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 Where does the man place the coat after approaching the low desk?: On the counter – 1 mark
• 1.2 What does the man do immediately before placing the coat on the counter?: The man shakes sleet from the coat – 1 mark
• 1.3 What did the man approach?: The low desk – 1 mark
• 1.4 Where did the man lay the coat?: On the counter – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 26 to 40 of the source:

26 "'Tis little enough, but 'twill do." He took a pencil from the desk and with much effort wrote a few lines on a bit

31 of wrapping paper. Straightening, he fixed a steady gaze on the old face turned, not unkindly, to his. "We have known aiche ither more'n a bit. Ye know I'm not th'

36 drunkard nor th' loafer. I know ye aire a har-r-d man--ye have to be in this trade, har-r-d but square. I am off for good and all; 'tis for the sake of the gyrul and the

How does the writer use language here to present the man's plea and character? 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 show how phonetic dialect and direct address—aiche ither, Ye know, gyrul—plus emphatic hyphenation and the dash in har-r-d but square/man--ye have to be in this trade construct a class-marked, respectful voice appealing to fairness, while negative self-definition not th' drunkard nor th' loafer and concrete, humbling detail (with much effort on wrapping paper, a steady gaze) present sincerity and resolve. It would also connect sentence forms to effect, showing how the simple declaratives 'Tis little enough, but 'twill do. and I am off for good and all; 'tis for the sake of the gyrul, reinforced by narratorial litotes not unkindly, create pathos and a sense of finality in his plea.

The writer presents the man’s plea as modest yet resolute through understated declaratives and precise verb choices. The clipped statement, "'Tis little enough, but 'twill do," uses litotes and archaic contraction to signal humility and acceptance, while "with much effort wrote" and "Straightening, he fixed a steady gaze" provide kinesic detail that conveys strain and steadiness. The parenthetical aside "not unkindly" about the "old face" deploys litotes to suggest an opening for mercy, sharpening the urgency of his appeal.

Moreover, eye dialect and phonetic orthography—"aiche ither", "Ye", "th'", "gyrul", and especially "har-r-d"—render his voice and background, intensifying the pathos of a working man pleading in his register. The hyphenated syllabification in "har-r-d" forces the reader to hear the roughness he names, while the antithesis "hard... but square" balances toughness with fairness. By conceding, "ye have to be in this trade," he flatters without fawning, establishing ethos.

Furthermore, parallel negation in "not th' drunkard nor th' loafer" and the repeated second-person address "Ye know..." use repetition and parallelism to appeal to shared knowledge and character. He distances himself from vice, crafting a credible self-portrait of sobriety and diligence.

Additionally, sentence form bolsters his sincerity: the idiom "for good and all" and the semi-colon in "I am off for good and all; 'tis for the sake of the gyrul" create a reasoned cadence. The abrupt tailing off after "and the" hints at emotion he cannot voice. The "bit of wrapping paper" implies poverty, so his plea feels dignified, selfless and persuasive.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses dialect and short declaratives like "'Tis little enough, but 'twill do.", plus phonetic spellings ("aiche ither", "har-r-d", "gyrul"), to create an authentic, working-class voice, while narrative details ("with much effort", "fixed a steady gaze") show determination and sincerity. Direct address and negative listing—"Ye know", "not th' drunkard nor th' loafer"—and the motive "'tis for the sake of the gyrul" present his plea as honest and selfless, while calling the other man "har-r-d but square" appeals to fairness.

The writer uses direct speech and phonetic dialect to present the man's plea as sincere. In "'Tis little enough, but 'twill do," elision suggests modest acceptance, while "We have known aiche ither more'n a bit" uses the inclusive "We" to appeal to shared history. His denial "not th' drunkard nor th' loafer" employs parallel nouns to defend his character and ask for fair judgement.

Furthermore, narration highlights effort and poverty: he writes "with much effort" and only on "a bit of wrapping paper." The adverbial phrase implies strain, and the concrete noun suggests urgency. When he "fixed a steady gaze" on a face "not unkindly" turned to him, the steady gaze signals resolve, while the litotes hints at mercy, intensifying his plea.

Additionally, sentence forms and punctuation shape tone. The short declarative "'Tis little enough..." sounds resigned but practical. Repetition and hyphenation in "har-r-d... har-r-d but square" slow reading and stress toughness with fairness. The dash in "—ye have to be in this trade" works as parenthesis, and the semi-colon in "I am off for good and all; 'tis for the sake of the gyrul" links decision to motive. Overall, he appears dignified and respectful, pleading for understanding.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would spot dialect and direct speech to show a sincere plea, quoting "Ye", "th'" and "gyrul" to show his voice, and simple phrases like "with much effort" and "steady gaze" to suggest he is trying hard and serious. It would also pick out "not th' drunkard nor th' loafer" and "har-r-d but square" to show he defends himself and respects the other man, and note the short "'Tis little enough" plus "for good and all" and "for the sake of the gyrul" to give a pleading but firm tone.

The writer uses direct speech and dialect to present the man's plea. The short opening sentence, "'Tis little enough, but 'twill do," sounds resigned and humble. His line, "We have known aiche ither more'n a bit," appeals to friendship, and the dialect "gyrul" makes him seem genuine.

Furthermore, action verbs and adverbial phrases show effort and resolve: "with much effort" he writes, and he "fixed a steady gaze". This suggests he is serious and determined. The narrator notes the old face was "not unkindly", hinting he seeks compassion.

Additionally, the list of negatives in "not th' drunkard nor th' loafer" defends his character. The description "har-r-d but square" uses phonetic spelling and contrast to present the other man as tough yet fair, which he respects. Finally, "for the sake of the gyrul" shows a selfless reason, making his plea sincere.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses direct speech and dialect like "'Tis little enough" and "Ye know I'm not th' drunkard nor th' loafer" to show he is pleading and trying to prove he is good. Words such as "with much effort", "steady gaze", "har-r-d but square" and "for the sake of the gyrul" make him seem serious and caring.

The writer uses dialect to show the man’s plea, like "'Tis little enough" and "’twill do," which makes him sound humble and accepting. The direct speech lets us hear his voice. Furthermore, the phonetic spelling "aiche ither" and "gyrul" shows his accent, so he seems genuine. Moreover, the verb phrase "with much effort" shows he is trying hard. The adjective "steady" in "fixed a steady gaze" suggests he is serious. Additionally, the repetition "har-r-d... har-r-d but square" shows respect, and "for the sake of the gyrul" shows care.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Understated acceptance in the opening idiom conveys modesty and resignation (but 'twill do)
• Physical struggle in the narration suggests determination to set things right (with much effort)
• Makeshift materials imply poverty and urgency, heightening the pathos of his plea (wrapping paper)
• A softened response from the listener frames his respectful, earnest approach (not unkindly)
• Dialectal spellings craft an authentic, distinctive voice (har-r-d)
• Appeal to shared history builds rapport and credibility (more'n a bit)
• Direct address engages the listener and leans on their knowledge (Ye know)
• Defensive parallelism denies vice labels to assert integrity (not th' drunkard nor th' loafer)
• Repetition with antithesis flatters the addressee as tough yet fair to win justice (har-r-d but square)
• Definitive idiom and semicolon-controlled syntax present firm resolve and selfless motive (for good and all)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: Level 4 responses trace a deliberate structural arc from initial deprivation (the 'dim lights', 'gust of icy wind', and the coat as ''Tis me last!', with the ominous 'bridge route') to a pivotal interruption that accelerates pace and reverses trajectory through offer and restitution—"Wouldn't you rather put it off and take a job?", "Take this on account", "Here, take your coat along"—shifting despair into pragmatic hope. They then read the cut to the domestic space—signalled by "firm, quick footsteps" and an "armful of packages"—as structural payoff that completes the spiritual motif (from "searchin' for the Christ" to "I found Him to-night!"), showing how the closing image resolves the narrative arc in a hopeful register.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create hope is by starting at a nadir so that any upward movement feels salvific. The opening mise-en-scène—"dim lights" and an "icy wind"—culminates in the coat as "me last!", establishing utter need. Against this, the dealer's extra coin is a tiny structural lift. The beat, "A moment of strained silence and something passed. What?", creates a deliberate pause, a hinge in the rhythm that intimates a turn towards possibility.

In addition, the sudden shift in focus to "a third man... unnoticed" acts as a structural pivot. The writer zooms in on his opulence before the discourse marker "And then:" signals a volta. The question, "Wouldn't you rather put it off and take a job?", reframes the "bridge route" into a future-facing choice. Clipped actions ("peeled off a five," "Here, take your coat") quicken the pace, materialising hope. The proleptic promise, "I'll say it ivery day I work for ye," projects stability beyond the page.

A further device consolidating hope is the cut to a new setting and perspective. This cross‑cut from shop to the bare room delays resolution, heightening anticipation, while the auditory cue of "firm, quick footsteps... carried a message" signals imminent change. The temporal deictic "to-night" anchors the turnaround, and the cyclical motif of "Christ"—from sardonic quip to "I found Him to-night!"—closes the arc with a tonal shift to sincerity, offering both narrative closure and resonant hope.

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 creates hope by contrasting the bleak opening (dim lights that flickered violently) with a clear turning point when the third man intervenes, Wouldn't you rather put it off and take a job?, shifting the mood from despair to possibility. Finally, the shift in focus to the home, the quickened pace signalled by firm, quick footsteps, the armful of packages, and the closing affirmation I found Him to-night! make hope concrete and show the redemptive impact of that structural change.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create a sense of hope is by opening in bleakness so the ending can lift. The 'dim lights' and 'icy wind', plus 'me last!' and the hinted 'bridge route', foreground despair. This contrast and the slow, transactional pacing at the pawnbroker ('fifty cents... another like it') accentuate scarcity, preparing the reader for a change in mood.

In addition, the entrance of a third voice is a clear turning point. The question, 'What have you been doing of late?', shifts the focus and tone from resignation to possibility. Direct speech then quickens the pace towards decision: 'Wouldn't you rather put it off and take a job?' This pivot replaces the 'bridge route' with 'The Star Pool and Billiard Palace' and 'Take this on account', signalling practical hope.

A further structural feature is the shift in perspective to the wife and baby, providing resolution. Moving from the shop to 'The woman in the room' releases tension and shows the impact of the offer. The closing declaration, 'Well, I found Him to-night!', echoes the earlier Christ motif, so the denouement binds spiritual and material rescue, leaving the reader uplifted.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response identifies a clear change from a gloomy start to a hopeful ending, noting how the bleak pawnbroker scene ('flickered violently', his 'last' coat) is followed by a change when the other man offers help ('Wouldn't you rather put it off and take a job?', gives 'a five', 'Here, take your coat along.'). It also notices the final shift of focus to the family ('The woman in the room') and the line 'I found Him to-night!', which makes the mood more hopeful.

One way the writer creates hope is by starting bleakly to build contrast. At the beginning, 'dim lights', 'icy wind' and pawning his 'last' coat set a hopeless mood. This low point makes later hope feel stronger.

In addition, a clear turning point comes when a 'clear-cut' voice interrupts. This sudden question shifts focus, and quick dialogue speeds the pace. The job offer and 'peeled off a five' come after tension, so hope begins.

A further structural feature is the ending shift of setting and perspective. Focus moves from the shop to home, and from the man to the woman. The 'firm, quick footsteps' and 'armful of packages' show resolution, and the final line 'I found Him to-night!' closes with a hopeful tone.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: It starts bleak with dim lights and icy wind, but then shifts when a new character offers help—twelve and a half a week, Take this on account—so the mood turns hopeful. At the end he returns home and says I found Him to-night!, creating a hopeful final image.

One way the writer creates hope is by contrasting the opening and ending. It begins bleak in the pawnbroker's shop with cold, dim lights, making the later happier mood feel stronger and hopeful.

In addition, there is a clear shift in focus when a new man speaks and offers a job. This turning point, shown through dialogue, changes the tone and begins to build hope.

A further structural feature is the final shift of setting to the home. The perspective moves to the wife and baby, and the last line "I found Him to-night!" gives a simple hopeful ending.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Bleak opening sets a low baseline so later uplift feels sharper ('Tis me last!)
• Early softening of the broker acts as the first glimmer and foreshadows rescue (this time it did)
• A brief affirmation/handshake creates a pivot from abandonment to possibility (Yes!)
• Withheld presence of a third observer creates a structural twist that enables change (standing near, unnoticed)
• A suspenseful pause before decision heightens the turn towards hope (A moment of strained silence)
• Practical resolution arrives via job and cash, converting hope into agency (twelve and a half a week)
• Symbolic reversal restores dignity (coat returned), signalling renewal (take your coat along)
• Shift to the home scene widens hope’s impact from man to family (firm, quick footsteps)
• Circular religious motif closes on affirmation, transforming despair into faith-led hope (I found Him to-night!)
• Brisk imperative ending energises forward movement, sustaining hopeful momentum (Now hustle, my boy!)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, the wealthy man in the fur coat at first seems arrogant and rude. The writer suggests that his appearance is misleading to show how kindness can come from surprising places.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the wealthy man in the fur coat
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present his surprising kindness
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, showing how the writer first codes arrogance through the fur‑coat tableau (an enormous diamond and a voice almost offensively authoritative) before subverting it with practical compassion—Wouldn't you rather put it off and take a job?, Take this on account, studiously avoiding the other's gaze—and framing the reversal with the charged pause (Celt and Hebrew; something passed) and religious irony (searchin' for the Christ/I found Him to-night!). It would evaluate the viewpoint as convincing yet nuanced, noting that the self‑effacing It's a business proposition preserves his brusque edge even as it confirms kindness from an unexpected source.

I largely agree with the statement. At first, the man in the fur coat is framed as intrusive and abrasive, but the writer deliberately destabilises this first impression to suggest that compassion can reside beneath ostentation.

The initial presentation primes the reader to see arrogance. He “broke in,” an interruptive entrance that reads as rude, and his voice is “clear-cut, sharp, and almost offensively authoritative.” The description accumulates signifiers of vulgar wealth—“a fur coat now thrown open,” “a heavy chain,” “an enormous diamond,” a “fat black cigar”—creating a semantic field of display that invites suspicion. The ethnic labelling “Celt and Hebrew” foregrounds stereotype and social division, while the “moment of strained silence” intensifies the stand-off. Yet the sudden authorial intrusion—“Eternity’s messages travel many channels”—subtly foreshadows a more generous reading: beneath the surface, an inarticulable recognition is passing between them, complicating the easy judgement of rudeness.

The pivot to kindness unfolds through dialogue and tonal shift. Although “No… He does not live in New York!” sounds curt, the interrogative that follows—“Wouldn’t you rather put it off and take a job?”—reorients the scene from confrontation to rescue. The pointed allusion to “the bridge route?” encodes his perceptiveness: he recognises a suicidal trajectory and chooses the brusque register of urgency. His offer is specific and practical—“come to my place… I’ll start you at twelve and a half a week”—and his moral inference is shrewd: “A man who will pawn his coat… for his wife and baby… won’t steal billiard balls.” By calling it “a business proposition,” he reframes charity as contract, a structural choice that preserves the Irishman’s dignity. Even the stage direction “studiously avoiding the other’s gaze” connotes discreet generosity rather than performative largesse; he “peeled off a five” and, crucially, restores the symbol of pride and warmth—“Here, take your coat along”—undoing the indignity of the pawn.

The final section confirms the effect of this unexpected benevolence. Stark imagery—“thin shawl,” “wailing infant,” “Not an article of furniture remained”—heightens the stakes, so the man’s entrance “with an armful of packages” reads as salvation. His exclamation—“I found Him to-night!”—ironises and redeems the earlier “He does not live in New York!”: the fur-coated businessman paradoxically enacts a Christ-like charity.

Overall, I strongly agree: the writer first invites a misreading through conspicuous wealth and a hard tone, then deftly undercuts it via structural reversal, symbolic restitution (the coat), and discreet, businesslike compassion to show that kindness can indeed arrive from surprising quarters.

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, noting the writer’s contrast: the man’s ostentatious fur coat, an enormous diamond, and a voice clear-cut, sharp, and almost offensively authoritative make him seem arrogant. However, dialogue and actions—Wouldn't you rather put it off and take a job?, I'll start you at twelve and a half a week, Take this on account, It's a business proposition—reveal surprising kindness, supporting the idea that appearances mislead.

I largely agree with the statement. The writer first codes the man in the fur coat as arrogant, then deliberately overturns this stereotype to reveal practical kindness.

At his entrance, the narrative uses description and voice to make him seem rude. His "clear-cut, sharp, and almost offensively authoritative" tone and the adverb "coolly" in "flicking the ash" convey disdain. The listing of status markers — "a fur coat now thrown open… a heavy chain… an enormous diamond… a jewelled hand… a fat black cigar" — builds ostentatious imagery. Juxtaposed with the "coatless stranger," this creates a contrast that invites mistrust.

However, the writer hints at complexity through the brief pause: "The eyes of the two men met, Celt and Hebrew… A moment of strained silence and something passed." This narrative aside implies an instinctive recognition beyond labels. Even the terse dialogue carries irony: to the Irishman’s sardonic "searchin’ for the Christ," the fur-coated man replies "simply," "He does not live in New York!" — a brusque line that prefaces a Christ-like act.

The structural shift comes when the supposed antagonist offers help. Through direct speech, he makes a precise offer: "I’ll start you at twelve and a half a week… You can have his job." His reasoning — "A man who will pawn his coat… won’t steal billiard balls" — shows shrewd judgment. Concrete actions follow: he "peeled off a five" and says, "Here, take your coat along." Later, the home scene shows "an armful of packages", making his care immediate and tangible. The phrase "studiously avoiding the other’s gaze" suggests modesty, and calling it "a business proposition" preserves the Irishman’s dignity.

Overall, I agree. The writer opposes surface arrogance with generous deeds, using contrast and irony to show kindness from unexpected places.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, noting that the man’s flashy look (the "fur coat", "enormous diamond", and "fat black cigar") and "clear-cut, sharp", "almost offensively authoritative" voice make him seem rude at first, but his dialogue and actions reveal unexpected kindness—"I'll start you at twelve and a half a week", "Take this on account", and "take your coat along".

I mostly agree with the statement. At first the man in the fur coat seems arrogant and rude, but the writer later shows he is generous.

The description of his appearance makes him look showy and superior: a ‘fur coat’, ‘heavy chain’ and ‘enormous diamond’, with a ‘jewelled hand’ and a ‘fat black cigar’. His voice is ‘clear-cut, sharp, and almost offensively authoritative’, and he butts in with ‘What have you been doing of late?’ The adverb ‘coolly’ while he is ‘flicking the ash’ also adds a rude, careless tone.

However, there is a turning point: ‘A moment of strained silence and something passed’ suggests a change in their attitudes. From here, the dialogue shows unexpected kindness. He offers work—‘I’ll start you at twelve and a half a week’—and even ‘peeled off a five’ to help now. The detail ‘studiously avoiding the other’s gaze’ hints he is tactful, not wanting to embarrass him, and he says, ‘Here, take your coat along’.

The Irishman stammers, ‘Sure, I can’t say it!’, which shows deep gratitude, and the final scene with ‘an armful of packages’ for the woman proves his help mattered. The religious line ‘I found Him to-night!’ links kindness to a higher, surprising place, not just to appearances.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer first sets up a flashy, bossy stereotype, then contrasts it with generous actions to show true kindness can come from where we least expect it.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response would simply agree, noting he first seems rude from 'almost offensively authoritative' and the 'enormous diamond', then shows unexpected kindness by offering help—'I'll start you at twelve and a half a week' and 'Take this on account'.

I mostly agree with the statement. At first the wealthy man seems arrogant and rude. His voice is described as “clear-cut, sharp, and almost offensively authoritative,” which makes him sound bossy. The writer also lists rich details like the “fur coat,” “heavy chain,” “enormous diamond,” a “jewelled hand” and a “fat black cigar.” This description makes him look showy and uncaring. He even “coolly” flicks his ash, which adds to a rude impression.

However, the writer then shows his kindness in a surprising way. Through dialogue, he offers help: “I’ll start you at twelve and a half a week,” and he “peeled off a five” and says, “take your coat along.” These actions and short commands show he is practical and generous. The phrase “studiously avoiding the other’s gaze” suggests he is awkward about being kind.

At the end, the Irishman tells his wife, “I found Him to-night!” which links the rich man to goodness. Overall, I agree that his appearance is misleading. The writer uses contrast and description to make us expect rudeness, but then uses speech and actions to reveal real kindness from a surprising place.

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:

• The sharp vocal description makes him seem rude at first, so I largely agree with the initial impression of arrogance (offensively authoritative)
• Visual opulence codes ostentation and invites a negative snap-judgement before his actions are known (fur coat)
• A casual, aloof gesture reinforces superiority, tightening that early sense of arrogance (coolly flicking the ash)
• Loaded identification sets up cultural tension, so his later generosity lands as more unexpected (Celt and Hebrew)
• The turning-point question shifts from confrontation to care, signalling surprising consideration (Wouldn't you rather)
• Practical, reasoned trust presents kindness grounded in fair judgement rather than sentiment (won't steal billiard balls)
• Framing help as commerce conceals generosity and preserves the other man’s dignity (business proposition)
• Discreet tact undercuts the charge of rudeness, revealing sensitivity behind the brusque front (studiously avoiding the other's gaze)
• Brisk imperative keeps a blunt edge even while helping, so kindness coexists with toughness (Now hustle, my boy!)
• Spiritual reframing magnifies the impact of his deed, turning cynicism into a moment of grace (I found Him to-night!)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local transport group is collecting creative writing to be published in a booklet for bus passengers.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a busy bus station from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story with the title 'The Last Bus'.

(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:

Night stitches a hem of shadow under the long glass canopy, and the bus station breathes. Sodium lamps hover in amber coronas; rain polishes the tarmac to a black mirror; puddles hold fractured constellations. The air is an alloy of diesel and damp wool, cut now and then by the hopeful sweetness of coffee. Loudspeakers clear their throats; brakes squeal, subside; doors sigh open, then close. Even the stillness seems kinetic, a pause with a pulse. Beneath the slatted roof, the world condenses into steam and footfall, a restless organ pumping people in and out, in and out.

Concurrently, the crowd arranges itself with unconscious choreography. A nurse with a creased lanyard leans against the timetable; a student clutches a trumpet case as if the note inside might escape; a man in a suit wrestles a fugitive suitcase; a woman counts coins twice—then hope. Teenagers glitter with unspent laughter; an elderly couple fold themselves into patient silence; a child drags a red bag like a faithful dog. Coats steam. Breath blooms briefly, ghostly. There is a heel tapping irritably; there is a chuckle; there is that river of people that never quite becomes a flood, only a steady, stubborn current.

Above them, the board stutters and declares: 12 to City Centre—delayed; 47 to North Estate—on time; 30—diverted due to roadworks. The voice—half-human, half-automation—spills its laconic liturgy, and a ripple moves through the queues: shoulders lift; eyes roll; someone shrugs, pragmatic. Queues reposition themselves with a precise slither; umbrellas realign like disciplined birds. An umbrella shakes itself; a glove drops; a stranger stoops—swift, unimportant, generous—and returns it. The floor, scuffed and shining, is a palimpsest of footsteps; yesterday’s mud is laced into today’s rain. The station is serious about its business, yet not unkind.

At Bay C, headlights approach, slow, bow. Tyres kiss the kerb; the double-decker kneels with a pneumatic exhalation. Doors part like curtains—hiss—inviting the first brave step. The contactless reader chirps, efficient and incurious; a child answers with a solemn beep from a plastic wristwatch (a private victory, unseen). Inside, aisle lights recede in obedient rows—yellow, yellow, yellow—promising shelter, warmth, destination. Meanwhile, at the kiosk, steam unfurls from paper cups; sugar swirls in eddies; the vendor’s mittened hands are small furnaces. The aroma—roasted, reliable—threads the metallic air, ameliorating the sting of cold and the sullen smear of drizzle.

Time here loosens, then snaps. Minutes stretch on the platform; seconds flicker as the bus shoulders darkness and pulls away, its windows a procession of framed lives. For a heartbeat, the station is hollowed: space, hush, possibility. And yet the corner brightens; another engine turns; the whole contraption winds itself back to readiness—arrivals, departures; inhalation, exhalation. People step forward, step in, step out. Again and again and again.

Option B:

Night. The city folded itself into a quieter alphabet; shuttered shops like closed mouths, flats glowing in tired tessellations. Streetlamps pooled a viscous amber on the rain-slick road; the timetable flickered and, with bureaucratic indifference, declared: Last Bus, 23:58. Somewhere, a siren lilted, attenuated by distance. Between these sounds ran the thin thread of waiting, taut and almost musical.

Maya stood under the whining sodium light, hugging the strap of her rucksack until the nylon cut crescents into her fingers. She had checked the route, then rechecked, then—foolishly—checked again; she preferred certainty; more pertinently, she needed to quiet the noise in her skull. Damp had curled flyaway hairs against her cheek; her breath made pale ghosts. Her heart hammered like a drum, and a coin chimed as she shifted, though she'd tap a card.

Behind her, the estate exhaled its tired warmth—televisions murmuring, a dog complaining, the particular smell of chips and rain. Folded deep in the side pocket lay the letter; its edges were softened by her thumb, its sentences calibrated, considerate, cowardly. What do you say, exactly, when the last bus is the first step away? Nevertheless, she had written it; she had signed her name as if that, too, could be temporary.

Headlights shouldered through the drizzle long before the bus arrived, two patient eyes. Then the bus itself materialised: red, rain-beaded. The doors sighed; the driver—grey stubble—offered a nod that belonged to the hour. She tapped; the machine chirped; a green light consented. Inside, heat breathed out of the vents and smelt of wet wool and stale peppermint. Windows wore a palimpsest of fingerprints; the city doubled itself in the glass, elastic and insomniac.

A handful of strangers were scattered like punctuation—an elderly man with a newspaper folded to the crossword; a girl sketching buildings; a woman asleep, her shopping bag a small animal on her lap. The wipers kept time; the chassis hummed; signs counselled: Please hold on. As the bus shouldered away from the kerb, her street began to unspool. She didn't look back. Or she did (only a fraction), catching her reflection—pale, resolute, not quite brave.

At the next stop a runner pounded alongside, palm lifted, but the driver glanced at the clock and kept the doors shut; at this hour the timetable was obdurate law. After all, last means last. Maya pressed the letter in her pocket and, with a breath she hadn't realised she was hoarding, allowed herself a thought shaped like a possibility: I can go. Outside, the warehouses thinned to allotments; inside, the small congregation of night-travellers swayed together. The bus carried them, and her, steadily into the dark.

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

Option A:

Under the brittle glow of sodium lamps, the bus station breathes a tired, steady breath. Puddles keep their own galaxies, catching the glare and shivering it; drizzle wrinkles their skins as if the night were a restless dream. The timetable flickers—green digits, impassive grids—while the tannoy clears its throat and apologises for delays. Diesel hangs in the air, faintly sweet and acrid, and the cold licks the railings until they feel like the ribs of some patient animal.

They line the bays in orderly disorder: a man in a faded suit loosens his tie and stares into the glass; a student hugs a rucksack like a buoy. Teenagers hover at the edge of the shelter, laughter scattering like sparrows. There is tutting—always the sotto voce tutting of the late, the tired—and the click-clack of high heels on wet tiles. A vending machine hums, a coffee cup steams between fingerless gloves, and the reader answers each card with a crisp, obedient beep.

The buses lumber in and out, creatures of habit. Headlights blink like tired eyes; the suspension kneels to the kerb with a polite hiss, doors parting with a sigh. Inside, seats glow municipal red; the driver, backlit and impassive, lifts a hand in a small, ceremonial salute. "Number 47 to Riverside," the speakers declare—once, then again, as if repetition could conjure missing minutes. Wipers thrum a metronome; indicators tick—tick—tick. Arriving, departing, arriving, departing: a pendulum of metal and patience.

Above the shelter, an advert promises a sun-struck beach; its turquoise sky puddles in a thin reflection. Around the benches the gum-dark stones make a constellation; a paper bag skitters on a draught that slinks from bay to bay. Somewhere a CCTV camera whirs; somewhere a gull screams. The station is a mouth—roof held up like a jawbone, teeth of light chattering in the drizzle—chewing minutes that stretch. Heat threads from exhausts in pale ribbons, and the air tastes of winter and petrol and metal.

We are all paused here, between beginnings and arrivals, inside a choreography of commuting that repeats until it feels ritual. A phone glows; another is lifted and lowered; someone stifles a yawn; someone watches the road as if watching could drag the bus closer. Waiting becomes audible—feet shifting, breath clouding, keys worrying a pocket—waiting and watching, watching and waiting. When headlights round the corner and pour like milk across the puddles, a breath belongs to everyone at once, a shared quickening, before the doors open and the station exhales.

Option B:

Night gathered like ink along the terrace roofs; streetlights hummed and pooled diluted gold on the rain-dark road. The shelter shivered when a gust rattled through; its glass, starred with old stickers, offered back a thin, ghosted reflection. The timetable held its breath: 23:47, 00:12, then an empty space. Shop shutters yawned; the takeaway’s neon stuttered; the city practised a softer silence. The last bus was more rumour than vehicle, a tremor in the pavement you could almost feel. This would be the last bus: the final punctuation at the end of the day.

Lena stood under the shelter with a scuffed suitcase that wobbled on one sulky wheel. The handle had chilled her palm numb, leaving a faint indentation. Three messages hovered, unsent, their beginnings rehearsed and erased. She had written the hotel’s address on the back of a receipt; rain had kissed the ink and the letters bled. Diesel haunted the air—sour, familiar. She tried to stand very still, as if stillness could pin down resolve. In her mind the flat was already tidied: a mug draining; the key teeth-down on the table; the plant leaning towards its thin window.

The digital clock on the shelter clicked forward, unhelpful and exact. 23:46. Her breath fogged crescents; she drew a circle, then wiped it away. If she missed this, there would be taxi money she didn’t have; there would be the old habit of waiting—heavy, adhesive. Is this really necessary? her mother had asked, not unkindly. You could wait until morning. The word wait had stretched like chewing gum: elastic, cloying. Was she running to, or from? In the dark, things ripened—decisions, regrets, the stubborn core of a truth avoided. She tried out a sentence in her head and found it both brave and brittle.

Headlights, swollen by drizzle, rounded the corner; raindrops turned to silver wires. A paint-smeared man lifted his canvas bag; a woman adjusted the parcel of her sleeping baby. The bus exhaled as it stopped; the doors opened with a small, complaining kiss. The sign above the windscreen stuttered and steadied: 86 City Centre (Last Service). Lena heaved her suitcase; it dragged, resisting, then yielded. The driver’s eyes were glossed with midnight; he tapped the machine with a practised knuckle and glanced at the thinning street. “You just made it,” he said, almost smiling. She did not know whether he meant the bus, the night, or the kind of leaving that only happens once.

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

Option A:

Under a slab of winter night, the bus station hums and flickers. Fluorescent strip-lights bloom on wet tarmac; puddles hold tremulous copies of numbers and arrows. The glass-sided shelters are freckled with rain, beading and sliding in crooked paths. A mechanical board blinks to attention, green letters coughing out destinations, times, asterisks that feel like warnings. Air tastes of diesel and distant coffee; it moves in draughts that sneak under collars. The place is both temporary and permanent, a pause stretched out, then knotted by footsteps.

Meanwhile, people manufacture their own small worlds. A man in a creased suit presses his phone to his ear, nodding although no one can see him. Two students share chips, steam fogging the glass. A nurse, badge crooked, leans on a pillar, her shoes tired. Near the timetable, a child in a red hat hops from tile to tile as if the grey squares are rivers. A woman pulls a wheeled suitcase that wobbles and complains. Above them, the electronic clock insists: 19:42. 19:43. Waiting stretches; the station stretches with it.

Then the bus arrives the way the sea does - felt before it’s seen. A low growl; a wash of light; the hiss as brakes kneel to the kerb. Number 17 burns through the rain, eyes white, destination softened by mist. Doors sigh open. Warmth swells from inside, smelling of plastic seats, damp coats and bacon. People shuffle, rise, merge; a flock made of scarves and rucksacks. The driver sips tea, his hi-vis vest tired at the edges; his gaze is patient. Card readers chirp in obedient sequence. Condensation breathes across the windows until faces are reduced to thumbprints.

For a beat, everything tightens: wheels bark, someone laughs too loudly. Then, just as quickly, space returns. The bus heaves itself forward, a heavy animal leaving; it drags a ribbon of exhaust that tastes metallic and bitter. A paper ticket spins and lies down. The station resettles, not silent but softer, the kind of hush that hangs between songs. Another board flickers; another queue re-forms with practised politeness. Under the strip-lights, the puddles tremble again, catching the neon numbers as they change, and the night carries on, methodical, unhurried.

Option B:

Night. A time of endings; shop shutters clattered down, the traffic thinned to a hush, and the drizzle combed the street into shining stripes. At the bus stop, the plastic timetable trembled, and the small yellow bulb above it buzzed like a tired wasp.

Leah stood beneath it with a rucksack pressed between her knees and a paper ticket folded so sharply it bit her thumb. The wind nosed through her coat. She had packed too fast: jeans, the navy jumper she always avoided, a crumpled letter she didn’t read, the photograph turned face-down at the very last second. Her phone screen kept waking in her palm—Mum, Calling—and dimming again. She told herself it was only a journey, only a bus; it felt, annoyingly, like a decision.

The display blinked 23:58. Last bus. Letters flickered, steadied. Somewhere behind the shopfronts a radio played a cheerful song, and a stray dog padded over, sniffed her boot, and meandered on as if even it knew there would be no one left to follow.

When it came, it came reluctantly—headlights smudged by rain, brakes giving a long, old sigh. The driver glanced at her, his eyes soft with that practised, patient look of someone who has witnessed every kind of leaving. Leah tapped her card, heard the tiny, clinical beep, and climbed the steps that stuck slightly underfoot.

Inside smelled of warm dust and yesterday’s chips. A girl in a school blazer sprawled across two seats; a man in a paint-splattered jacket dozed with his chin to his chest. Leah slid beside the window. The glass was cold and lightly gritty, and her reflection floated there, a ghost with thinking eyes.

As the bus pulled away, her street shrank. The dark shop where her mother worked; the alley where she learned to bicycle; the very stop sign with its lonely shine. Had she really thought she could leave without looking back? She did anyway.

The engine hummed, regular, consoling. Leah’s phone pulsed again—Mum, 1 New Message—and then a figure burst from the rain, running hard, waving both arms. He shouted something. The driver didn’t see, or he pretended not to.

Leah lifted her hand toward the bell and paused.

The last bus rolled on.

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

Option A:

The bus station hums under a bruised sky. Neon strip lights buzz; their reflections wobble in puddles spread thin over the cracked concrete. The cold air smells of diesel, wet metal and old chips. Screens flicker with timetables, promising and threatening arrivals. The roof traps echoes like a tin lid. Restless.

People gather in clumps like small islands, coats pulled tight. A woman with a scarlet suitcase pinches her ticket like a passport; an old man counts coins, lips moving. Voices weave: “Is it the 24 or the 27?” The announcer speaks in a flat, practiced tone: “Next service to Riverside delayed by fifteen minutes.” Heels tick, tick; a wrapper crackles; a skateboard rattles past—then stalls.

The buses arrive in a rhythm: in and out, in and out. They sigh when they kneel, the doors yawning open with a wet gasp. Hot breath rises from the engines, making the air shiver; diesel sits on my tongue, stubborn and bitter. Headlights smear the pavement like paint dragged by a careless brush. Pigeons bob at crumbs until the sudden hiss—gone.

Time stretches between numbers on the screen. Each minute blinks and disappears. I sit on a metal bench; it bites through my jeans. A leaflet flutters, then whirls into a gutter that glitters with thin water. When a bus finally swings in, people rise together, almost grateful, almost annoyed. We shuffle forwards, stamping cold feet, and the station keeps its slow heart, pumping travellers through low-lit veins.

Option B:

Night arrived with a damp shrug, leaving the high street hollow and shiny. The takeaway sign fizzed; puddles held trembling moons; the bus shelter smelled faintly of old rain and vinegar. On the timetable a thin red line whispered: last service, 00:12. I rubbed my hands and watched my breath fade like smoke behind glass. If you looked through the shelter’s scratched panes, the world looked cracked too, as if you could peel it back and start again.

My bag sat by my ankle, stubborn and heavy, a square shadow. I had packed in a hurry—jumpers rolled tight, a photo, the blue shell from Mum. My phone was a blunt mirror, 3% battery. The town felt like it had exhaled me: I was hanging in the cold, unsure. It was late, but I was later. The last bus would take me out, away, through the sleeping fields to the bigger road.

At first I counted the minutes; then I counted the lampposts. A fox stitched itself across the road, thin and precise. 00:12 became 00:17: the timetable sat there like a promise or a joke—hard to tell. What if it didn’t come? What if the last bus had already happened and I just hadn’t noticed it slipping by?

The lights came first, low and milky, sliding over the wet tarmac; then the groan of an engine tired of the same route. The bus heaved around the corner and drew up with a hiss, a sigh—almost relieved to see me. For a second the board blinked Not In Service, then flicked, slow as a yawn, to the name I had practised in my head. I gripped the cold pole and stood. The doors folded back. Warm air, the smell of rubber and faint coffee, drifted out to meet me.

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

Option A:

Beneath the low, glass roof the fluorescent lights hum like tired bees. Rain has left black puddles that hold the station in shaky mirrors. A board flickers its green numbers on and off; the night peeks in through the open bays. Buses crouch under the bays, their noses wet, their engines warming with a soft growl.

People gather in little islands. A woman clutches a carrier bag, a student with headphones nods to a private beat, a man in a suit checks his watch, then checks it again. Steam lifts from paper cups; the smell is bitter and comforting. The tannoy voice is flat but bossy: Next service to Meadow Lane, delayed by five minutes. Someone sighs, someone tutts, someone laughs too loudly.

When a bus pulls in, everything shifts. The doors gasp, the body kneels, warm breath curling from the steps. Shoes scuff; prams bump; tickets appear and disappear; there is a small wave forward and a small wave back, back and forth, back and forth. The driver stares ahead, patient and bored at the same time; his hands rest on the shiny wheel.

Meanwhile, the wind sneaks through, lifting stray wrappers into thin, plastic birds that whirl near the ceiling. The clock blinks 20:41, then 20:42, as if it is dripping time. Headlights smear the wet ground in white and yellow streaks. Another arrival, another leaving. The station keeps breathing in and out — a mechanical chest that refuses to sleep.

Option B:

Night pressed down on the town like a heavy coat. The station lamps hummed and flickered, spilling pale gold onto the wet pavement. A ribbon of rain slid from the shelter roof, persistent. Beyond the glass, the big red bus waited at the kerb, engine idling, breathing out clouds that smelled of diesel and old coins. Shadows pooled like spilled ink.

It was the last bus. The timetable said so in blunt letters: 23:58, last service to North Ridge. I gripped my ticket, damp from my palm, and tasted the penny tang of nerves. If I missed it, there wouldn’t be a second chance tonight. Not with Mum’s voice still ringing in my ear, not with what I had to say. What if I was too late?

Run, I told myself, but my legs hesitated, heavy as logs. The rain was colder now, needling my skin. Headlights smeared the road into silver. I pictured the kitchen light still on at home, a cup on the table, steam fading, and the chair where I should have sat. The words I needed crowded my throat.

Then I stepped forward. The gutter water splashed my ankles and I didn’t care; the bus wheezed like a patient creature. “Wait!” I called, not loud enough at first—then again, louder. A hooded silhouette turned. The driver’s hand hovered over the button. The night seemed to hold its breath.

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

Option A:

Blue-white lights hum above the platforms, making puddles shine like coins. Doors breathe open with a wet sigh; brakes let out a squeal that scratches the air. The smell of diesel lingers; the cold from the metal benches sneaks through coats. A timetable screen blinks, numbers sliding up like they are unsure where to stop.

Meanwhile, people gather in knots and lines. Commuters with bags, students with headphones, a mother with a squeaking buggy. Voices float—snatches of stories, directions, complaints. We wait, we watch, we move a little, then stop. Is this my bus?

By the kiosk the coffee machine hisses like a tiny storm; cups steam. A stray leaflet flaps against a bin. Wind slips along the shelter, a thin whistle that makes you tug your scarf. The driver in bay four taps the wheel; he looks tired.

Then a bus noses in, lights glaring. Everyone tilts their head up: the board flickers, then the number steadies. The doors open with that same sigh and bodies flow inside—one by one, in and out. For a moment the platform empties, but the noise never really leaves; another engine grumbles, and the waiting begins again.

Option B:

The last bus was late. The timetable nailed to the post looked soggy and tired; even the plastic cover had a crack. Wind flicked the corners of an old advertisement like a tongue teasing a loose tooth. The road was the kind of empty that makes your ears ring. A streetlight kept flickering—on, off, on—throwing my reflection on the shelter, then stealing it again.

My suitcase leaned against my leg, scuffed and stubborn. I checked my phone again: 23:47. If I miss it, I'm stuck till morning, and morning is too late, isn’t it? I should have left earlier, I knew that. Mum’s message glowed at the top—call me. I didn’t; I couldn’t. A thin drizzle began and slid under my collar. I thought about Dad waiting at the other end—his flat small and neat, a spare bed made up like a promise.

At last, a low murmur grew at the end of the road. The bus lumbered into view and sighed at the kerb, doors folding open like a yawn. The driver glanced at me, not unkind but tired. Last bus, he said, as if I didn’t know. I took a breath, stepped forward, and wondered if this was an ending or the start I had been avoiding.

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

Option A:

The bus station is loud and busy. Night lights are hard and white, like stars. There is alot of people standing in lines that dont look straight, some push and some stare. The floor is wet, it shines from the last rain, shoes slap and skid. A bus coughs, it's doors hiss.

I hear voices and bags scraping. Coins ring and a ticket machine beeps, beep beep, again. The smell is chips and damp coats and oil. A driver shouts the number, 47 to town centre, but some one doesn't hear so he shouts louder, like a teacher.

Time feels slow here, we are waiting and waiting

A child holds a red ballon. His mum looks tired and her eyes are red, their late, mabye. The timetable screen flickers and goes black then on again. A bus pulls in and the brakes squeel like a scream, people move forward together, like waves in a bath.

Option B:

It was late. The road was quiet and the sky was dark like a big coat. The street lights blinked and hummed. I was stood at the stop with my bag and cold hands, the wind pushed the plastic roof, it made a thin squeak.

Mums voice said, get the last bus, dont be silly! I tried to be brave. I looked at the timetable and my eyes felt tired, the numbers swam, my breath came out like smoke.

What if it didn’t come?

A bus came but it wasn’t mine, it whooshed past and the warm air hit my knees. I wanted to wave it back but my legs felt stuck and my phone was on 3%, everything felt slow and heavy and wrong.

Another minute. I waited. I waited again.

Down the road two lights peeked round the corner like little eyes. The engine growled, the doors sighed open.

The last bus. At last.

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

Option A:

The bus station is busy. Lights shine blue and white. The ground is wet and the floor smell like oil. Buses growl and hiss, doors open with a click. People stand in lines, some talk. A child cries, the sound is thin, it go over the noise. Hot breath of the bus blows on my face, it is like a big animal, it waits and then it shout. A man drags a red bag and he keeps looking at the clock, the hands move slow. The speaker calls numbers, they crack, I cannot hear. Night sits and the lights buzz and buzz.

Option B:

It was dark and windy at the stop. I was late and the last bus was coming, maybe not. The sign blinked, 23:59, then gone. I run, my bag banging on my side. Coins in my hand, sweaty, a ticket i hoped. The road smelt of oil and chips. A dog barked and someone laughed far away. I think of Nan waiting with the light on, the tea getting cold. Then I remember I forgot my keys, oh no, stupid. its not my falt. The bus lights was small stars, then they got bigger. I wave my arm and shout, dont go! The driver looks, or not, the air holds.