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 did the speaker arrive?: the Battery – 1 mark
• 1.2 How is the man behaving when the narrator arrives?: Holding himself tightly and hobbling back and forth – 1 mark
• 1.3 How long does it seem the man had not stopped hugging and limping?: all night – 1 mark
• 1.4 Who was the man waiting for?: the narrator – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 cold, to be sure. I half expected to see him drop down before my face and die of deadly cold. His eyes looked so awfully hungry too, that when I handed him the file and he laid it down on the

11 grass, it occurred to me he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my bundle. He did not turn me upside down this time to get at what I had, but left me right side upwards while I opened the bundle and emptied my

How does the writer use language here to show the man’s suffering and the narrator’s reactions? 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: Hyperbole and intensifiers in die of deadly cold and so awfully hungry, plus the darkly comic exaggeration he would have tried to eat it, convey the man’s extreme deprivation. The conditional construction he would have tried to eat it, if he had not seen my bundle, the reflective aside it occurred to me, and the antithetical phrasing did not turn me upside down... left me right side upwards reveal the narrator’s wary, analytical response and a shifting power dynamic.

The writer foregrounds the man’s suffering through hyperbolic, visceral description. In “I half expected to see him drop down before my face and die of deadly cold,” the alliterative d in “die” and “deadly” intensifies the brutality of the weather, while the evaluative adjective “deadly” personifies the cold as an active killer. The minor sentence “cold, to be sure” is clipped and emphatic, foregrounding the environment; the hedge “half expected” conveys the narrator’s anxious imagination and attempts at self-control.

Moreover, the focalisation on the convict’s “eyes” being “so awfully hungry” uses an adverbial intensifier to magnify his deprivation; by zooming in on the eyes, the writer signals a hunger that seems more than physical. The narrator’s speculation that “he would have tried to eat it” – “it” being a “file” – is deliberate hyperbole: the incongruity of eating metal dramatises starvation. The conditional clause “if he had not seen my bundle” and the cognitive verb “occurred” reveal quick, empathetic inference, showing fear tempered by pity.

Furthermore, the contrastive syntax in “He did not turn me upside down this time... but left me right side upwards” creates antithesis that underlines both the man’s earlier violence and his momentary restraint. The temporal marker “this time” hints at recurring threat, while the oddly polite phrasing “right side upwards” injects a flicker of childlike relief. The extended sentence that follows mirrors the speaker’s breathless tension as he complies, tracking his reactions in real time.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Through hyperbole and repetition, the man’s suffering is emphasised in “die of deadly cold” and the short, minor sentence “cold, to be sure,” while hunger imagery (“so awfully hungry,” he might “eat” the “file”) conveys desperation. The narrator’s reactions are shown through tentative, reflective phrasing (“I half expected,” “it occurred to me”) and contrast in actions (“turn me upside down” versus “right side upwards”), suggesting fear mixed with cautious sympathy.

The writer emphasises the man’s suffering through hyperbole and intensifiers. The minor sentence “cold, to be sure” foregrounds the brutal weather, and the narrator’s “half expected to see him drop down… and die of deadly cold” exaggerates the threat, making the misery feel immediate. The adverbial intensifier “so awfully hungry” focuses on his “eyes”, a metaphorical detail that makes his starvation visible and pitiable to the reader, while revealing the narrator’s anxious imagination.

Additionally, darkly comic hyperbole in “he would have tried to eat it” (about the file) underlines extremity: hunger overrides sense. The conditional clause “if he had not seen my bundle” shows the narrator anticipating his needs, and his reaction is practical and fearful: he “handed him the file” and then “opened the bundle”, suggesting reluctant obedience mixed with compassion. The reflective phrase “it occurred to me” exposes his nervous thought process.

Furthermore, the parallel contrast between “turn me upside down” and “left me right side upwards” highlights a shift from violence to restraint. This antithesis suggests the man’s suffering has softened him, while the measured phrasing hints at the narrator’s relief. Overall, language choices present raw deprivation and a wary, sympathetic reaction.

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 exaggeration like "die of deadly cold" and emotive description "awfully hungry", even saying he "would have tried to eat it", to show the man’s suffering. It would also notice the narrator’s reaction in the short phrase "cold, to be sure" and the contrast "turn me upside down"/"right side upwards", saying the long sentence listing actions suggests nervous watching.

The writer uses hyperbole to show the man’s suffering: “die of deadly cold.” The strong adjective “deadly” and the intensifier “awfully hungry” suggest he is close to death and starving, making the reader feel sympathy for him.

Moreover, the exaggerated idea “he would have tried to eat it” shows his desperation, as if hunger could make him eat even a “file”. The narrator’s phrase “it occurred to me” reveals his anxious, childlike reaction as he tries to make sense of the scene.

Additionally, the verbs and contrast in “did not turn me upside down this time… left me right side upwards” show previous roughness but a slight kindness now. This change makes the narrator feel relief. The long, complex sentence with commas mirrors his quick, nervous thoughts.

Overall, these choices show his suffering and the narrator’s fear and pity.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses strong adjectives like deadly cold and awfully hungry, and exaggeration in drop down and die of deadly cold, to show the man’s suffering. The narrator shows worry then relief, saying he half expected it and noting the man did not turn me upside down this time.

The writer uses adjectives and hyperbole, like 'die of deadly cold' and 'awfully hungry,' to show the man’s suffering. The idea he 'would have tried to eat' the file makes him seem desperate.

Furthermore, the first-person voice shows the narrator’s reaction. The phrase 'I half expected' suggests worry and shock. The short opening 'cold, to be sure' is a quick, simple reaction.

Additionally, the verbs and phrases 'turn me upside down' and 'left me right side upwards' show a change in behaviour. It makes the man seem weaker and less violent, and the narrator notices this while opening the bundle.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Elliptical opening asserts harsh conditions and the narrator’s certainty, foregrounding suffering (to be sure)
• Hyperbole dramatises the man’s condition, making his pain feel immediate and extreme (die of deadly cold)
• Plosive alliteration and forceful motion heighten urgency and peril near the narrator (drop down)
• Metaphoric focus on the eyes turns need into a visible, disturbing image of deprivation (awfully hungry)
• Conditional construction conveys the narrator inferring desperate impulses, stressing extremity of hunger (would have tried to eat it)
• Action-detail of restraint contrasts expected violence, suggesting exhaustion and fragile self-control (laid it down)
• Narrator’s reflective marker highlights personal response guiding the reader’s view (it occurred to me)
• Antithesis in body positioning shows softened treatment and hints at the narrator’s relief (right side upwards)
• Temporal phrase implies prior roughness, increasing tension while marking a change in behaviour (this time)
• Coordinating pivot signals a shift from threat to tentative care, shaping our emotional response (but left me)

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 intensifies through structural progression and shifting focus: from the restless, repetitive motion of the opening ("hugging himself and limping to and fro"), to fractured pacing marked by dashes and pauses ("often stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen"), and a zoom-out to hostile setting ("the mist all round us", "that there gallows") that isolates the characters. It would also identify interrogation, cumulative listing, and dehumanising comparison as drivers of suspense—rapid questions ("You’re not a deceiving imp?"), compulsive consumption ("gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once"), animalising simile ("very like the dog")—culminating in withheld-information and the destabilising final turn to an ambiguous other ("The young man", "He don’t want no wittles.").

One way the writer structures unease is an in medias res entry coupled with parenthetic fragmentation. The temporal connective “after that” and the unnamed “right man” thrust us in, but the dash-framed insertion—“hugging himself and limping to and fro”—stalls the line and mirrors his jittery motion. Repetition intensifies instability: he is “awfully cold” and “awfully hungry”, while aside-laden syntax interrupts progress, making the scene liable to fracture.

In addition, Dickens engineers a stop–start pace by juxtaposing cumulative listing with staccato interrogatives. The man is “gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once”, yet keeps “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen.” Focus flickers from eating to sounds (“clink upon the river”, the “breathing of beast”), then snaps into a barrage of questions: “You brought no one with you? … Nor giv’ no one the office…?” The rapid Q&A and repeated negatives (“No, sir! No!”) dramatise paranoia and draw the reader into Pip’s vigilance.

A further structural feature heightening unease is a pattern of reframing and delayed revelation. A brief flashback-comparison—“I had often watched a large dog of ours”—recontextualises the present as bestial, while foreshadowing enters via deictic pointing to “that there gallows… over there.” Crucially, the truth about “the young man” is withheld until the closing line: “He don’t want no wittles.” This twist retrospectively unsettles earlier threats, implying deception. The sustained first-person focalisation (“timidly”; “I made bold”) locks us inside a vulnerable viewpoint, so each structural pivot—from eating, to listening, to interrogation, to revelation—tightens the sense of danger.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that unease builds as the writer moves from the convict already waiting, “hugging himself and limping,” to a tighter focus on his frantic, broken actions—he “shivered… violently,” keeps “stopping… to listen,” and fires questions like “You brought no one with you?”—so the pace is repeatedly interrupted and tense. It would also identify shifts in mood and tone, from Pip’s pity to dehumanising, mechanical imagery (“wretched warmint,” “Something clicked… like a clock,” eating “like the dog”), ending with the twist about “the young man” who “don’t want no wittles,” which leaves the threat unresolved and intensifies unease.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create unease is through an immediate opening and broken rhythm. The scene begins straight away—“I was soon at the Battery… and there was the right man”—so the confrontation is sudden. Parenthetical asides and repetition “—hugging himself and limping…—as if he had never all night left off” interrupt the flow and emphasise restlessness. This irregular rhythm, followed by clipped dialogue (“What’s in the bottle, boy?” “Brandy.”), varies the pace and keeps the reader on edge.

In addition, the writer increases unease by shifting the focus between the man’s frantic eating and the hostile setting. A list (“mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie”) and repeated interruptions (“stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen”) create a stop–start pattern. Viewpoint moves out to the “mist all round us” and to suspicious sounds—“some clink upon the river”—before snapping back to his interrogation and the staccato Q&A (“No, sir! No!”), which accelerates the tension.

A further structural feature is a change in tone and a delayed reveal. The sudden “gallows” reference darkens the mood, and the clock-like “clicked” suggests time pressure. Finally, the twist about the “young man” exposes deceit, leaving us, with Pip’s viewpoint, uneasy.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response might identify that the writer begins with the convict “hugging himself and limping to and fro” to set unease, then shifts to the “mist all round us” and his “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen,” which builds tension. It ends on the ominous “He don’t want no wittles,” leaving the reader uneasy about the unseen “young man.”

One way the writer structures unease is by starting in the middle of events at the beginning. “I was soon at the Battery” drops us straight into the meeting, and the focus on the man’s “hugging” and “limping” and his “awfully hungry” eyes sets a cold, tense tone.

In addition, in the middle the pace becomes jerky through listing and interruptions. The list “mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie” and the pauses “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen” make the action stop-start. The dialogue uses repeated questions (“You brought no one with you?”), increasing unease.

A further structural feature is a change of focus. The narrator looks closely at the dog-like eating, which feels threatening, and the first-person perspective keeps us near his worry. At the end, the little reveal about “the young man”—“He don’t want no wittles”—leaves the scene unsettled.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the beginning the man is hugging himself and limping to and fro, which sets an uneasy mood. Then it goes into abrupt pauses and questioning as he is often stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen and asks You brought no one with you?, so the tension builds.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create unease is the opening focus on the cold man in the mist. Brief details and short bits of speech like “Brandy” make it feel jumpy.

In addition, the writer uses dialogue and repeated questions to build worry. He keeps asking “You brought no one with you?” and stopping to listen, which slows the pace.

A further structural feature is the ending. The line “He don’t want no wittles” is a small twist that leaves a creepy feeling.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate meeting at the very start creates instant tension by denying any build‑up or safety (waiting for me)
• Early focus on extremity and threat sets a foreboding tone and vulnerability (deadly cold)
• The shift into frenetic eating/drinking accelerates pace and feels out of control, heightening unease (violent hurry)
• Stop–start rhythm as he repeatedly pauses to scan the mist sustains suspense and implies imminent danger (mist all round us)
• A volley of suspicious questions interrupts the action, tightening paranoia and distrust (You brought no one)
• Juxtaposing homely breakfast with execution imagery keeps danger present even amid relief (that there gallows)
• Inserted ambient sounds from river and marsh punctuate the scene, resetting tension with each possible threat (clink upon the river)
• Uncanny mechanical detail makes his body seem inhuman and unpredictable, deepening discomfort (like a clock)
• The narrator’s tonal shift toward compassion complicates our response and unsettles the mood (Pitying his desolation)
• A closing reveal about the “young man” undercuts earlier claims, leaving doubt and lingering threat (He don't want no wittles)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 46 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the man is compared to a dog, his eating seems wild and desperate. The writer suggests that he is more like a scared, hunted animal than a dangerous criminal.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the man's desperate and animal-like behaviour
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the man like a hunted animal
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would argue that the writer largely frames the man as a frightened, hunted creature rather than a dangerous criminal, analysing dog-like zoomorphism and narrative empathy with precise detail: "gobbling... all at once", "stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen", "works in him like a clock", "looked sideways... as if there was danger in every direction", the narrator’s "Pitying his desolation", and the self-labelling "wretched warmint... hunted as near death and dunghill". However, it would also acknowledge residual menace in "strong sharp sudden bites" and the threat to "make a chop with his jaws", concluding the viewpoint is persuasive but nuanced.

I largely agree with the statement: Dickens presents the man’s eating as wild and desperate, and, through sustained animal imagery and anxious detail, he reads as a frightened, hunted creature rather than a straightforwardly dangerous criminal, though a residual edge of menace complicates this.

At the start of the passage, the cumulative catalogue “gobbling mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once:” conveys ravenous urgency. The colon launches a breathless sequence, while the present participle “gobbling” is a bluntly animalistic verb. Simultaneously, the setting heightens his huntedness: he is “staring distrustfully… at the mist all round us,” the encircling “mist” creating an atmosphere of concealment and threat. Auditory imagery (“some clink upon the river” and the “breathing of beast upon the marsh”) blurs “real or fancied” danger, and the caesural dash in “even stopping— even stopping his jaws— to listen” underscores his hypervigilance. The noun “jaws,” more typical of animals, further dehumanises him.

His rapid-fire interrogatives—“You brought no one with you?… Nor giv’ no one the office to follow you?”—build a staccato rhythm of fear, yet his “No, sir! No!” elicits civility and youth, encouraging sympathy. Dickens then lets the man self-define as prey: “You’d be but a fierce young hound indeed… to help to hunt a wretched warmint… hunted as near death and dunghill.” The repeated “wretched” and the abject “dunghill” emphasise degradation; calling himself “warmint” is self-animalisation, not boastful criminality. The simile “something clicked in his throat… like a clock” suggests a mechanical choke of suppressed emotion, and when he “smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes,” the rough alliteration accentuates coarseness while hinting at tears. The narrator’s explicit aside, “Pitying his desolation,” frames him through compassion.

Dickens then develops an extended canine comparison. The narrator recalls “a large dog of ours,” noting a “decided similarity”: “strong sharp sudden bites,” “snapped up,” and “crunching” are kinetic, onomatopoeic choices that make his eating feral. However, the sideways glances “as if he thought there was danger in every direction of somebody’s coming to take the pie away” cast him as skittish rather than predatory. Crucially, “He was altogether too unsettled in his mind… to appreciate it comfortably,” showing trauma, not relish. Even the potential threat—he might “make a chop with his jaws at the visitor”—is framed as defensive, an instinctive snap.

The closing exchange adds nuance. Pip’s “timidly” offered hint—“There’s no more to be got”—underlines scarcity, and the man’s “gruff laugh” and claim, “He don’t want no wittles,” expose earlier deception. Yet this reads as survivalist cunning more than villainy. Pip even calls him “my friend,” softening the portrait.

Overall, the writer’s animalistic lexis, anxious sensory detail, and sympathetic narration sustain the impression of a scared, hunted man; while vestiges of menace remain, the dominant effect is desperate vulnerability rather than dangerous criminality.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would mostly agree, clearly explaining that the writer’s animal imagery and comparison present him as hunted and fearful: "very like the dog," taking "strong sharp sudden bites," "snapped up" food, and "looked sideways... as if... danger in every direction," with pitying vulnerability in "smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes" and "wretched warmint... hunted as near death." It might briefly note a hint of threat in "making a chop with his jaws," but argue this seems driven by desperation rather than criminal intent.

I largely agree with the statement. Through zoomorphism and sensory detail, the writer presents the man’s eating as wild and frantic, but his behaviour reads as fearful and hunted rather than deliberately menacing.

At the outset, the listing of food he “was gobbling… all at once” creates a sense of panic and scarcity. Dynamic verbs such as “gobbling,” “snapped up,” and “crunching” are almost onomatopoeic, suggesting animal urgency. The narrator’s explicit comparison—“a decided similarity between the dog’s way of eating, and the man’s… very like the dog”—uses zoomorphism to stress instinctive survival, not calculated violence. His hypervigilance reinforces this: he “looked sideways here and there while he ate, as if he thought there was danger in every direction,” and even pauses, “stopping— even stopping his jaws— to listen.” The dash slows the pace, structurally mirroring his tense listening.

The setting and dialogue deepen the hunted impression. He stares “distrustfully… at the mist all round us,” while auditory imagery—“some clink upon the river” and the “breathing of beast upon the marsh”—evokes pursuit. His urgent questions (“You brought no one with you?... nor giv’ no one the office?”) and dialect (“warmint,” “wittles”) convey desperation. Crucially, he names himself “a wretched warmint hunted as near death and dunghill,” a metaphor placing him in the semantic field of vermin and quarry. The simile “as if he had works in him like a clock” and the detail he “smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes” hint at involuntary emotion; the narrator’s “Pitying his desolation” guides our sympathy.

However, there are flickers of threat: he might “make a chop with his jaws at the visitor,” and he speaks of a “fierce young hound,” which keeps a sense of danger alive. Overall, though, the writer’s choices—zoomorphism, tense sensory imagery, and anxious dialogue—lead me to agree that he appears more like a scared, hunted animal than a dangerous criminal.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Shows some agreement with the writer’s view that he is more hunted and scared than dangerous, using simple examples like 'gobbling', 'strong sharp sudden bites', and how he 'looked sideways here and there' fearing 'danger in every direction'. Also notes the comparison and language choices, citing 'very like the dog', 'wretched warmint', and 'hunted as near death' as basic evidence.

In this part of the source, I mostly agree that the man’s eating is wild and desperate, and that he seems more like a scared, hunted animal than a dangerous criminal. The writer shows this with animal imagery and verbs that sound fast and panicky.

At first, his hunger looks frantic: he is “gobbling mincemeat… bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once” and “staring distrustfully” while “stopping—even stopping his jaws—to listen.” The dash and repetition of “stopping” suggest nervous hesitation. His questions, “You’re not a deceiving imp?” and “You brought no one with you?” show he is fearful of being caught.

The dialogue where he calls himself a “wretched warmint hunted as near death and dunghill” makes him seem like prey. The adjective “wretched” and the metaphor “warmint” emphasise self-loathing and being treated like vermin. When “he smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes,” it hints at tears and vulnerability. Even the simile “as if he had works in him like a clock” suggests he is wound up and tense.

Later, the narrator states a “decided similarity” between the dog and the man: he takes “strong sharp sudden bites,” “snapped up” mouthfuls, and looks “sideways… as if… danger in every direction.” This creates clear animal-like behaviour, guarding food. There is a hint of threat in “making a chop with his jaws,” but it feels defensive, not criminal.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer presents him as desperate and hunted, with only small flashes of aggression.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response typically shows simple agreement that the writer presents him as more like a scared, hunted animal than a dangerous criminal, using basic references like gobbling, strong sharp sudden bites, and being just like the dog. It may also note he looked sideways here and there as if there was danger in every direction, and that he calls himself a wretched warmint hunted as near death.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer makes the man seem wild when he eats and more like a scared, hunted animal than a dangerous criminal.

At the beginning of this part, he is “gobbling mincemeat… all at once”. The verb “gobbling” shows desperate eating. He even “stopp[ed] his jaws to listen”, which sounds animal-like. He is “staring distrustfully” into the mist and listens to every “clink”, which is sound imagery and shows he is afraid of being caught. He calls himself a “wretched warmint… near death and dunghill”, using animal words, so we feel pity.

The narrator uses a simile to compare him to a dog: he eats “just like the dog”. The man takes “strong sharp sudden bites” and “snapped up” each mouthful. He “looked sideways… as if” someone would “take the pie away”. These adjectives and verbs make him look nervous because he is hunted.

There are small hints he could be dangerous, like he might “make a chop with his jaws” at a visitor and he is “crunching” the pie. But when he “smeared his ragged rough sleeve over his eyes” he seems upset and weak. Overall, I agree he is more scared than dangerous.

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:

• Simile of hurried concealment emphasises survival urgency over enjoyment, strongly supporting the view of desperate, hunted behaviour: violent hurry
• Persistent, uncontrollable shaking undermines menace and evokes exposure and illness; he seems prey-like rather than predatory: shivered all the while
• Pausing even chewing to monitor threats suggests prey vigilance; his feeding is nervous, not aggressive: stopping his jaws
• Interrogative suspicion of the boy foregrounds fear of pursuit, reinforcing the hunted reading over criminal swagger: deceiving imp
• Self-animalising label and near-death phrasing invite pity and frame him as quarry, not hunter: hunted as near death
• Dog comparison focuses on snatching, speed, and scarcity-driven eating, indicating desperation rather than cruelty: snapped up
• Constant scanning for theft constructs a besieged mindset, as if danger surrounds him on all sides: danger in every direction
• A flash of potential bite is framed as defensive over food, hinting at reactive, not calculated, violence: chop with his jaws
• Fatalistic readiness for hanging heightens urgency to sustain himself, suggesting fear and survival instinct more than malice: strung up to that there gallows
• The admission that the “young man” was a bluff reduces his threat level, implying reliance on fear over force: He don’t want no wittles

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For the town’s annual walking festival, organisers are collecting short creative pieces for a trail guide.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a hidden path in a wood from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a place that no longer appears on any map.

(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:

It does not so much begin as occur: a hush that looks like a path, an afterthought stitched into the forest’s hem. Beneath the bracken, a scatter of sunken flagstones shows itself like the pale backs of fish; slick with moss, rimmed by leaf-mould, they hold the last cool of morning. The wood pretends not to notice—pretends—but its breath gathers around it, the slow, resin-scented exhalation of pine and oak.

Here the light fragments. Shafts spill through a canopy ribbed like the undersides of hands; they pattern the stones in coins and commas, in sentences half-written. A spider’s thread tightens across the way, catching a bead of sun so small it seems you could pocket it. The smell rises: petrichor and crushed fern, the clean metallic hint of water you cannot yet see. Underfoot, the path gives slightly, damp and secretive, and your steps—careful, careful—sound louder than they should.

On either side, the wood arranges its curtains. Ferns unscroll their feathered paragraphs. Brambles knit and knot (maliciously, it feels), their barbs snagging at denim, at intention. Birch trunks lift their paper-bark like letters peeled from an old wall, and the oak roots, those knuckled hands, grip at the path as if asserting custody. A thrush works at a snail; a jay laughs—shrill, impertinent—and then the silence returns, not empty but full, layered as a palimpsest.

The stones remember. Lichen writes slow hieroglyphs in chalky greens; here a crack like a river, there a dent where a boot once chose to hesitate. Once, perhaps, carts came this way, heavy with something forgotten; now the ruts are softened, and a single rusted hinge lies half-swallowed by soil, a relic with no door to explain it. Time does what it always does—folds and thins and folds again—so that walking is also a kind of reading.

Meanwhile, overhead, the canopy leans, cathedral-high and close; yet, underfoot, water hushes somewhere, whispering its patient syllables beneath the stones. A black slug punctuates the green; a drift of woodsmoke—imagined, or real—trespasses, then fades. The path breathes you in. It narrows, widens, narrows—over and under; over and under—until your pace becomes a metronome: step and breathe, step and breathe, step and breathe.

And at a bend, where the flagstones sink entirely, the wood deepens into shade. Nettles hesitate on the threshold like anxious ushers. Beyond, there is nothing theatrical—no door, no carved sign—but a feeling, grave and intimate, like being about to remember a name. The hidden path does what all true paths do: it persuades without insisting. You put your hand to the bark (cool, furred with lichen), listening for a pulse. Somewhere a drop falls. And the forest, considerate and enormous, holds its breath.

Option B:

A map promises certainty; paper does not stammer when it lies. Yet the old road on my grandmother’s chart had thinned to a whisper, a pencilled filament between bruised fields; my phone, glassy and disdainful, offered a verdict — No results. No route. No there.

They called it Ashenwell, once. The name had the grit of our dialect; it perched beside a fine blue loop of stream on a 1958 Ordnance Survey as precise as needlepoint. In the cupboard with the chutney jars she kept that map folded like a handkerchief, creases like tributaries — and in the margin a tiny inked cross: Home.

But Ashenwell had been subtracted. The council clerk smiled politely (that administrative smile, narrow as a staple) and told me to check the latest edition. I did: the river remained; the coppice wore its blot of green; the road unspooled towards nowhere at all. It should have been ridiculous; it felt personal.

I walked. Verges high with nettles whispered and fizzed; seedheads fretted at my sleeves. A fingerpost rose from the hedge, its arm a bone bleached by years, its letters scoured into oblivion — A S H E N W — and then rust. For a moment — a slap of wind, a scatter of leaves — I thought I heard the thin peal of a handbell.

Memory is a poor cartographer, but stubborn; in my head two rows of chalky cottages, the little shop, the cool lip of the well. Perhaps I was making some of it up; still, my feet knew the inflections of the lane, the earth a palimpsest of traces.

And then, a clearing: not a village, exactly; more a deliberate pause. The road widened to a suggestion of triangle, a pale bruise where a green must have been. No house, no shop. Nothing, and yet — the absences cohered. I could see where shadows would have fallen at four o’clock; I almost heard chairs scraping. Time had stood still, I caught myself thinking, though of course it had not; it had simply refused to sign the forms.

I set the old map on the grass and weighted its corners with flints. The paper made its delicate susurrus, like a moth arranging itself for sleep. In the stream’s loop, a faint crescent of a fingertip remained. Places vanish twice: first from paper; then from speech. I was here to refuse the second erasure.

The bell came again. Not imagined this time: clear, percussive, close. I turned, heart tripping, and saw, half-strangled by ivy, the rim of a well, stones glazed with moss, water dark as slate. The surface trembled though no leaves fell, as if something far below were breathing. I did what maps cannot: I stepped closer.

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

Option A:

The path does not proclaim itself. It reveals, in the slant of late afternoon, a run of sunken flagstones ribbed with moss, as if the wood has been chewing them for years and cannot quite swallow. Bracken crowds the edges; foxgloves lean in, confiding. The air is cooler here, gummy with damp, tasting faintly of iron and leaf-rot. Somewhere a pigeon reprimands the silence, and then even that folds shut.

Each slab is scored with lichened hieroglyphs; each joint is stitched by the thin white threads of mycelium. Rain has gathered in shallow bowls where heels have bitten; minnows of light flicker there, chopped by the restless canopy. I step down—careful, heel to toe—and the temperature drops another shade. Sound becomes granular: drip; tick; a distant churring. The wood breathes in, and so do I.

Who set this way? Not a council, not a neat survey, but patient hands and seasons: a cottage wife carrying milk; a boy shouldering a bundle; a poacher who knew to tread softly. The route kinks round a yew, respects the old elder; it does not argue with roots that writhe like lazy snakes. Once it must have been busy; now it has the private dignity of a forgotten stair.

Light finds its own path too. It arrives through the leaves in slender lances, breaking on bark, smearing a greenish stain on everything it touches. Motes hang and wheel; a string of web catches, a harp strummed by nothing. The smell is layered—loam, wet stone, crushed mint where a boot brushed—so dense I can almost drink it. My breath makes a cloud that shreds itself immediately.

The further I follow, the narrower it grows, as if the wood is deciding whether to admit me. Flagstones tilt and sink, and become ribs under a thin skin of soil. The ferns whisper at my knees; a startled wren rockets out (the only exclamation). Ahead, the path curls round a dark, enticing bend. It feels both invitation and warning; it is a sentence without a full stop. I do not know what waits—an abandoned gate, a sunlit pool, only more shade—yet the stones persist, persuading. They are old, but they are not finished. The hidden path holds its breath, and I step into it, careful, listening, almost convinced that if I speak, it will close.

Option B:

Maps promise certainty. Their paper is stiff with confidence; rivers are trimmed into blue veins, roads linked like neat stitches, names embroidered in a font that almost hums with authority. In their calm rectangles the world is obedient. Yet there are blanknesses they cannot confess—lacunae where someone has lifted a soft eraser and rubbed out a whole life. My grandfather called those omissions polite lies.

He showed me one under the yellow kitchen lamp, the map spread like a sail across the table. “Here,” he said, pressing his tobacco-stained thumb to a pale square by the reservoir. The paper there was thin, translucent from years of folding and refolding; a palimpsest of contour lines and cancelled tracks glimmered underneath, as if something were trying to surface. “Wrenfield,” he added, almost apologetically. “They stopped printing it after the water came.” On the margin he had scrawled, in cramped graphite, a bearing and a word: remember.

Long after his voice thinned and finally failed, I went looking. The city fell away—brick by brick, advert by advert—until the bus gave me to hedgerows and damp fields. Outside, the lanes were narrow and particular, shouldered by hawthorn and nettles that leaned in to listen. Signposts pointed neatly to places that still existed, their arrows prim and polished; none pointed to the name that had been unthreaded from the atlas. I kept my grandfather’s map folded like a relic, and the modern one on my phone dark and disinterested, as if embarrassed to be of no use.

The dam was obdurate concrete; it shouldered the valley with the patience of a giant. Weeks of heat had gnawed at the waterline, leaving a brown collar around the stones and a smell like coins and wet leaves. The surface was calm, too calm; it made a mirror of the sky and pretended everything beneath it was unimportant, a single heavy breath away from forgetting. I stepped down the muddied bank where reeds pricked the air and dragonflies stitched the silence with brief blue needles.

At first, it was nothing—just silt, broken by stubble. Then the shape of a road revealed itself: cobbles glimmering like fish-scales, threading away into the shallows. A wall emerged, low and stubborn, crusted with lichen; a gatepost followed, and behind it, a black mouth of a doorway that led nowhere. Sound thinned. Even the geese were quiet, as if time had thoughtfully held its breath.

I could feel the place before I could name it. The chapel bell my grandfather had described—green with algae, a tilted jug of metal—lay half-uncovered, and the air wore that old sweetness of smoke and bread that might have been memory or algae or both. I stood with my hands cooling in the wind, a stranger and not a stranger, and the map inside me unfolded, imperfectly but insistently, showing streets that refused to be erased.

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

Option A:

The path did not announce itself; it hesitated in the shade where the lane frayed into woodland. Flagstones, sunken and slightly listing, stitched a narrow seam into the earth. Moss had worked its way between each slab, velvet-green and patient, so the edges looked softened, almost blurred. Ferns lifted their fronds like cautious hands. Above, leaves knitted a thin canopy, letting down coins of light that shivered, then stilled. The smell was of damp bark and cold stone: a wet, mineral sweetness. I stood there listening, and the path seemed to breathe; it drew me in, not with a shout, but a whisper.

At first the footing was easy; the slabs were close together, their faces slick and cool as if licked by mist. Water gathered in shallow cups, mirroring a patch of sky and the ghost of a branch. Here the woods were busy with small noises—midges clouding and scattering, a thrush testing the same two notes again and again, drip, drip from some hidden ledge. The light folded and unfolded. Bramble stems stitched low across the borders like black thread; they snagged and then released with a soft complaint. Under and over the roots ran, under and over, tying the path into the boles as though the trees would not let it go.

Further in, the stones were broken, displaced; one had slipped sideways entirely, gloved in leaf-mulch and almost warm. The air carried a faint, metallic tang, perhaps from soil turned by badger or from some forgotten hinge—old stories rusting in the ground. The path curved, it dipped, it paused; sometimes it seemed to turn its face away. A sycamore had split and grown into an arch so low I had to stoop. Beyond it the light thinned to a pale ribbon, and even the birds lowered their voices. The woods waited. I could smell woodsmoke that wasn’t there, memory’s trick, and something sweeter, crushed wild garlic underfoot. Then, quite suddenly, the stones rose clean and pale again, and the hidden way gathered itself, as if remembering its purpose, and disappeared forward into darker green.

Option B:

It had a name once; neat ink letters tucked between the river’s braid and the faint suggestion of a road. Now, where my school atlas used to whisper Kestrel Hollow, there is only white space, a polite omission. Maps don't mourn; they tidy. However, names cling on—the way smoke holds to a coat, or a tune sticks in your teeth. Say it quietly and the hedges seem to lean closer; say it twice and the wind repeats you along the ditch.

So I took the old paper map from the drawer, the one with tea stains and a crease like a river delta, and I walked anyway. The road gave up being a road just past the last bungalow; beyond that, nettles knit themselves across the tarmac and brambles stitched black hooks over the verge. My boots remembered this direction even if the satnav refused to. The ditch held yesterday’s rain; the hedge held a fox’s musk and a crisp packet. Somewhere a rook scolded, and the air tasted of mint and iron.

The gate to the farm hung on one hinge—complaining in a tired, tinny voice. A signpost stood with its finger gone, a stump pointing nowhere. Once there was a shop here: warm bread and soap; once there was a bell that marked the hour. I could almost hear them; not clearly, but like a song you used to know. Meanwhile, the ground underfoot changed: the gravel thinned, the earth grew peaty, and the path widened into a space where a green had been.

A stone sat there, moss-softened. When I brushed it, a letter surfaced beneath the lichen—a K, then a timid E. The rest had been scoured away by weather and forgetting. Nevertheless, the shape of the square suggested itself: the ring of lime trees, the shadow where the pub’s sign swung, the drain that always choked in October. I stood in the middle, not on any map, and listened. Nothing official acknowledged this place, not any more; but the silence wasn't empty. It had weight, like a hand on your shoulder, like being remembered back.

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

Option A:

It was easy to miss. The path slid away from the main track, a thin ribbon of flagstones sunk into earth, veined with damp moss and leaf-litter. Ferns leaned over like curious faces, hiding the first steps; branches held their breath, the air smelled of wet bark. Above, the canopy stitched the sunlight into pieces, scattering it in coins across the stones. Somewhere, water ticked—drop by drop—into a hidden puddle; a thrush flicked its wing then vanished.

I put my foot down carefully, because the stones were slick, and they dipped and lifted, not quite level. Roots curled up from the ground like knuckles, ready to trip anyone who rushed, so I didn’t; the path did not want haste. Brambles reached and caught at my sleeves; ferns brushed my legs, wet and cold in places. The temperature slipped; a small breeze carried a green smell while the wood around me seemed to hush.

As the trees pulled closer together, the light thinned to a grey-green glow—soft, almost underwater. Webs hung in the gaps like delicate nets, silver when the light found them, invisible when it didn’t. There were signs someone had been here: a flat stone turned up, an old bootlace, a mark on bark like a small arrow. The path curved left, then right, then left again, repeating itself, and the rhythm got into my body; step after step after step.

At a bend, the ground smoothed into a shallow hollow where the stones gathered, as if they wanted to talk. I stood there, breathing in cool air and mud and leaf, listening to nothing and everything. The hidden path felt patient and secret, older than the main track I had left. It didn’t promise anything dramatic, yet it drew me on: deeper, quieter. I went forward slowly, because that seemed like the proper way to go.

Option B:

Morning mist lay over the flats like damp cloth. I stood at the edge of the old causeway, shoes sinking a little into the black mud, listening. The sign for Lowrest—splintered, salt-bitten—leaned as if ashamed to be seen. On the screen in my pocket the path ended in clean blue; on the ground, it went on, thin as a grey vein across the marsh towards a place that no longer appeared on any map.

When the cartographers tidied their charts, they erased it with neat hands and straight rulers. They called it flooded; they called it unsafe. My grandmother called it stubborn. She used to sit by the window where the light was kind and tell me about Lowrest: the square with its crooked pump and the smell of brine mixing with fresh bread. She said a place can hide the way a person can, if too many people forget.

Although the road had been swallowed at the edges by weeds, my feet remembered where to go. Each step made a soft suck, and small silver fish flickered in stranded pools. The wind came off the estuary and pushed at my coat, and the reeds whispered like an audience. How do you find a place that refuses to be found? You follow what is left: a stain on the ground; a story in your mouth.

At the far end of the causeway a low wall rose out of the water, crumbling and green. Beyond it, shapes began to form—a doorway, a window without glass, a roof line like a broken tooth. I put my hand on the stone. It was cold, but it did not feel dead. It felt like a held breath. Lowrest was not on the map, but it was still here, waiting, as if it had been listening for me.

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

Option A:

At the edge of the wood, a row of sunken flagstones dips into the dark. They are slick with moss and old rain, edged by ferns that lean like curious faces. Light breaks in the leaves above, coins of gold that slide away. The smell is damp earth and leaf-mould, a cool, green breath that touches my skin. Brambles snag my sleeve. The air is cooler here; the lane behind feels far away already, even though it isn’t. Shadows gather in the cracks, gentle, like water pooling in a shallow bowl.

Further in, the stones tilt and vanish, then show again, hiding under ivy and mud. Step after step, the wood closes around me—soft needles, low branches, a soft murmur of wings. A drip, a rustle, a distant crow: small sounds stitch the silence together. Spider threads cross my face, almost invisible, a quick flash of silver. Roots rise like knuckles, and the ground has a soft give, as if it remembers old footsteps. The canopy is a stitched roof, green and heavy; it keeps back the sky.

At last the path thins to a dark line, a whisper between trunks. No signposts, no fences. Just a narrow promise that draws me on, not loudly, but surely. Where does it go? It bends, pretends to end, opens to a small pool of light, then closes again. The wood holds it's breath. Even my voice, if I spoke, would sound wrong here. Hidden yet welcoming, the path keeps its secret. I step forward, careful, curious, listening.

Option B:

Maps are supposed to be honest. They lie flat and promise order: roads in neat rows, rivers like blue threads and names in bold. But there is a gap where our town should be. Our name is gone from every map I check—phone screens, road atlases, even the dusty school one. It’s as if a rubber erased it, a pale smudge left behind.

I stand at the lay-by with a crumpled atlas and a phone that spins a little circle; the signal stutters. Years ago, every bus stopped here. Now: nothing. The board is blank, the glass cracked. How do you find a place that refuses to be found?

My boots crunch onto the track, the one they used to call Mill Lane. Nettles crowd in, scratching my ankles. A crow watches from the crooked post, like a judge in a black coat. I smell damp bricks and coal dust, old rain. Ahead, roofs rise in silhouette, ivy eating them.

There was a bakery here, once—Mrs Pimm’s warm hands and sugared buns. There was noise: Sunday bells, a fair. I can almost hear it, a radio turned low. But doors hang open, windows stare. The map forgot us, but the ground didn’t.

A light flickers inside the post office. Someone has remembered, or something. I step over the flaking threshold and call out: “Hello?”

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

Option A:

At first, the path is only a suggestion, half-hidden under brown leaves and the frayed green of moss. Flagstones sink into the wet earth like old teeth. A pale line of light slides between the branches, showing a thin track that vanishes around a bend. The air smells of rain and mud; it clings to my clothes. I can hear a distant drip-drip from somewhere deeper, like the wood is ticking a slow clock.

Then the trees crowd closer. Roots twist over the stones, bony fingers trying to stop my boots. I pause; listening to the hush that feels almost like breathing. The light fades, softer, softer; the place feels like a seperate world. Branches scratch against each other and creates a quiet music, and the path turns—narrower, darker. I step carefully, counting, one, two, three, over and over, as if numbers can keep me safe.

Finally, the flagstones are broken and uneven, and cold water seeps around the edges. Ferns lean in, a curtain, hiding what comes next. On the left a stone is carved with a worn mark, almost a star, or maybe just a crack. It is secret, but it is also inviting. Who made this way? I breathe in, scared and curious. I go on.

Option B:

On old maps the village of Brightfold was written in tiny letters between the river bend and the woods. On new ones there is only blank space, a pale grey like an erased thought. The wind still says the name, brushing the reeds as if reading: Brightfold. I heard it sometimes, like a nearly remembered secret. The signpost is crooked and blistered, pointing nowhere - a finger that forgot. Once people came here; now brambles keep the gate and the road ends in dust.

I came with Grandad's atlas on my knees and a bus ticket clutched warm in my fist. Page forty-two had a tea ring and his thumbprint; the dot of Brightfold was there, stubborn, and I trusted it. I got off by the hedge anyway. I walked. The lane narrowed, puddles held bits of cloud, and the hedges pressed in. My heart seemed loud. I should of turned back, but the promise of a place that was missing felt stronger.

At the end of the lane, something waiting: a well with a lid, three stone steps, a stump where a sign once stood. No voices, no smoke, no map. Only the sea's far murmur and the smell of wet nettles. It definately still existed, just hiding.

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

Option A:

The path is small and secret. It hides under trees and leaves.

The stones are sunken and cracked, they look like old teeth in a mouth. The trees bend in like they whisper to each other, their branches touch my shoulders. I go slow because the ground is slippy, I don't want to fall.

It smells of wet earth. Birds make quick sounds then stop. The branches move back and forward, back and forward, like a slow clock. The path goes on and on, it gets darker, and I feel like I am going into a tunnel.

I ain't sure where it ends or if it even wants me there. Nobody comes here, thats why it feels hidden. I step on a stone and it wobbles and water comes up, my shoe gets wet and I shiver. It feels like a secret that the wood keeps.

Option B:

It’s not on any map now. Our place. The name rubbed off like chalk in rain, thin and pale.

I stand by the road and look for the green sign but there isnt one. Grass is high and it tickles my ankles, the wind pushes my coat and I think the road is holding it breath. Once there was a bakery and it smelled warm and sweet and my mum would laugh, I could hear it even over the buses and dogs. I go past the gate that sags, I go past the ditch, I keep going beacuse I remember this corner, this tree, this mud, like little clues. No map shows it now - not for years - but I do. The houses are shadows, the windows look at me and then they shut.

It feels quiet and heavy. I think the place is hiding. Maybe it wants me back, maybe it dont.

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

Option A:

The path is hidden in the wood. It is small and dark, old stones is sunk into the mud and they are green with moss. Trees lean over it like they are whispering the light is thin. I hear wet leaves and sticks break under my foot, the smell is damp and cold. A spider web hangs across, it shines a bit! The path turns and then it stops then it starts again, like it can not decide. My coat snags on a bramble. I think about lunch, I forgot it. Maybe there is a house down here, maybe not, I dont know, I keep going.

Option B:

It was a place that isn't on any map now. People used to go there but now they dont, the sign fell down and the road got thin like a scratch. I walked there once with my brother and a old dog that we found, the air felt quiet like it was holding its breath. The houses looked tired. A cold wind. My phone said I was no where, the blue dot spun and spun. Mum said we should be home for tea but I kept going, then I thought about my maths test. The place felt gone but it was still there.