus narrows, tightening the space and creating contrast with the violence to come.

In addition, a sudden shift in pace marks the turning point. The connective “Then” signals acceleration, and violent, active verbs (“rose”, “grasped”, “seized”) with short clauses drive the action. Dialogue and repetition — “Thérèse! Thérèse!” — act as staccato beats. A narrative zoom on the struggle (hands, throat, teeth) heightens urgency and suspense.

A further structural choice sustains tension in the aftermath. Laurent’s rapid sequence — “raised the collar… capsized the skiff… calling for help” — forms a calculated cover-up. The focus shifts to the boating party, but dramatic irony keeps the reader uneasy about whether the deception will hold, a false resolution that lets the tension linger.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might say the writer builds tension by moving from a calm, descriptive opening (Twilight came, painfully calm, It turned cold) to sudden action (Then Laurent rose, rough hand), changing the mood and speeding up the pace. The repetition of "Thérèse! Thérèse!" and the climax where he capsized the skiff make the ending feel urgent and tense.

One way the writer structures tension is by starting calmly. We get slow description: 'Twilight came... It turned cold.' This quiet mood and autumn imagery make the reader uneasy and foreshadow danger.

In addition, the focus moves to the people and the pace quickens. Laurent is 'observing... with uneasiness' and Thérèse is 'rigid', then the turning point is the sudden line, 'Then Laurent rose and grasped Camille,' which shocks and speeds up the middle.

A further structural feature is repetition and a climax before the ending. Camille cries 'Thérèse! Thérèse!' and the skiff 'creaked and danced', making the struggle urgent. At the end the focus switches to rescuers and Laurent’s pretence, so tension remains about whether he is believed.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer starts calm with descriptions like Twilight came and It turned cold, then suddenly shifts to action at Then Laurent rose, which makes the tension rise. The repeated cry Thérèse! Thérèse! and quick events like capsized the skiff and being rescued make the ending feel fast and tense.

One way the writer structures the text to create tension is by starting calm and turning it dark. At the beginning the focus is on the setting, “Twilight came” and “It turned cold,” which contrasts with the later violence and makes the reader uneasy.

In addition, there is a shift in focus to Laurent’s actions. “Then Laurent rose” changes the pace, and the struggle builds the tension.

A further structural feature is repetition and climax. The repeated “Thérèse! Thérèse!” makes panic, and the climax is Camille falling, before the ending switches focus to the rescue.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Slow, atmospheric opening establishes calm that feels unstable; the shift into dusk begins a structural ascent in tension (Twilight came.)
• Pathetic fallacy frames the whole scene as a slide toward danger, foreshadowing violence and tightening the mood (death coming)
• Zoom from panoramic setting to the boat and still bodies concentrates focus, priming a sudden disruption (The party were silent.)
• Spatial narrowing into a secluded channel isolates the characters while help is near but screened, heightening peril (small arm of the river)
• A clear turning point snaps the calm—the abrupt action line jolts the narrative into violence (Then Laurent rose)
• Pace accelerates through brief clauses and kinetic struggle, increasing urgency as control slips (seize him by the throat)
• Repetition of the plea structures the scene in beats, each unanswered, intensifying helplessness and dread (Thérèse! Thérèse!)
• Violent twist within the climax (the bite) spikes shock before the plunge, peaking tension then releasing it into chaos (buried them in the neck)
• Immediate shift to staging an accident creates dramatic irony and a fresh thread of tension in deception (capsized the skiff)
• Return to a public rescue contrasts with hidden guilt, ending on uneasy resolution rather than relief (rescued the immerged couple)

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, Laurent’s actions after the murder seem very detailed and dramatic. The writer suggests that this performance of grief reveals just how cold and calculating he truly is.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Laurent's behaviour after murdering Camille
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray his cold calculating nature
• 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 convincingly exposes Laurent’s cold calculation through the theatrical precision of his cover-up: “without losing a second” he raised the collar of his coat, capsized the skiff with his foot, and cried for help in a lamentable voice. It would also highlight narratorial irony—he searched for Camille in places where he knew he was not to be found—and the melodramatic tricolon, returned in tears, wringing his hands, and tearing his hair, concluding that even details like whom he supported on the surface are part of a staged performance rather than genuine grief.

I largely agree with the statement. In the immediate aftermath of the killing, the writer renders Laurent’s behaviour in meticulously itemised steps and a deliberately theatrical register, so that his “grief” reads as a staged display that exposes a cold, tactical mind rather than genuine remorse.

The shift from violence to performance is structurally abrupt and telling. Almost at once, “without losing a second,” Laurent “raised the collar of his coat to hide his wound.” That adverbial phrase foregrounds timing and efficiency; the infinitive “to hide” signals conscious concealment of evidence. The next actions are equally calculated: he “capsized the skiff with his foot,” a precise, almost stage-direction-like detail that shows him fabricating an accident while keeping his hands free to “support” Thérèse. The participial clause “whilst calling in a lamentable voice for help” is loaded; “lamentable” is an evaluative adjective that prompts the reader to hear the falseness in his tone. The narrator’s earlier labelling of Laurent as “the murderer” intensifies the dramatic irony: we watch the killer recast himself as victim-saviour even as we are reminded of who he is.

As the scene unfolds, the writer amplifies the histrionics. Laurent “gave vent to his despair” and repeatedly “plung[ed] into the water again,” but the omniscient narrative aside that he searched “in places where he knew he was not to be found” punctures any possibility of sincerity. The verb “knew” strips away pretence and reveals foreknowledge; this is the cool logic of someone managing appearances, not a man driven by grief. The tricolon “in tears, wringing his hands, and tearing his hair” draws on clichéd signs of mourning; the continuous participles create a rolling tableau of movement, like stage business designed for an audience. That audience is literally present in “the boating party,” whose earlier “melody” becomes, in effect, the backdrop for Laurent’s performance; structurally, the text has prepared witnesses for his charade, which he exploits to secure “calm and console[ation].”

One might argue that some gestures—raising the collar “without losing a second,” the “lamentable” cries—could be attributed to shock or adrenaline. Yet the precision of the sequencing, the calculated staging of the capsize, and, crucially, the narratorial exposure that he searched where Camille “was not to be found,” combine to present a man orchestrating every detail.

Overall, the writer’s detailed, melodramatic portrayal of Laurent’s “grief” functions as an unmasking. Through structural juxtaposition, loaded lexis, and ironic narration, the passage persuades me that the grief is a performance, revealing Laurent’s chillingly methodical nature.

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 that Laurent’s grief is staged, noting the writer’s use of purposeful actions and melodramatic detail to present him as cold and calculating. It would cite how he raised the collar of his coat to hide his wound, he capsized the skiff with his foot, and kept calling in a lamentable voice for help, then searched for Camille in places where he knew he was not to be found, with gestures like returned in tears, wringing his hands, and tearing his hair showing performance rather than genuine remorse.

I largely agree with the statement. The writer presents Laurent’s behaviour after Camille’s death as minutely choreographed and highly dramatic, and this stage-managed grief exposes a cold, calculating core.

Immediately after the killing, the narrative zooms in on practical details that signal forethought. The adverbial phrase “without losing a second” shows ruthless efficiency, and the verb choice in “raised the collar of his coat to hide his wound” reveals a deliberate act of concealment, not shock. Likewise, “he capsized the skiff with his foot” is precise and intentional; structurally, this follows the murder at once, suggesting he has planned the cover story. Even his voice becomes a prop: he calls “in a lamentable voice for help,” an explicitly performative sound designed for the onlookers.

The writer then amplifies the theatrics through a list of exaggerated gestures. Laurent “returned in tears, wringing his hands, and tearing his hair,” a melodramatic trio that reads like stage directions. The presence of the “boating party” functions as an audience, and Laurent “gave vent to his despair,” a phrase that emphasises display rather than genuine feeling. Crucially, the omniscient narration undercuts his act: he searches “in places where he knew he was not to be found.” That clause exposes his inner knowledge and confirms that the grief is a calculated performance.

There is a brief suggestion of human sensation when he “restrain[s] a yell of pain,” but even this is subordinated to control; he suppresses it to maintain the plan. The earlier use of deathly imagery—“winding sheets” and “plaintive sighs”—creates a dramatic backdrop, but it is Laurent’s precise, purposive actions and heightened emotive language that define the aftermath.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. Through dynamic verbs, adverbials of time, listing, and an omniscient narrative voice that reveals his intent, the writer portrays Laurent’s grief as detailed, theatrical, and chillingly calculated.

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, spotting the staged grief in detailed, dramatic actions like raised the collar of his coat to hide his wound, capsized the skiff with his foot, and calling in a lamentable voice for help, which suggest he is calculating rather than genuinely upset. It would also pick out exaggeration such as searched for Camille in places where he knew he was not to be found and wringing his hands as simple evidence that the writer presents a cold performance.

I largely agree with the statement. In this second part, Laurent’s behaviour after Camille goes into the water is described in detailed, dramatic steps, and it reads like a performance that reveals how cold and calculating he is.

Immediately, he acts “without losing a second”. This phrase shows speed and planning, not shock. He “raised the collar of his coat to hide his wound”, then “capsized the skiff”, “whom he supported on the surface” and was “calling in a lamentable voice for help”. These verbs and the adjective “lamentable” make his grief look put on for those nearby. The step-by-step structure builds tension and suggests he is thinking through each move.

When the boating party arrives, the act grows. He “gave vent to his despair” and is shown “in tears, wringing his hands, and tearing his hair”. This list of melodramatic gestures feels over the top, like stage directions. Most tellingly, he “searched for Camille in places where he knew he was not to be found”. This tells us he knew he would not find him, so he is pretending and being calculating.

Some readers might argue he is panicking, because the scene is chaotic, but the precise detail and the contrast from killer to “rescuer” make me distrust him. Overall, I agree that the writer presents Laurent as cold and calculating through detailed actions and dramatic, performative grief.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree, saying Laurent is pretending: he raised the collar of his coat to hide his wound, called in a lamentable voice for help, and searched in places where he knew he was not to be found. This makes his grief look fake and shows he is cold and calculating.

I mostly agree with the statement. After the murder, Laurent’s actions are very detailed and dramatic, and they seem like a performance that shows how cold and calculating he is.

Straight away he “raised the collar of his coat to hide his wound.” This tiny detail makes him look careful and selfish, thinking about evidence. He then “capsized the skiff” and fell in “calling in a lamentable voice for help.” The adjective “lamentable” suggests he is putting on a sad voice. The strong verbs like “seizing” and “calling” make the moment feel dramatic.

Later, when other people arrive, he “gave vent to his despair” and keeps acting. He goes back in, “Plunging into the water again,” and “searched for Camille in places where he knew he was not to be found.” That phrase shows he knows it is fake. The writer uses a list of actions, “in tears, wringing his hands, and tearing his hair,” to make his grief look big and over the top.

Overall, I agree that Laurent’s grief is a performance, and the writer shows he is cold and calculating in the way he plans everything.

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:

• Immediate concealment of evidence → shows cool-headed self-preservation outweighing shock; signals calculation in the aftermath → (raised the collar of his coat)
• Deliberate staging of an accident → purposeful action rather than panic implies pre-planned cover → (capsized the skiff with his foot)
• Performative grief gestures → melodramatic, theatrical signals of performed sorrow rather than authentic feeling → (wringing his hands)
• Manipulating public perception → vocalised distress aimed at witnesses sells the accident narrative → (lamentable voice for help)
• Faked search exposed by narrator → explicit authorial insight confirms deceit, strengthening the view he is coldly calculating → (not to be found)
• Efficient, controlled timing → brisk, orderly sequence under pressure heightens the sense of a calculated performance → (without losing a second)
• Authorial labelling as moral cue → the blunt designation frames him unequivocally as culpable and unfeeling → (the murderer)
• Irony undercuts apparent emotion → stated “despair” reads as acting when set against his concealed aims → (gave vent to his despair)
• Persuading onlookers succeeds → their attempts to soothe him suggest his act convinces others, underscoring his manipulative skill → (calm and console him)
• Using Thérèse to maintain the façade → supporting the unconscious partner helps sustain the story of an accident while he directs events → (supported on the surface)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Green Roots magazine is running a spring feature on the natural world and invites short creative writing from readers.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a cool, shaded woodland clearing from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about losing your bearings and finding your way back.

(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 clearing keeps its own climate: a bowl of coolness set within the brambled rim of the wood. Columns of beech and pine, bark cicatrised and silvered, rise to a canopy that sifts noon; what sun arrives comes in aslant, in slender blades, lying in bright ovals on the moss. Air here is chilled and clean, faintly medicinal with resin and the crushed, peppery breath of fern. It is a kind of cathedral—arches of living green, a nave of shadow—but it is more humble than that; it does not perform. It simply receives.

Underfoot, the earth is a quilt of moss and fallen needles, sprung and forgiving; step and the ground yields, silence rising like a held breath. Rot and bloom work side by side: a rosette of fungus lifts porcelain plates from a stump; a beetle, glossy as ink, shuttles itself under a curled leaf; an ant trail stitches and unstitches the soil. A fern uncurls, frond fingertips feathered with dew, unscrolling like a slow thought; across from it, a foxglove stands with freckled bells—a procession, if a quiet one. You could taste the green here—cool, mineral, clean.

Meanwhile, a light wind moves the high leaves into speech: the sibilant susurration, the shiver and hush, tide-like yet landlocked. Somewhere beyond, a brook composes its silver monologue; a rook grates; a wren detonates a scold and vanishes. Midges hang in a shaft of light, a galaxy; pollen floats like lit ash. The shade keeps faith with itself; even the sun, scissoring through clouds, is edited by the canopy, tempered, made merciful. Time measures differently: by the slow migration of a sun-coin across a stone; by the soft tick, then fall, of a water drop collecting, filling, letting go.

At the perimeter, heat presses its face to the trees and is refused; inside, coolness prevails—deliberate, composed. Touch the bark: it is damp and furred with lichen, an old sleeve you might trust. Kneel and the moss leaves its earthy scent on your hands; raise them—petrichor, loam, a whisper of leaf. Yet this place is not only calm; it is alert. The clearing notices: every tread, every breath, every flicker of wing. And you, in return, notice too—the filament of a spider between two grasses; the tannic pool held in a hoofprint; the way light and dark braid themselves, over and over, as a breeze begins and ceases. Who would hurry here? No one; the path pauses; the mind unknots.

By the time a cloud draws its curtain and the ferns lift their green eyelids again, the clearing has done what it does best: hold. It holds shade and cool and the mild, intricate industry of life; it holds you, briefly, within its green parentheses—then, politely, it lets you go.

Option B:

Fog. A slow, insinuating tide that unstitched the edges of everything; houses softened to sketches, the footpath reduced to a rumour of gravel. Somewhere to my left the sea breathed—long, thoughtful exhalations—yet even the gulls flew soundless. It would have been beautiful if it hadn’t also been blank.

As the bus door sighed shut behind me, I had been sure: one straight lane, a right at the ruined barn, then the coastal path across the headland. Easy. My phone agreed, officious blue arrow pointing east. By the gate a public footpath sign—crooked—gestured into the whiteness as though it knew what lay beyond. I stepped through.

The hedges gathered beads of water that freckled my sleeves. Beech leaves licked my coat. The earth, saturated and stubborn, retained last week’s tractors; I picked along the ruts, pretending the paper map was not dissolving into a palimpsest in my pocket. When the app refused to load and the arrow stuttered in circles, I laughed—thinly. Then the battery gave its shy, terminal blink.

Silence. Not absolute (no silence ever is) but the kind you carry inside your ribcage. For a moment a ridiculous panic flared—They’ll find you in a ditch, the headline murmured; walker ignores warning—and I let it crest and fall. Dad had said, without drama, If you lose where you are, find what doesn’t move: slope, sound, sky. Look up, not only down.

So I looked. The field, insofar as it existed, tilted—water seeks gravity. I listened. Under the padded hush I found a thread—liquid, insistent—the metallic chatter a stream makes against stones. I smelled salt and woodsmoke that suggested chimneys and therefore people, therefore roads. A bell struck once, then again—three o’clock—somewhere inland. If there’s a bell, there’s a tower; if there’s a tower, a village.

Instead of pushing on blindly, I altered my bearing towards the bell, wary of the deceit of fog. Hawthorn snagged my trousers; a pheasant detonated from the ditch—outrage in feathers. At a stile, I paused—breath clouding, fingers numb—and let the landscape speak in small, incontrovertible truths: the stream crossed under the hedge; the ditch joined it; the hedgerow ran straight towards a copse.

Beyond the copse, a lane revealed itself by degrees—tarmac slick as slate, an amber smear of lamplight suspended in the veil. The inn sign, a painted mackerel, swung and creaked; the smell of yeast swelled from somewhere close. Lower Brambleton, the signboard declared. I did not need persuading.

I turned—not defeated, not triumphant, but reset—towards where I had begun. The same fog. The same unstitched world. And yet, within it, a thin, tensile thread I could feel between finger and thumb: the way back, taut and sure, waiting to be followed.

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

Option A:

Coolness collects in the clearing, pooling in the shade until it seems to lap at my ankles. Here, the woodland exhales; a faint breath of loam and resin threads the air. Sunlight is sifted through the leaves, a diaphanous gauze that settles on the backs of ferns and makes the midges shine like brief sparks. Everything feels slower, measured; the breeze moves leaf by leaf—quiet, careful, deliberate.

Underfoot, the floor is a quilt of moss, thick and springy; it gives softly, as if remembering rain. Tiny mushrooms button up through the green; their porcelain caps gleam, damp to the touch. Ferns crowd the edges: filigree and fan, their fronds uncurling like watchful hands. An ant parades along a twig, carrying a crumb that is absurdly huge; a snail etches a silver comma across a fallen leaf. The punctuation of small lives.

Trees ring the space like pillars—oak, beech, a white-barked birch; their trunks rise into a lattice that edits the sky. It is almost a green cathedral, though the roof shifts and breathes. Between them, sound is held—robin notes like drops, the far-off coo of a pigeon, the delicate tick of a seed pod splitting. A stray beam finds a spiderweb and turns it to a fragile wheel. Light here isn't bright; it is considerate: it strokes, it pauses, it glows at the edges of things.

In one corner, a skin of water lies in a shallow dip, no bigger than a plate. It holds the canopy upside down; the green shivers whenever a breeze strays across it. A single leaf lands, spins, and is still. A scent lifts—petrichor with a sweet fungal undertone; it tastes like stone after rain. My fingers rest on a root that ribs the earth, and the bark is cool, corrugated; my own pulse answers it for a moment, then steadies.

Time behaves differently here; a minute expands, a day recedes. At the margins, paths fade into deer-width corridors, a palimpsest of hoof and foot; it feels ancient, almost staged. I do not speak (there is nothing to add)—there is a hush that asks for listening. Is it a sanctuary or simply a gap where trees have chosen not to stand? The thought is oddly comforting, if a little obvious.

When a cloud crosses the sun, the clearing deepens; shadows gather like fabric drawn together, then loosen again, stitch by stitch. I step back, though nothing urges me; the coolness follows, light-footed, and the ferns whisper me out. Behind me, the hush knits itself closed, as if I had barely been here at all.

Option B:

Mist. The kind that unpicks the edges of familiar things; hedges soften into smudges, signposts bloom into pale ghosts. Paths that were certain yesterday dissolve underfoot tonight, and the wood sounds busier than it looks.

I had turned off the bridleway to chase a shortcut, confident that my feet knew what my eyes couldn’t; five minutes later I stood in a shallow bowl of darkness, the world reduced to wet leaves, the chalky reach of my phone’s torch, and the blunt percussion of my breathing. The beam wavered, stuttered—then surrendered. The battery icon blinked out as neatly as a door closing.

Beyond the trees, somewhere, a road sighed; I couldn’t tell which. Panic is a compass that spins faster the more you stare. After the argument at home—sharp words, a slammed door, that foolish urge to stride off and prove I didn’t need directions—I had let the path tilt under me. Now even my thoughts wandered, slipping into hollows I hadn’t seen.

Then, in the hush, something small: a persistent whisper, a thread of water conversing with stones. My father’s voice rose with it, unbidden and steady. “Find the stream. Water falls to the valley; the road lies where the land bottoms out. Follow gravity, son.” It sounded almost too simple, almost storybook; still, it gave my hands a task.

I spread my palms against trunks, bark cold and ridged like old cartography. Moss smudged the northern sides—he had called that a half-truth, not a rule—yet it oriented me enough to move. I listened more than looked. The susurration gathered into a metallic trickle; my boots, carefully placed, found the softened trough where deer had gone. Even the air changed: damp-sweet, fern and loam instead of resin.

With each cautious step, panic loosened its grip. I sketched a chain in my mind: rill to stream; stream to ditch; ditch to lane; lane to the green with its leaning noticeboard and the bakery that refuses to close before the pasties are gone. I pictured the warm rectangle of our kitchen window, deliberate and yellow. Perhaps the door would still be on the latch—perhaps my apology could be, too.

A low bank swelled out of the grey, and beyond it a black ribbon of water, narrow but insistent. I walked beside it, slower than I wanted, testing the ground, repeating the sequence under my breath like a spell. The mist drew back a pace, as if curiosity outweighed malice. Lost, yes; but not without a route.

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

Option A:

Shade pools in the clearing like cool water, a shallow lake of quiet under a roof of leaves. Even noon is tempered; light sifts into patient columns, and dust drifts as slowly as snow. At first, your eyes adjust; greens separate into moss, fern, ivy. The air is hushed; the smell of damp bark, nettle, and old leaf-litter lifts. It presses lightly on the skin, like a wet cloth, refreshing rather than cold.

Underfoot, the moss is close-knit and springy, denting to each step and rising again. Roots weave like the ribs of something sleeping; a fallen branch is furred with lichen, pale as frost. To one side, ferns lift their fronds like open hands, catching sun. Detail reveals itself: a bead of sap hardening on bark, a snail’s silver handwriting. Here and there the ground freckles with toadstools—china-white, russet, soot-black. Beyond the middle, a shallow pool keeps a mirror, slick with fallen seeds. A dragonfly skims; its wings flicker like glass.

Occasionally, a drip falls from high leaves into the pool, the sound small but certain. A woodpigeon mutters its soft syllables, then stops. Midges knit and unknit in a loose cloud (invisible until they catch the light). The clearing breathes, you can feel it; the air draws in and out as if through a single lung. A breeze lifts one fern, then another, their undersides flashing pale as fish. Light slides across the moss; coins of brightness appear and vanish.

After a while, what seemed empty proves busy—this is the trick of quiet places. If I shift my weight, the world trembles; if I stand still, the clearing seems to fold around me, not trapping but holding. It is cool, green, patient. I think of cathedrals and stained glass, though this roof is woven, alive. When a cloud slides over, shade deepens; when the sun returns, the ferns lift, relieved. I step back the way I came, leaving a soft print and no noise. Still, I carry the hush with me: a pocket of shade I can open later, cool and clear, like water.

Option B:

By late afternoon the wood had shuffled its colours into ash and ink, and the path I had sworn I knew twisted into something unfamiliar. Brambles leaned in with prying fingers; the air tasted of damp bark and cold iron. My footsteps sounded loud. One thing was certain: I was not where I thought I was.

Left or right? The phone's battery icon blinked red and died—of course—and the paper map, folded and refolded, had become damp tissue in my pocket. Shapes blurred; mist stitched the branches and swallowed landmarks. I tried to retrace my steps, but the ground was muddled with prints: deer, dog, me. Which way was back when every tree looked like a copy of the last?

Dad used to say: If you lose your bearings, don't panic—stand still, listen; something will tell you where you are. His voice surfaced as if from the same fog. So I stood. I let the cold settle into my sleeves and tried to hear more than my breath. There was the drip of leaves; the rasp of a crow; a thin thread of water, persistent. And, faintly, a hum that might have been the road.

Water runs downhill; roads carry noise. I turned towards the softer, silver sound and stepped carefully. Bracken scraped my shins; roots jutted like knuckles; the path—if it was a path—slid sideways and reappeared. Every few paces I paused to check that the sound hadn't wandered or I hadn't.

A darker shape resolved into a fence; a gate complained under my hand. Beyond it the ground dipped, and the whisper of water widened into a brook that caught a smear of sky. I knew this brook, or I wanted to. Upstream was the car park, wasn't it? Or down, towards the road and lights?

The brook knew even if I didn't; it gathered leaves and hurried them one way. I followed, not boldly, but determined. After a bend a square of gold flickered between trunks—lamp, window, something human. The sky didn't clear though, it just thinned. I wasn't home yet, not really; however, the way back had begun.

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

Option A:

The clearing waits under the hush of tall beech and fir. Above, a green canopy breaks the sun into scattered coins; they lie on a floor of moss and leaf-mould. The air is cool like the shadow of a cloud, carrying the damp, clean smell of earth and root. At the edge, the day burns bright, but here it gives up at the trunks, as if a curtain has been drawn. I step beneath low branches; the ground gives a damp sigh, springy with velvet moss.

Ferns lean from the shade like green feathers, their tips lit with a shy gold. A fallen log, furred with moss, holds tiny worlds: pale toadstools, a silver snail, ants threading in a neat, patient line. Between roots a trickle of water glides, not rushing, just murmuring to itself; it leaves a thin, cold smell that feels almost metallic on my tongue. Spiders hang quiet. Their webs are strung between stems where the light catches and turns to thread.

Everything here seems to move without moving. Leaves shiver when a soft breath of wind passes—then settle again. Above, a bird flicks through the lattice and is gone, only a brief whispering keeps its place. Insects stitch the air in slow loops, drawing faint silver lines I think I can see, but I probably can't. Even the shadows look alive, sliding and reshaping on the ground.

The clearing feels careful, as if it is keeping a secret; I do not want to snap a twig or say anything loud. I let the coolness settle on my arms and face, and I breathe with the trees. Time stretches here, not forever, but enough, and the world outside seems far away. When a cloud drifts over, the light dims to a gentle grey and the ferns lean closer, like listeners; when it passes, gold returns, and the glade brightens as if it remembers itself.

Option B:

Night idled on the pavements; the rain drew a net of silver threads across the street. The bus hissed and lumbered off like a tired animal. Suddenly I was alone with a wet ticket and a road I didn’t recognise.

My phone blinked once, sulked, and died. Typical. The map I had printed, pride of my pocket an hour ago, was now tissue: thin, torn, letters bleeding. I turned it sideways, as if turning a page could turn the world. It didn’t.

Left at the statue? Was there even a statue? I should have stayed on the bus a stop longer; I should have watched the signs instead of the rain. The city seemed to repeat itself, corners almost the same, like someone had copied the street twice and called it new.

Nan used to say, "Listen for the river—rivers lead you back." I stood under a dripping doorway and closed my eyes. For a moment there was a hush and a soft breath moving; hope rose. Then the wind shifted: tyres whispered along the ring road. Not water. Just traffic.

So I tried something slower: look for the small things. A launderette hummed, letting out a warm, chemical smell like ironed shirts. I remembered walking past it, but from the opposite direction. On a car park wall a fox was painted in deep blue; I had noticed its eye earlier, bright as a coin. I followed that memory, past the kebab shop, past the graffiti: BE KIND.

There—it was the cracked paving with a star-shaped stain and the lamppost that buzzed. The same dusty ginger cat watched me. I turned the corner and the street relaxed. The hotel sign, small but certain, lifted its letters into the damp air. I wasn’t home yet, but I was finding my way back.

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

Option A:

The air changes before I see it. It drops cooler on my skin, a soft cloak; the ground under my boots turns springy with moss. The clearing sits like a shallow bowl; shade settles and waits. Sunlight filters through in broken coins that fall on ferns and make them glow a pale, almost translucent green. I hear the slow drip from a leaf to another leaf, then to the soil, drip, drip— a patient clock that doesn't hurry. The smell is damp and clean, earth and crushed pine.

At the edges the trees stand close, their bark rough as old hands. Ferns crowd the floor in feathered layers, each frond curled at the tip as if thinking about the light. Threads of spider web hang between twigs, beaded with tiny drops. A blackbird startles then disappears; the rustle fades and the hush returns. Somewhere to the right, a thin stream sneaks by, not seen but heard. The ground is littered with last year's leaves, softened to paper, and when I press my palm down the coolness presses back.

It feels held, like a breath kept in, I step into it and slow. Even my shoes sound careful. Light, shadow—light, shadow—paint the trunks in stripes. My eyes adjust and more colours seep out: moss-bright, bark-brown, a quick spark of gold where a fly dances. Time stretches a little here, occassionally it almost stops, though I know it doesn't. When I turn to leave, I look back; the clearing looks back too, quiet and secret, drip, drip goes on.

Option B:

Mist. The kind that creeps along the river and swallows the towpath, turning every lamp into a blurred halo. The town I knew was softened, rubbed out at the edges; roads fed into each other like spilled ink. My phone buzzed once and died. I should have charged it—of course I should—but I had thought I could cross by memory, by habit.

I read the signs the way you read faces when someone lies: QUICK EXIT, STATION, RIVERSIDE. They winked at me from different corners, none of them pointing home. Left at the bakery, right at the bridge, straight past the park. I repeated the list under my breath, and then I hesitated, because there was no bakery here, only the hiss of a bus and the smell of wet stone. My steps echoed; my heart did too. How had I managed to get so disorientated?

At first I tried guessing. Then I stopped. I stood in the grey and let the town speak: chips frying somewhere close; a dog barking twice; a slow bell from the church on the hill. Sound travels weird in mist, but the bell felt solid, like a hand on my shoulder. If I could find the church, I could trace the lane that runs behind it, past the mural of the fox with the bright eyes. I pictured the fox, the cracked paving, the red door at the corner. I took a breath and walked towards the bell, not fast, counting my steps, one-two-three, as if that could stitch the streets back together.

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

Option A:

Cool shade gathers in the woodland clearing, where light slips through the leaves in broken coins. The air is damp and clean, with the scent of earth and pine sap; somewhere a drop of water falls from a branch and the sound is small but clear. Ferns tilt and whisper when the breeze moves them, then settle again. It is calm.

Around the edge, tall trunks stand like quiet guards. At the centre a fallen log, it looks like a rough bench, patched with silver lichen. The ground is a soft carpet: moss, tiny mushrooms, curled fronds that glow when a sunbeam finds them. A spider web hangs between two twigs - a glimmering net - dotted with dew. When I step, the moss gives under my shoe and springs back, cool against my fingers when I touch it.

The clearing is small; the world outside feels far away. Heat does not reach here, the canopy filters it and makes a green light that feels gentle, almost like water. I stand still and listen. A wood pigeon calls, over and over, and I breath slower. It is definately cooler here, and quieter, a seperate kind of place that waits, patient, for anyone who needs its hush.

Option B:

Evening slid over the town, thin as smoke, and I realised I didn't know where I was. The pavements stretched everywhere, shiny with drizzle, and every block looked the same. I didn't panic, not at first. My phone screen was cracked and down to one percent; the map flickered, then died. I stood under a humming lamp, breathing shallow, like a moth at a dark window, trying to remember the way.

First, I guessed. Left, right, left again, as if confidence could build a path. The street names were crooked metal signs; they meant nothing. A bus hissed past. It definately wasn't the road I thought. I told myself to stay calm the map would return. Which way now? I listened for the river's whisper, but only heard my own steps and a thin siren far away.

After a while, a smell drifted out from somewhere warm - bread, sweet and yeasty. The little bakery near my street bakes late on Thursdays. My stomach tugged, and my feet followed. Finally, a landmark: the blue whale mural, I'd seen it a hundred times. Relief spread through my chest; I turned the corner. Not home yet... but I was on my way back.

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

Option A:

The clearing is cool and quiet. Trees stand round me like tall posts. The shade lays on the ground like a blanket. Air feels fresh and a bit wet. Moss is thick and green, like a soft carpet, it squishes under my foot and it smells like rain. Ferns are bright where the sun slips in, little coins of light on them. Birds peep, then stop, then peep again. A small breeze moves the leaves, back and forth, back and forth. The trees was standing quiet, they look like guards. I breath slow.

In the corner there is a stump, old, with a ring like a faded map. A web hangs, it shakes a little. A drip falls from a leaf, plip. I try to listen for a road but there isnt any sound; only the quiet. The clearing is small but it feels big and time feels slow.

Option B:

The path went on and on. Trees stood close together like they were watching me. It was dark. My phone was low. I went left then right and then I didnt know anymore.

Everything looked the same, the same stones, the same mud. My heart beat hard like a drum. I called out hello but only the wind answered me.

I was lost... Which way was home?

I remember my dad said follow the water and you get out, so I stood still and listen. I heard a thin sound, like a tap left on far away. I went that way slow and found a little stream pulling me downhill.

Then a wooden sign crept out of the dark.

Car park this way.

The letters were faded but I could read them. I wasnt brave before but now I felt warm.

I smiled. I went on, step by step, back to where the lights are.

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

Option A:

the clearing is cool and quiet. Trees stand around it like walls. The light is small and soft, it makes the ferns glow a bit. Moss feels damp under my shoe like a green carpet. I hear a drip, drip from a leaf and a bird that chirp far away. The air smell like earth and cold water. I breath slow and it feels calm. Sticks crack but nothing moves, just shadows that sit low. In the middle there is a stone, I think someone sat there. I should go home soon, maybe its late. The sun will come but not here.

Option B:

Morning. I am on a path and it twists and I dont know where I am. Trees are tall and dark like fences. The sky is grey. My phone says 1% and then it dies, the screen goes black. I walk and walk. I try to remember the map from before but my head feels empty. My shoes are wet and my hands are cold, I can hear a bird, I can hear cars maybe far away. I stop and look. There is a sign, a small wooden one, I read it wrong first. I see a blue bin like home, so I go that way.