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 does the narrator/speaker say about here?: It's bad about here – 1 mark
• 1.2 Where does the narrator/speaker say the man has been lying out?: on the meshes – 1 mark
• 1.3 How does the man respond to the narrator's warning about the marshes?: The man chooses to eat breakfast immediately, ahead of any harm from the marshes. – 1 mark
• 1.4 What does the man say he will eat before "they're the death of me"?: my breakfast – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 11 to 126 of the source:

11 He was gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once: staring distrustfully while he did so at the mist all round us, and often

16 stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen. Some real or fancied sound, some clink upon the river or breathing of beast upon the marsh, now gave him a start, and he said, suddenly,—

21 “You’re not a deceiving imp? You brought no one with you?” “No, sir! No!”

26 “Nor giv’ no one the office to follow you?” “No!” “Well,” said he, “I believe you. You’d be but a fierce young hound

31 indeed, if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched warmint hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched warmint is!”

36 Something clicked in his throat as if he had works in him like a clock, and was going to strike. And he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes.

41 Pitying his desolation, and watching him as he gradually settled down upon the pie, I made bold to say, “I am glad you enjoy it.” “Did you speak?”

46 “I said I was glad you enjoyed it.” “Thankee, my boy. I do.”

51 I had often watched a large dog of ours eating his food; and I now noticed a decided similarity between the dog’s way of eating, and the man’s. The man took strong sharp sudden bites, just like the dog. He

56 swallowed, or rather snapped up, every mouthful, too soon and too fast; and he looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was danger in every direction

61 of somebody’s coming to take the pie away. He was altogether too unsettled in his mind over it, to appreciate it comfortably I thought, or to have anybody to dine with

66 him, without making a chop with his jaws at the visitor. In all of which particulars he was very like the dog. “I am afraid you won’t leave any of it for him,” said I, timidly; after a silence during which I had

71 hesitated as to the politeness of making the remark. “There’s no more to be got where that came from.” It was the certainty of this fact that impelled me to offer the hint. “Leave any for him? Who’s him?” said my friend, stopping in

76 his crunching of pie-crust. “The young man. That you spoke of. That was hid with you.” “Oh ah!” he returned, with something like a gruff laugh. “Him? Yes,

81 yes! He don’t want no wittles.” “I thought he looked as if he did,” said I. The man stopped eating, and regarded me with the keenest scrutiny and

86 the greatest surprise. “Looked? When?” “Just now.”

91 “Where?” “Yonder,” said I, pointing; “over there, where I found him nodding asleep, and thought it was you.”

96 He held me by the collar and stared at me so, that I began to think his first idea about cutting my throat had revived. “Dressed like you, you know, only with a hat,” I explained, trembling;

101 “and—and”—I was very anxious to put this delicately—“and with—the same reason for wanting to borrow a file. Didn’t you hear the cannon last night?”

106 “Then there was firing!” he said to himself. “I wonder you shouldn’t have been sure of that,” I returned, “for we heard it up at home, and that’s farther away, and we were shut in

111 besides.” “Why, see now!” said he. “When a man’s alone on these flats, with a light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears

116 nothin’ all night, but guns firing, and voices calling. Hears? He sees the soldiers, with their red coats lighted up by the torches carried afore, closing in round him. Hears

121 his number called, hears himself challenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders ‘Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!’ and is laid hands on—and

126 there’s nothin’!

How does the writer use language here to present the man’s hunger and fear on the marshes? 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 perceptively analyse the writer’s animalistic and mechanical imagery to render hunger as feral compulsion, noting the listing and dynamic verbs in "gobbling ... all at once" and the extended dog comparison—"strong sharp sudden bites," "snapped up," "chop with his jaws"—as well as the dehumanising simile "as if he had works in him like a clock." It would also explore how fear is intensified through interrogatives and fractured syntax—"You're not a deceiving imp?", "stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen"—with personified setting and auditory anaphora from "mist all round us" and "breathing of beast upon the marsh" to the repetition of "Hears?" and "hears the rattle of the muskets", the imperative exclamatives "Make ready! Present!", culminating in the dash-led anticlimax "—and there's nothin'!" to convey paranoid hypervigilance on the marshes.

The writer uses zoomorphism and cumulative listing to render the man’s ravenous hunger feral. The syndetic list “mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once” and dynamic verbs—“gobbling,” “snapped up,” “crunching”—dehumanise him, aligning him with the sustained canine simile: he takes “strong sharp sudden bites,” “very like the dog.” Yet the colon pivots to fear: he is “staring distrustfully… at the mist,” and even pauses “—even stopping his jaws—” to listen, as if appetite itself must yield to vigilance.

Furthermore, Dickens builds a hostile soundscape and tense syntax to present hypervigilance. Auditory imagery—“some clink upon the river” and the “breathing of beast upon the marsh”—blurs “real or fancied” noises, fostering paranoia, while the enclosing “mist all round us” acts as pathetic fallacy. Rapid interrogatives (“You’re not a deceiving imp?… Nor giv’ no one the office…?”), in rough dialect, and the aside “danger in every direction” reveal a mind rehearsing threat from all quarters.

Additionally, figurative patterning dramatises fear fused with need. The self-degrading metaphor “wretched warmint… near death and dunghill” casts him as hunted prey, while the mechanical simile “works… like a clock… going to strike” suggests a body wound tight, a hair-trigger panic. Parallelism in “a light head and a light stomach” and the hyperbole “perishing of cold and want” bind hunger to terror. Anaphora—“Hears… Hears… Hears”—and staccato imperatives, “Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!”, culminate in the exclamative “and there’s nothin’!”, exposing the marsh’s empty, maddening vastness, where hunger and fear feed each other.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would identify that the man’s hunger is animalistic, shown by verbs and simile: he is "gobbling", taking "strong sharp sudden bites" that he "snapped up", and is "very like the dog", looking "sideways here and there" in case "somebody’s coming to take the pie away." It would also explain his fear through sensory imagery, repetition and sentence forms: he keeps "stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen" for "some real or fancied sound", asks "You're not a deceiving imp?", and the repeated "hears" with shouted orders "Make ready! Present!" and broken syntax "—and—and—" build paranoia on the marshes.

The writer uses zoomorphism and listing to present the man’s ravenous hunger. The dynamic verb “gobbling” and the list “mincemeat… pork pie, all at once” suggest desperation, while the simile “just like the dog” and nouns “hound” and “warmint” reduce him to animal instinct as he takes “strong sharp sudden bites” and “snapped up” each mouthful. This dehumanisation shows hunger overriding manners.

Furthermore, sentence forms and sensory imagery convey fear on the marshes. The dash in “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen” and repeated stopping show how terror interrupts feeding. Onomatopoeia and metaphor in “clink” and the “breathing of beast upon the marsh” make the landscape feel alive and threatening. Interrogatives—“You’re not a deceiving imp?” and “Nor giv’ no one…?”—reveal paranoia.

Moreover, anaphora in “Hears… Hears… Hears” builds mounting panic, while imperatives from imagined soldiers—“Make ready! Present!”—and the “rattle of the muskets” create vivid auditory imagery of pursuit. Hyperbole in “perishing of cold and want,” alongside the balanced phrase “a light head and a light stomach,” links emptiness to fear.

Additionally, the simile “works in him like a clock… going to strike” suggests he is wound tight, ready to lash out, and harsh alliteration in “ragged rough sleeve” hints at raw deprivation.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows the man’s hunger with strong verbs and a simile, using “gobbling”, “snapped up”, and “very like the dog”, plus the list “mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie”, to make him seem greedy and desperate. His fear is shown by “staring distrustfully” and “looked sideways”, the short questions “Did you speak?” and “Looked? When?”, and the repetition of “hears” with orders like “Make ready! Present!”, suggesting he thinks soldiers are after him.

Firstly, the writer uses strong verbs and a simile to show hunger. The man is “gobbling… all at once” and “snapped up every mouthful,” which suggests he is starving. The simile “just like the dog” makes him seem animal-like, and “crunching of pie-crust” sounds harsh, adding to his desperate eating.

Furthermore, language presents fear. He is “staring distrustfully at the mist” and keeps “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen,” so he is jumpy. The repeated questions, “You’re not a deceiving imp?” and “Nor giv’ no one…?” make him suspicious, as if there is “danger in every direction.”

Additionally, the writer uses repetition and sound. The list “hears… hears… hears” and the onomatopoeia “rattle of the muskets” build panic, while “closing in round him” shows he feels trapped. The dash and abrupt end, “—and there’s nothin’!” suggest lonely terror on the marshes.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response simply picks out obvious words and a simile to show hunger, e.g. "gobbling", "strong sharp sudden bites", "snapped up", and "just like the dog", saying this makes him seem animal-like. It also notices fear through "staring distrustfully", pausing to listen ("stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen"), short questions like "You're not a deceiving imp?", and sounds such as "rattle of the muskets", to say he is scared on the marshes.

The writer uses verbs like "gobbling" and "snapped up" to show the man's hunger. The simile "just like the dog" also makes him seem desperate for food.

Furthermore, words and phrases such as "staring distrustfully" and "stopping...to listen" suggest fear on the marshes.

Moreover, the sounds "clink" and "breathing of beast" create a scary atmosphere, and he "looked sideways" as if danger was "in every direction".

Additionally, the writer uses questions and repetition. The question "You brought no one with you?" and the repeated "hears" with orders "Make ready! Present!" show panic and terror. This shows his hunger and fear.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Asyndetic listing and adverbial emphasis convey ravenous urgency, piling food and pace together (gobbling mincemeat)
• Extended zoomorphism dehumanises him into instinct, showing raw, animal hunger and survival reflex (snapped up)
• Dash-interrupted syntax shows vigilance overriding appetite; fear literally stops his eating mid-bite (even stopping his jaws)
• Menacing auditory imagery makes the landscape feel alive and predatory, heightening his anxiety (breathing of beast upon the marsh)
• Repeated interrogatives and pejorative diction reveal paranoia and mistrust of betrayal or ambush (deceiving imp)
• Metaphor of being hunted casts him as prey near ruin, intensifying desperation and self-loathing (wretched warmint)
• Mechanical simile suggests a body wound tight by stress; the threat of an abrupt emotional “strike” looms (like a clock)
• Sideways glances and anticipatory fear of theft make even eating feel perilous and contested (danger in every direction)
• Pathetic fallacy of enclosing fog creates claustrophobic unease, mirroring his constant alertness (mist all round us)
• Anaphora and quoted commands build a pounding rhythm of terror, culminating in emptiness and dread (Hears his number called)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how unease escalates structurally from early foreshadowing in that there gallows and the enclosing setting mist all round us, through a stop–start interrogation pattern as he keeps stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen and bursts out You’re not a deceiving imp?, fragmenting pace to keep reader and narrator on edge. It would also show how misdirection and perspective shift—Who’s him? … The young man—pivot the scene into an anaphoric auditory crescendo (Hears?, Hears his number called, hears himself challenged, hears the rattle of the muskets, hears the orders) that ends in dashed anticlimax —and there’s nothin’!, intensifying paranoia and leaving the moment unresolved.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create unease is by foregrounding threat and then driving the pace with jittery, stop–start dialogue. The opening warning, “It’s bad about here,” and the early glance at the “gallows… over there” immediately seed menace, while the setting is threaded as a structural motif: “the mist all round us” encloses the scene. The rhythm repeatedly stalls—“often stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen”—so the narrative pace mimics vigilance. Quick-fire interrogatives (“You’re not a deceiving imp?… Nor giv’ no one the office…”) and clipped replies (“No, sir! No!”) create parataxis and caesurae that jolt the reader, as does the accumulative listing of food “all at once,” which foregrounds desperation.

In addition, the writer sustains unease through shifts in focus that juxtapose vulnerability and menace. The grotesque mechanical image—“Something clicked in his throat… like a clock”—is followed by a brief softening (“smeared… sleeve over his eyes”), before the lens zooms in on animalistic eating: “strong sharp sudden bites,” sideways glances, and the threat of “a chop with his jaws.” This oscillation culminates in a hinge-point of danger: “He held me by the collar,” a structural pivot that spikes tension.

A further structural device is the use of temporal references and anaphora to crescendo anxiety. “Didn’t you hear the cannon last night?” stretches fear backward, and the convict’s monologue iteratively layers sound: “nothin’ all night… Hears? He sees… hears his number called, hears… hears…” The escalating imperative echo—“‘Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!’”—tightens the screw, before the anticlimax “—and there’s nothin’!” With the sustained first-person perspective filtering events through a timid observer, this withheld resolution returns us to mist and uncertainty, leaving unease unresolved.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: - Unease intensifies as the focus shifts from wary observation of the setting ("staring distrustfully", "mist all round us") to fractured, stop‑start pacing ("stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen"), then spikes when the "young man" is introduced and the convict "held me by the collar".

• The ending accelerates through repeated "hears" and urgent commands ("Make ready! Present!"), before the abrupt "there’s nothin’!" cuts the moment short, leaving the threat unresolved.

One way the writer structures the opening to create unease is by beginning in medias res with clipped dialogue and ominous setting details. We are plunged into speech—'It’s bad about here'—before danger is foregrounded by 'that there gallows... over there'. The focus then widens to 'the mist all round us' and elusive sounds. A stop‑start syntax ('even stopping his jaws—to listen') and the listing of food—'mincemeat... bread, cheese... all at once'—accelerate the pace and reveal jittery vigilance, unsettling the reader.

In addition, the sustained first-person perspective fixes our focus on the man’s behaviour, and a shift from observation to confrontation increases tension. Pip’s extended comparison to 'a large dog' runs across several sentences, dehumanising him. This relatively calm description is abruptly broken by action: 'He held me by the collar'—a sudden change of pace and mood. A sequence of interrogatives ('You’re not a deceiving imp?... Nor giv’ no one the office...?') establishes a pattern of suspicion that intensifies unease.

A further structural choice is the temporal shift to 'the cannon last night'. Anaphora—'Hears... Hears...'—builds a crescendo of imagined pursuit, then the anticlimax 'there’s nothin’!' destabilises tone. This movement between present and vision varies pace and sustains unease.

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 starts with a bleak setting like “mist all round us” and the ominous “gallows,” then uses pauses and interruptions such as “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen” to show nervous behaviour and create unease. It would also spot a shift to suspicious questioning (“You brought no one with you?”) and imagined pursuit (“Make ready! Present!”), ending on “there’s nothin’!” to leave the danger unresolved and build unease.

One way the writer structures unease is by beginning in tense dialogue and a misty setting. The mist “all round us” at the start sets unease, and the stop‑start effect (“stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen”) breaks the flow. Short exchanges and one‑word replies (“No!”) change the pace and make the reader edgy.

In addition, the focus shifts from eating to suspicion. The questions pile up: “You brought no one with you?... Nor giv’ no one...?” then “Looked? When?” “Where?” This quick question‑and‑answer and, in the middle, “He held me by the collar” increase the unease.

A further feature is the ending, which moves into the man’s mind. The listing of orders (“Make ready! Present!”) builds to the abrupt “there’s nothin’!”, a cliff‑hanger ending. This drop in outcome keeps the reader uneasy.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start the setting feels worrying, like "It’s bad about here", and the man keeps stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen and asking "You brought no one with you?", which makes it feel tense. Later, his nervous, animal-like behaviour ("just like the dog") and the imagined orders "Make ready! Present!" build the unease.

One way the writer structures the text to create unease is the opening with dialogue. The short bits like “No, sir! No!” and the mist “all round us” make a tense start.

In addition, the focus shifts from eating to sudden questions and grabbing. The question and answer pattern, “Looked? When?” and “He held me by the collar,” makes the scene feel jumpy and uneasy.

A further structural feature is repetition and list at the end. The repeated “Hears” and orders like “Make ready! Present!” speed up the pace, ending with the exclamation “there’s nothin’!” to keep us worried.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Early foreshadowing by juxtaposing food with execution primes anxiety from the outset (that there gallows)
• Jagged pacing through repeated pauses to listen fractures the flow and suggests imminent danger (stopping his jaws—to listen)
• Shifts in focus to the obscured setting intensify uncertainty, enclosing the scene in threat (mist all round us)
• A barrage of rapid questions builds pressure and suspicion, tightening the narrative grip (brought no one with you)
• Uncanny mechanical detail briefly dehumanises him, hinting at breakdown or violence (clicked in his throat)
• Extended animal comparison sustains tension by demeaning his behaviour and implying reflex aggression (like the dog)
• A marked pause and the narrator’s hesitation slow time so dread can accrue before speaking (after a silence)
• A sudden pivot from talk to physical force spikes the stakes and revives earlier menace (held me by the collar)
• Crescendoing anaphora of hearing commands rises to a climax that collapses into ominous absence (and there’s nothin’!)
• A shift into his desperate monologue exposes fevered perception, blurring reality and deepening unease (alone on these flats)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

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

In this part of the source, where the convict eats like a dog, he appears more like a wild animal than a man. The writer suggests that his behaviour is caused by desperation, making us feel pity for him.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the convict and his desperate behaviour
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the convict as animal-like
• 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 perceptively argue that Dickens deliberately dehumanises the convict through canine and mechanical imagery—strong sharp sudden bites, snapped up, looked sideways, Something clicked in his throat ... like a clock—while evaluating that this animality is driven by desperation—wretched warmint, hunted as near death and dunghill, light head and a light stomach—so that, via Pip’s Pitying his desolation and the convict’s panicked soldier-hearings (Make ready! Present!), the reader is guided to pity him even as he seems wild.

I agree to a large extent that the convict is made to seem more animal than man in this section; however, Dickens uses that very dehumanisation to expose his desperation, so that our fear is complicated by pity.

At the outset, the animalisation is seeded in the syntax and sound. The repeated present participles in “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen” slow the pace, while the caesural dashes foreground “jaws,” a noun more suited to a beast than a person. The surrounding soundscape—“clink upon the river” and “breathing of beast upon the marsh”—blurs human and animal, placing him in a bestial environment. Dickens extends a hunting semantic field as the convict labels Pip a “fierce young hound” and himself a “wretched warmint… hunted as near death and dunghill.” The dialectal “warmint” and the harsh alliteration of “death and dunghill” intensify his self-degradation. Yet simultaneously, pathos intrudes: “something clicked in his throat… like a clock,” a mechanical simile suggesting emotion being checked, and he “smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes.” These tactile details, along with the epithet “poor,” invite pity even as the animal imagery gathers.

The central dog comparison makes the animality explicit. Pip’s observed simile—“a large dog of ours” and the man’s “strong sharp sudden bites”—is reinforced by dynamic verbs and auditory imagery: he “snapped up” food, “crunching” pie-crust, ready to “make a chop with his jaws.” The triplet “strong sharp sudden” mimics the jerky movement of a scavenger, while his “looked sideways… as if there was danger in every direction” captures a feral vigilance. Structurally, the accumulation of particulars (“in all of which particulars he was very like the dog”) builds an extended comparison that renders him instinctive, not civilised. Crucially, though, Pip concludes he is “too unsettled in his mind… to appreciate it,” signalling that this is survival behaviour, not choice.

When menace resurfaces—he “held me by the collar,” firing terse interrogatives (“Looked? When?... Where?”)—Dickens immediately roots it in deprivation. The convict’s monologue shifts the tone from threat to confession: “When a man’s alone on these flats, with a light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want, he hears nothin’ all night…” The anaphora of “hears” crescendos through military commands—“Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!”—only to collapse into the bleak anticlimax “and there’s nothin’!” This structural drop from imagined pursuit to emptiness dramatises his hallucinatory terror and isolation.

Overall, Dickens does present the convict as wild and dog-like. Yet by embedding that in a hunting metaphor and aligning his ferocity with hunger, cold, and fear, he turns our response towards compassion. We are made to see a man driven to animality by desperation, and to pity the “wretched” humanity behind the jaws.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: Mostly agree: a Level 3 response would explain that the writer makes the convict seem animal-like through imagery and verbs such as “dog”, “fierce young hound”, “snapped up”, and “crunching of pie-crust”, with him looking “sideways here and there” and fearing “danger in every direction.”
It would also link this behaviour to desperation—calling himself a “wretched warmint,” “perishing of cold and want,” and hearing “guns firing, and voices calling”—which prompts pity, as Pip notes “Pitying his desolation.”

I agree to a large extent that, in this section, the convict seems more like a wild animal than a man, and that his behaviour is driven by desperation, which makes us pity him. From the outset, the writer presents him as hyper-alert: “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen.” The parenthetical dashes mimic abrupt pauses, and the phrase “breathing of beast upon the marsh” frames the whole scene with animal danger. He even labels himself a “wretched warmint” and calls Pip a “fierce young hound,” which extends the animal imagery and dehumanises him; yet the adjective “wretched” also invites sympathy. The mechanical simile “something clicked in his throat… like a clock” further strips him of humanity, but when he “smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes,” we glimpse tears and desolation.

The eating scene most clearly supports the statement. The narrator’s explicit comparison—“a decided similarity between the dog’s way of eating, and the man’s”—uses simile to fix our impression. Verbs like “snapped,” “crunching,” and the threat to “make a chop with his jaws” emphasise feral, defensive hunger. His sideways glances “as if… somebody’s coming to take the pie away” show a survival instinct, not manners, and he is “too unsettled” to enjoy food, which signals desperation. The sensory detail of “pie-crust” and the quick, sharp rhythm of the sentences heighten the sense of frantic feeding.

When Pip mentions the “young man,” the convict’s grip on his collar is animal-like aggression, but his dialectal politeness—“Thankee, my boy. I do.”—reasserts his humanity. Finally, the anaphora in his speech—“Hears? He sees… Hears his number called… hears the orders ‘Make ready! Present! Cover him steady, men!’”—piles up imagined sounds, showing a mind “perishing of cold and want.” The military imperatives create tension while revealing terror.

Overall, I agree that animal imagery makes him seem wild, but the writer’s hints of vulnerability and gratitude mean his wildness reads as the product of desperation, so we largely feel pity rather than disgust.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response typically mostly agrees that the writer makes the convict seem animal-like, spotting the simile "very like the dog" and basic details like "strong sharp sudden bites", "snapped up", and him "looked sideways" at "danger in every direction". It then links this to desperation with "perishing of cold and want", explaining simply that this makes us pity him, perhaps noting a hint of humanity in "Thankee, my boy".

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section the convict often seems more like a wild animal than a man, especially when he eats, but the writer also shows that fear, hunger and cold drive him, which makes us pity him. Even before the eating, animal imagery suggests he is hunted: he calls himself a “wretched warmint” and a “hound,” and says he is “hunted as near death and dunghill,” making him sound like prey.

When he eats, the simile clearly dehumanises him: the narrator “noticed a decided similarity between the dog’s way of eating, and the man’s.” The verbs make him animal-like: “strong sharp sudden bites,” he “snapped up every mouthful,” and kept “crunching” the “pie-crust.” He “looked sideways here and there… danger in every direction,” which is like a wild dog guarding food. The image of a “chop with his jaws at the visitor” adds to this threatening, bestial impression.

However, the writer also suggests desperation causes this. The narrator says he was “Pitying his desolation,” and the man “smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes,” which hints at tears and humanity. His polite “Thankee, my boy” shows he is not only savage. At the end, his speech explains the cause: with a “light head and a light stomach, perishing of cold and want,” he hears “guns firing” and “voices calling.” This structural shift from description to explanation, through dialogue, makes us understand and feel sorry for him.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: he seems animal-like, but the writer links this to desperation, which leads the reader to pity him.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: Level 1: Simple agreement that the convict seems animal-like, with basic references to his eating (strong sharp sudden bites, snapped up, very like the dog) and to his desperation (perishing of cold and want, wretched warmint), saying this makes us pity him.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, the convict seems more like a wild animal, and his behaviour looks desperate, so we feel pity.

When he eats, the writer compares him to a dog. Pip notices a “decided similarity” and he takes “strong sharp sudden bites… just like the dog.” The verbs “snapped up” and “looked sideways” make him seem like he is guarding food, thinking there is “danger in every direction.” This makes him seem not civilised.

But the writer also shows why he is like this. He calls himself a “wretched warmint… hunted as near death and dunghill,” and later says he is “perishing of cold and want” with a “light head and a light stomach.” He even stops “his jaws” to listen and there is “something clicked in his throat… like a clock,” which shows he is nervous and jumpy. Pip says he was “Pitying his desolation,” and the man wipes his eyes with a “ragged rough sleeve,” which made me feel sorry for him.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. He is shown like a wild animal because he is starving and afraid, so the writer makes us pity him.

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:

• Animalistic labelling frames him as preyed-upon, supporting the claim and stirring compassion through his abjection (wretched warmint)
• Detailed comparison to a dog dehumanises him, making his feeding look feral and survival-driven rather than civilised (strong sharp sudden bites)
• Hypervigilant glances present him like hunted prey guarding scarce food, heightening tension while revealing fear (danger in every direction)
• Predatory jaw imagery suggests potential violence, reinforcing the “wild animal” impression and unease around him (chop with his jaws)
• Explicit scarcity explains his urgency, so the animal-like feeding reads as desperation rather than innate savagery, inviting pity (perishing of cold and want)
• Hallucinatory siege of commands and guns conveys panic and trauma, justifying his wildness as fear-fuelled, not purely vicious (Make ready! Present!)
• Brief show of emotion humanises him and softens judgement, aligning us with the narrator’s compassion (over his eyes)
• Narratorial signposting steers reader response toward sympathy, directly supporting the question’s claim about pity (Pitying his desolation)
• Flash of menace complicates sympathy—he can be dangerous—yet context makes it feel reactive rather than monstrous (held me by the collar)
• Rough, survival-oriented speech underscores deprivation and self-preservation, so his blunt refusal seems practical, not cruel (don’t want no wittles)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

Your grandad is fixing a long-silent wall clock and asks you to write a short creative piece to share when it ticks again.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a clockmaker’s bench at closing time from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about the first day back at work after a long absence.

(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:

Light thins to honey between the blinds, pooling on the clockmaker’s bench like a shallow tide. The wood—dimpled by decades, crosshatched by incidental cuts—gleams where palms have polished it; elsewhere, oil has darkened it to the colour of old tea. Tiny islands of brass dust glitter in the glow, a constellation mapped by patience.

Arrayed with almost ceremonial care, the tools rest where they can be found in the dark by memory alone: slender screwdrivers, their knurled handles aligned as precisely as soldiers; tweezers with needle mouths; the loupe, a black monocle, peering up like an unblinking pupil. Calipers lie open, measuring nothing yet measuring everything. A mainspring winder—delicate, dangerous—waits with a coil caged inside it, the restrained serpent of the bench.

The smell is layered, almost edible: a fug of warm metal; a sweet ghost of shellac; the faint, clean tang of solvent evaporating; the woody breath of drawers lined with baize. Touch, too, is a lexicon: grit beneath a fingertip; the nap of a rag that has absorbed thousands of hours; the cold kiss of a gear’s tooth, as fine and sharp as a whisper. In one shallow dish, screws no bigger than seeds gather; in another, an oval glass magnifies their minute insistence on order.

Beyond the bench, clocks mutter to each other. Their ticks do not agree, of course; they negotiate in overlapping syllables; they slow, they hasten, they hesitate. One plods, dutiful; one chatters, eager; one lingers at the edge of a tock, then steps over it as if shy. Round and round, round and round, round and round—the rehearsal of time itself. The bench hears it all and keeps the score.

He is almost absent, this maker of moments, yet his presence is everywhere. A thumbprint fogs the loupe rim. A pencil—chewed, apologetic—lies across a ledger open to today’s careful notations: “regulated,” “cleaned,” “rescued.” Who, seeing the apparent scatter of cogs and springs, would guess at the quiet arithmetic by which he returns a heartbeat to a stalled wrist? He drags the cloth once across the surface; it darkens with gratitude.

Closing time collects itself. The old workhorse lamp hums; then, at a touch, goes silent, its arm folding like a crane roosting. The pull on the blind rattles tiredly; the fabric descends, smothering the last of the honey light. Outside, the street is thinning, a stray bicycle chain ticking an echo on the pavement; inside, the bench is suddenly, almost theatrically, still.

Yet not inert. Even in the softened dusk, a shard of brass keeps a pocket of day, refusing to surrender. The smallest gear—sunflower of teeth—inclines towards it. A hair spring breathes in its tin, the frailest spiral of hope. If you lean in (no one does, now), you can hear the bench settle, a faint creak, as if it were exhaling. As quiet as a mouse, the shop seems to say; as steady as a held breath.

Only when the key turns and the bell over the door relinquishes its last silvery note does the bench truly own the night. It gathers its scattered glitter and its ink-dark shadows, tucks them into drawers, and waits, patient as a metronome paused—poised, exacting, ready to begin again.

Option B:

Monday. The day that masquerades as routine; punctual, antiseptic, inexorable. At 6:30, alarms insisted, kettles breathed, buses sighed at curbs, and the city reset itself with its habitual clatter. In kitchens and corridors, lives slipped back into prescribed grooves as if absence were a smudge wiped from glass. Clocks resumed their metronomic tyranny. Outside, a wan sun threaded its way through venetian blinds, laying bars of pale gold across the floor like a cage of light. It was, apparently, just another morning.

Maya stared at her reflection as though at an old photograph—familiar, annotated, a palimpsest of versions. Her hands, which had learned other rhythms in the hiatus (counting pills, folding letters, gripping the edge of a chair at four a.m.), hovered over the row of buttons as if the cotton had shrunk or she had, marginally. The blouse felt like armour too thin for the day. Around her neck, the lanyard lay with the weight of a talisman she didn’t quite trust. In her bag she arranged unnecessary certainties: a notebook; a pen that clicked with a crisp, reassuring cadence; a half-used lip balm; the ID card with a smiling stranger on it. She tried a smile to match—practised, perfunctory, brittle as spun sugar.

On the bus, she chose a window seat and let the city scroll past in a steady, unsentimental panorama. People folded newspapers; a schoolboy’s laughter ricocheted down the aisle; the driver’s radio murmured the susurration of other lives. Buildings wore last night’s rain in sequins. Advertisements promised renewal as if it could be purchased in a bottle. Meanwhile, her stomach performed a small, private revolt. How to step back into a room that had not needed her? How to stitch herself into a pattern that had, in her absence, refused to unravel? Questions accumulated, a neat stack, like documents awaiting signature.

The atrium of the building was as she had filed it in memory: glassy, chill, faintly citric with cleaning fluid. The revolving door completed its slow revolutions—an ineluctable carousel of arrivals and returns. “Morning,” the security guard said, and the word landed with a gentleness that startled her. Her pass beeped—obedient, unquestioning. The lift hummed like a held breath. Floors blinked past, numbers in pale blue, a quiet countdown.

Her desk waited—a small square of territory left exactly as she had abandoned it: a clipped paperclip chain, a mug whose ring of tea had dried into a fossil, a plant attempting resilience with one determined leaf. Colleagues appeared in gradients of concern and awkwardness. “Good to have you back,” said Vanessa, too bright; “Take it at your own pace,” advised Amir, eyes sincere; a hand squeezed her shoulder and retreated. Platitudes are not pointless, she decided; they can be bridges, however narrow.

The monitor woke, pale and demanding. Password expired. Of course. She typed, retyped, reset, and with each small success, something unclenched. Her fingers remembered the cartography of the keyboard; the inbox flared to life—notifications cascading, meetings materialising, tasks revivified like ghosts eager to make themselves known.

She placed her palms flat on the desk. Breathed. Listened to the office—its low, collaborative hum, its soft, shared urgency. Nevertheless, she was here. Not the same, perhaps, but here—and the day, imperfect, was beginning to make room.

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

Option A:

In a shallow pool of lamplight, the clockmaker’s bench holds its breath. Brass gears, pollen-gold, lie strewn across the worn oak; they catch and return the light like shallow coins in a fountain. The board is pitted, cross-hatched by years, varnish rubbed to a soft sheen where wrists have patiently anchored. Close by, a gooseneck lamp bends with a patient stoop; its shade is chipped, its beam meticulous. A film of filings halos the vice; tiny screws—heads no bigger than poppy seeds—wait in a tin lid, obedient as seeds in a row.

Tools sit by habit rather than rule: tweezers, needle files, a bristle brush; screwdrivers in a neat fan of coloured caps; the loupe like an extra, watchful eye. A rubber mat cradles an open movement, its exposed heart glinting. The air smells of oil and beeswax and old tea, a peculiar sweetness; it tastes faintly metallic on the tongue. Every surface carries a history: an ink bloom, a scorch from a careless lamp, a groove worn by a forearm that has measured time more faithfully than any dial.

Closing time gathers, discreet but insistent. The wall clock ticks with mild authority; a carriage clock replies in a brisk whisper; somewhere beyond the glass, shoes thin and fade. On the bench the day lies in bright fragments: a crescent of spring, a single stubborn tooth from an escapement, a thumbnail of foil. Dust moves in the beam like slow snow. He moves too—sleeves rolled, fingertips nicked—placing, turning, listening. Each gesture is small yet exact, the last attempt for today; even his breath is measured between ticks, tick—pause—tick.

Order reasserts itself. He caps the oil, writes in a ledger: date, model, promise. Drawers kiss shut; rags fold; the tray slides back with a felted sigh. Time is not an enemy here but a collaborator—precise, forgiving when treated with respect. What is a day but a sequence of patient movements? Light thins. He plucks a stray gear from shadow and sets it among its kin. Then, almost ceremoniously, the switch clicks; for a heartbeat nothing moves. Outside, the street draws its own thin line of time along the pavement, amber and slow. The ticks persist, diminished but stubborn, like raindrops after rain, as the bench keeps its quiet vigil until morning.

Option B:

Monday. The city resets: blinds lifting, kettles clicking, calendars wiped and rewritten—rituals rehearsed until they feel like muscle memory. Escalators hum, buses exhale, the river keeps its indifferent course. For most, it is just another start. For him, it is a return that feels like trespass.

Eight months (two seasons, countless slow afternoons) after stepping away, Elliot stood in the glassy lobby as if at a museum of his prior life. The floor held the ghost of his reflection: thinner, a bruise of sleeplessness under his eyes. His pass hung on its tired lanyard; his hand—steadier than he feared—lifted it to the scanner. He had rehearsed this in the shower, on the quiet bus. In rehearsal the gate beeped; in reality it hesitated—just a fraction—then clicked, and he let out a breath he had not known he was holding.

In the lift, he faced the unforgiving mirror and practised answers. How are you? Fine, thanks. Are you better? Better enough—today. Words as shields. The lift climbed with a discreet shudder; numbers lit in a patient sequence.

On the fifth floor, the old smells returned—coffee grounds, toner, the metallic tang of air-conditioning—carrying a sudden ache. His desk waited, but time had made edits: dust haloing the monitor; a plant he had once watered, stooped like a penitent; a Post-it curling at the keyboard’s edge, his handwriting strangely foreign. He ran a thumb along the chipped rim of his mug. Elliot, the letters declared, scuffed and faithful. In absence, even objects gain biography; he felt ridiculous gratitude for the chair’s familiar sigh as he sat.

People noticed. A head popped over the partition, bright as a sunflower. “You’re back!” Mira beamed. “We’ve missed you. How are you?” He lifted his mouth into something like a smile. “Getting there,” he said, the phrase—practised, polite—landing between them like a small bridge. He heard the chorus assembling: laughter from the kitchen, footsteps, the first curious wave. Replies queued in his throat; gratitude, deflection, truth. He would ration them, like careful medicine.

Work, meanwhile, waited with its unromantic patience: passwords to reset; a calendar—colour-coded, insistent—to decode; an inbox that had grown like ivy. He clicked it open. Messages cascaded, dates marching backward, a cartography of everything that had continued without him. Panic flickered—thin, quick, undeniable. Then, with his fingers hovering over the keys, he began.

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

Option A:

Evening loosens its grip on the shop, and the light slides in a thin strip across the clockmaker’s bench. Dust hangs like a patient constellation; each mote seems to wait. The bench itself is worn to a calm shine where hands have leaned for years, its grain dark with small, careful stains. Brass gears lie scattered like dull coins on a market stall, their teeth catching the last honey-coloured light. Somewhere, a single clock ticks on, and the sound lands softly, like a fingertip on a table.

Near the back edge, a lamp casts an amber puddle. In it sit the tools of a delicate trade: fine screwdrivers lined in order; tweezers that pinch the air; a loupe with its rubber ring worn smooth; a paper envelope folded around a spare spring. A saucer holds a shoal of screws, pale and almost weightless. There is a jam jar of spent filings—swarf—glittering like ground-up frost; there is a rag, ribboned with oil, smelling faintly of lemon polish and iron. Little drawers run along the wall, each with a pencilled label—“pins,” “escapements,” “hands”—the handwriting small and neat, as if whispering.

Under the lamp, a carriage clock rests open-mouthed, its enamel dial cracked with a hairline smile. The minute hand points nowhere now; the heart of it waits, unsprung. A coil lies beside it, tight as a sleeping cat. The bench holds these things the way a harbour holds boats: with care, with the quiet weight of habit. Above, pendulums along the wall sway themselves towards stillness; their arcs shrink; their shadows stitch and un-stitch the bench in steady rhythm. Tick, tick, tick. It is repetition and it is comfort.

Outside the pane, the street wilts to grey, but here the colours are stubborn: brass gone green at the edges; wood burnished to a warm brown; a dot of red wax on a corked bottle. The air tastes faintly metallic, dry as paper. Even the silence has a texture—soft, oiled, familiar. A coat waits on its hook; a key waits in the dish. The day has been measured out in turns and tiny clicks, and now the bench exhales.

Soon the lamp will snap dark—the strip of light will fold up and vanish. The scattered gears will glow for a second longer, then cool. Everything pauses, poised. Time, obedient, will sit here overnight; in the morning it will be wound again.

Option B:

Monday. A day that pretends at normal; trains uncurl; inboxes refill; doors unlock. After months of silence, my name badge lay cold in my palm, its plastic corners slightly cracked, like ice that had survived the thaw. I looped the lanyard over my head and practised a smile in the dark window. It came out crooked. Shoes unfamiliar, I stood by the door. The clock made a brave noise - tick, tick - as if it was pushing me out.

On the bus, the usual citizens wearing usual faces: headphones, takeaway cups, damp coats. I used to be one of them without thinking; now every stop-count felt ceremonial. Rain stuttered against glass, soft applause. I thought about my absence: the long flat afternoons that occured between appointments, the way days slid into each other like pages that hadn’t been cut.

The building looked the same - relentless panes, a revolving door conducting tired music. The receptionist said, "Welcome back," which meant several things at once. What if they had moved my chair? I swiped the pass it blinked red then green and the gate sighed open. The lift smelt of new carpet. The numbers climbed, patient. Fifth floor. The hush. The hum.

Open-plan: islands of desks, bright screens, a pot plant drooping like a forgotten sentence. My chair waited where I left it, a small dent keeping my shape. Someone had sharpened the pencils. My desk looked like an exhibit behind rope - the mug with my name rubbed off, a stack of reports yellowing at the edges, the sticky note that said "Back soon!" still clinging on.

People gathered in ones and twos. "You're back!" Rehearsed warmth; real eyes. I rehearsed answers. "Yes. Good to be..." I let it trail.

At my computer the login screen blinked, blankly hopeful. Password. Second password. The keyboard shivered, then found the old music. The inbox ballooned: newsletters; updates; unanswered threads. It looked like weather - a forecast of showers.

I scrolled, choosing one small cloud to disperse: I deleted the out-of-office message and watched the words dissolve. My pulse steadied, not perfectly, but enough. First day, first click, first breath.

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

Option A:

The bench waits at the back of the dim shop, long and scarred. Closing time draws itself across the room like a blind – the last light folds over the wood. You can smell metal and oil here, a sweet, stubborn scent that has settled into the grain. Fine brass dust freckles the surface, catching the lamp glow, a glitter. The place is still, except for the patient tick from somewhere under the bench.

Across the worn plank lie the day's small galaxies: flat gears like coins, screws no larger than crumbs, the crescent of a mainspring. A cracked saucer holds pins and a bent needle. The magnifying loupe rests upside down. By the lamp, an open tin of grease shines, its surface smooth as toffee; a rag hangs nearby, stiff with polish. Shadows pool between the scattered parts, making little hills and hollows. The bench looks busy and quiet at the same time.

The tools are ordered but tired. Tweezers point to the edge; a fine file sleeps beside a row of screwdrivers, red-handled, blue-handled, scarred. A tiny hammer, more toy than tool, sits straight; next to it, calipers measure the air. There is a list in neat, spidery writing: replace hand, adjust spring, test. A teacup leaves a ring, and crumbs cling on like stubborn guests. The bench holds these marks the way a memory holds a voice.

At last, the clockmaker’s hand moves through the pool of light. He does not hurry. Brass goes back into trays, soft chimes of metal on metal; screws slip into a jar. Tick, tick, tick. He wipes the wood in careful strokes, keeping the dust, the day, in small whorls on the cloth. The switch clicks. The lamp blinks once and dies, and the bench rests, shadowed and sure, waiting for morning.

Option B:

First days smell of polish and nerves. The reception floor shone so bright it reflected a watery version of me. Outside, buses sighed; inside, the lobby ticked with the slow clock and everything felt arranged and still.

I held my pass like it belonged to someone else. Six months isn’t forever, yet it was long enough for dust to settle and for my name to feel new in my mouth. My shoes sounded too loud. The security guard glanced up, then recognition arrived, slow and kind.

“Welcome back,” he said. I tried for a smile that didn’t wobble. The lift doors sighed; I stepped in and the mirrored walls gave me back three faces, all mine. The little screen crawled upwards, floor by floor, and my heart matched it, steady then too fast. I had promised I wouldn’t think about those months—hospital corridors, quiet afternoons, the heavy quiet—but thoughts leak through.

The third floor smelt of coffee and something stale. Fluorescent lights buzzed like wasps, and the open-plan office spread like a field. A few people turned and waved: small, careful waves, as if I was made of glass. “Good to have you back,” someone said; I could hear the effort, and I appreciated it. My desk waited under the air conditioner. The plant was not dead, just stubborn, leaves browned at the edges. A sticky note offered a new password and a smiley face.

I sat. The lanyard rubbed my neck. My keyboard was unfamiliar, the letters in the right places, but the feeling had shifted. Inbox loading: 212 unread, a red badge. Subject lines gathered—updates, urgent, check-in. One from HR. I breathed out; my breath fogged the inside of me. I clicked the first email with my name in the subject line and, just before it opened, the building seemed to hold its breath as well.

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

Option A:

The bench is tired now, a long, worn strip of oak with a dark patina. Evening light slides across it like thin honey, sticking to the scratches and dents that map old jobs. Brass gears are scattered like coins; their tiny teeth catch a last glimmer. Curling filings rest in little nests. The air smells of oil and dust and the weak tea from the back room, it is warm still.

On the left: a line of screwdrivers with coloured caps; on the right, a jar of springs that look like metal noodles. Tweezers lie open like a pair of silver insects. The magnifying loupe sits in the centre, a single glass eye; it watches everything. Under it, a strip of suede carries faint black rings where cases were set down. The wood wants to splinter, but it holds.

Half-finished work waits. A pocket watch, its lid yawning, shows a pale face with Roman numerals; the minute hand points nowhere in particular. Tiny screws are scattered like seeds, easy to lose. There is a crystal dome—slightly smudged—that makes a small world when you look through. A quiet tick-tick comes from a cloth-covered square to the side, steady but shy.

Now the stool scrapes back. The hanging blind drops and the shop turns dim; the gears glow less, like embers. A careful hand draws a grey rag over the tools—slow, practised, almost tender. Dust lifts and dances in the thin strip of light. Outside, the street is closing too; inside, the bench breathes out and waits. Tomorrow, the tiny suns will rise again.

Option B:

Morning dragged itself over the street like a grey blanket. I stood in the hall with my coat on, a stranger in my own shoes. The house smelt of old toast and polish: familiar, but thin. Keys. Wallet. Pass. Courage. The strap of my bag scraped my shoulder, my lanyard knotted like seaweed; my heart ticked fast, an engine not started in months.

It had been twelve weeks since the day everything stopped. People said rest, recover. I did, sort of. But time also took me. Now the calendar had cornered me with a square that said Monday, bold and bossy. Back to the emails, back to the meetings, back to them who would ask. Was I the same?

The bus sighed up to the kerb. I climbed on and tried to smile at the driver, it came out awkward. Rain freckled the glass and the city blurred, all the offices lined up like rows of teeth. I watched my stop edge closer; I didn’t want to be late. The flourescent morning made everything look too clean.

Reception smelt like lemons and cold air. “You alright?” the guard said, nodding at my badge. “Yeah, fine,” I said, a lie. The corridor hummed like a hive, familiar names on doors, the old posters stuck and curling — Health, Safety, Great Ideas.

My desk waited for me, untouched and dusty. Someone had washed my mug, it looked strange. The computer blinked awake; the password refused me twice. On the third try, it let me back in.

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

Option A:

Low yellow light puddles on the clockmaker’s bench. At closing time, dust hangs in the air, a soft glitter that doesn't settle; it turns and turns in the beam. Brass gears lie in small islands, cold, like coins poured from an old purse. The bench is old, its surface is scored with lines and burns from the iron. A loop of wire sleeps beside a magnifying glass, a small moon with scratches. On the back ledge: brushes, tiny screwdrivers, a jar of oil. The lamp tilts, it stares down like a tired eye. Somewhere a ticking carries — patient, stubborn, quiet.

Now the day is closing. The clockmaker’s hands wipe the wood with a grey cloth, slow circles, slow circles, as if smoothing the hours. Then the drawers sigh shut. A single spring rolls, stops; it trembles. Outside, the window shows a strip of evening and faint rain. The tall clock coughs one last chime. He arranges tiny screws into rows: order makes a kind of peace. It’s almost silent, except the tick, tick, tick. Finally, the switch clicks off — the light goes, then gone. The bench waits in the dim, smelling of oil and tea. Its work is over, for now.

Option B:

Monday. Grey air pressed against the glass doors of the block. I stood with my pass warming in my palm, counting to four, then eight. Breathe in. Breathe out. The city kept moving without me; I had to join it.

The lift yawned open and I stepped in. At first, my legs felt stiff, as if I were visiting my old life. Coffee smell rose up: bitter and sweet, familiar. I used to rush here; now each step was careful, like thin ice. I swiped my pass, the door clicked, a small green light said yes. Inside, the printer hummed and fluorescent lights buzzed like bees.

My chair was still there—the dent in the cushion waiting like a little memory. Although I wanted to be normal, the room seemed louder. A laugh jumped; a stapler snapped. After weeks of hospitals and quiet rooms, this noise was strange. Would they ask?

"You're back," Maya said, and she gave a small, awkward wave. Her voice sounded bright, her eyes checked my face. I tried a smile, then a breath, then words. "Good to be back," I said, true and not true at the same time.

One email: that was all for now. Fingers on keys; the old rhythm returned—slowly.

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

Option A:

Its closing time at the clock makers bench. The bench is old and scratched, the wood is dark with oil and dust. There is brass gears scattered, tiny screws, a bent spring and a thin file. They lay where they was left. A small lamp leans over the mess, it makes a small pool of yellow.

Tick tick, tick. The sound is slow now, like a tired heart that wants to stop. A watch face looks up, it has no hands, the glass is chipped. The smell is metal and oil, sharp and warm.

The clock maker breath is quiet, but I cant see him, only his chair pushed back. The lamp hums, the shadows are long on the wood. Dust float in the light, little dots drifting. A key is on a string: it swings a bit then is still. The last tick - then it is quiet.

Option B:

Morning came too fast. The alarm screamed in the dark room like it was angry. Its been a while. First day back at work. I sat up slow and the bed felt cold. My shirt on the chair looked small and stiff. I said, back to work, back to work.

I dressed slow, my hands was shaking like a small dog. The mirror was not kind. I was suppose to be brave but the toast tasted dry. The bus stop felt far. I checked my pass three times, I kept checking, I still did not feel ready.

The office door clicked and the lights were too bright. People voices came from somewhere, chairs rolled, phones ringing like tiny bells. I stood like the new kid at school. My desk waited, a little dusty, a note said Welcome back. My breath was loud. I said, I'm okay, even if it wasnt true.

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

Option A:

The bench is old and brown. The wood is rubbed smooth and it squeeks a bit. Little brass gears are all over, shinning like small coins, some are bent. Screws, tiny springs, a cracked glass. The lamp is yellow and tired it is closing time it buzz. It smells of oil and dust and tea. Tick tock tick. The clock maker sighs and he puts a rag on tools he forgets one. A cat hair on the stool. Outside the shop is dark and the bell on the door doesnt ring nobody comes he turns the key slow.

Option B:

I go back to work today after a long time away. I breath fog. I was on the bus and I watch the rain, my phone game, a baby crying. I think about toast left on the plate. My hands shake like a small dog in rain. I push the door, it sticks, I push harder. hello, the guard say, and I nod. The clock tick loud in the hall. My desk has dust, there is many boxes, old coffee. I were here before but it feel strange. I put my coat on the chair. I look at the calender and think of home.