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 difficulty is described with the bedclothes covering Gregor Samsa after the transformation?: The bedclothes barely cover Gregor Samsa's body and look likely to slip off. – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the description, what seems about to happen to the bedding covering Gregor Samsa?: It is about to slip off Gregor Samsa's body. – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the description, what makes it difficult for the bedclothes to stay on Gregor Samsa's body?: The rounded, segmented shape of Gregor Samsa's abdomen – 1 mark
• 1.4 What was divided by arches into stiff sections?: his belly – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 20 of the source:

6 thin compared with the size of the rest of him, waved about helplessly as he looked. “What’s happened to me?” he thought. It wasn’t a dream. His room, a proper human room although a little too small, lay peacefully between its four

11 familiar walls. A collection of textile samples lay spread out on the table—Samsa was a travelling salesman—and above it there hung a picture that he had recently cut out of an illustrated magazine and housed in a nice, gilded frame. It showed a lady fitted out with a fur hat and fur boa who sat upright, raising a heavy fur muff that covered the whole of her lower arm

16 towards the viewer. Gregor then turned to look out the window at the dull weather. Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad. “How about if I sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense”, he thought, but

How does the writer use language here to present Gregor’s surroundings and his state of mind? 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: Juxtaposing mundane domestic detail with the uncanny, the writer presents Gregor’s space as reassuring yet confining: it lies "peacefully" between its "four familiar walls", is "a little too small", and is curated with bourgeois decor like a "nice, gilded frame" and the lady’s repeated "fur", even grounded by the parenthetical "—Samsa was a travelling salesman—". In contrast, his state of mind is revealed through free indirect discourse and crafted sentence forms—an interrogative and short declarative, "What's happened to me?" and "It wasn't a dream."—alongside pathetic fallacy and auditory imagery ("dull weather", "Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane") and the escapist wish to "sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense", while his limbs move "helplessly", conveying disorientation and sadness.

The writer contrasts Gregor’s panicked interior with the ordered room through interrogatives and controlled sentence forms. “What’s happened to me?” is an abrupt interrogative exposing bewilderment, while the blunt declarative “It wasn’t a dream” suggests strained rationalisation. The adverb “helplessly” in “waved about helplessly” foregrounds lost agency, his limbs reduced to erratic “waving,” implying insect-like estrangement.

Moreover, the surroundings appear reassuring yet restrictive. Calling it “a proper human room although a little too small” creates ironic juxtaposition: “proper” affirms human order, while the diminutive phrase hints claustrophobia. The room “lay peacefully between its four familiar walls”: the adverb “peacefully” and the alliteration of “four familiar” suggest routine calm, yet “between” and the fixed numeral “four” box him in, evoking enclosure.

Furthermore, the inventory of objects shapes identity. The parenthesis “—Samsa was a travelling salesman—” asserts a work-defined self already unstable. “Gilded frame” and the lady’s “fur hat… fur boa… heavy fur muff” form a semantic field of luxury; the lexical repetition of “fur” creates sensuous, slightly suffocating opulence. “Heavy” and “covered the whole” connote smothering enclosure, mirroring his confinement, while the muff raised “towards the viewer” becomes a symbolic invitation he cannot reach. That he “had recently cut out” the picture implies a constructed aspiration now inaccessible.

Additionally, the exterior mirrors his mood: “dull weather” and the auditory image “Drops of rain… hitting the pane” mark dreary monotony, and the flat relative clause “which made him feel quite sad” renders numbed affect. Finally, the colloquial wish to “sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense” signals evasive denial within stiflingly ordinary surroundings.

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 explain that the writer creates an orderly, normal setting through adjectives and listing — the "proper human room" with "familiar walls" and a "nice, gilded frame" — and a longer descriptive sentence with the aside "—Samsa was a travelling salesman—", which contrasts with Gregor’s unsettling physical state. It would also identify how a rhetorical question and short declaratives — "What’s happened to me?", "It wasn’t a dream" — alongside pathetic fallacy in the "dull weather" and "Drops of rain" mirror his sadness, while verbs like "waved about helplessly" and the desire to "sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense" show his confusion and avoidance.

The writer uses adjectives and sentence forms to contrast Gregor’s calm surroundings with his disturbed mind. The phrase “a proper human room, although a little too small” uses the evaluative adjective “proper” and qualifier “a little” to present neat ordinariness; “peacefully” and “familiar walls” reinforce domestic calm. By contrast, “waved about helplessly” uses the adverb to show loss of control, while the rhetorical question “What’s happened to me?” and the short sentence “It wasn’t a dream.” reveal shock turning into uneasy certainty.

Moreover, precise noun phrases build an ordered, material world: “a collection of textile samples” and a “nice, gilded frame” suggest routine and bourgeois taste. The image of “a lady… with a fur hat… and heavy fur muff” creates a semantic field of luxury, which ironically highlights his inhuman body and loss of human warmth. The parenthesis “—Samsa was a travelling salesman—” functions as an aside that ties him to work even as his identity slips.

Additionally, pathetic fallacy and auditory imagery mirror his mood. The “dull weather” and “drops of rain… hitting the pane” make “him feel quite sad”; the verb “hitting” suggests a drab, insistent pressure. Finally, “sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense” uses colloquial lexis to show avoidance and a desire to escape.

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 presents Gregor’s surroundings as ordinary but confined, using descriptive words like “proper human room”, “a little too small”, “peacefully” and “familiar walls”, plus simple imagery in the picture (“fur hat and fur boa”, “gilded frame”) to show a neat, normal space. His unsettled state of mind is shown by the rhetorical question “What’s happened to me?” and the short sentence “It wasn’t a dream”, while the verb “waved about helplessly” and weather words like “dull weather” and “Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane, which made him feel quite sad” suggest confusion and sadness.

The writer uses a rhetorical question and a short sentence to show shock and reality: “What’s happened to me?” and “It wasn’t a dream.” This suggests confusion. Also, “waved about helplessly” shows his lack of control. Adjectives present the room as ordinary: “a proper human room”, “a little too small”, lying “peacefully” between “familiar walls”. The calm setting contrasts with his disturbed mind.

Furthermore, nouns and a list describe the objects: “textile samples” and the picture: “fur hat”, “fur boa” and a “heavy fur muff”. The “nice, gilded frame” suggests comfort and order. This imagery helps us see the neat room and the normal life Gregor now feels separate from.

Additionally, the dull weather and auditory imagery, “Drops of rain… hitting the pane”, make him “feel quite sad”. His thought, “sleep a little bit longer and forget all this nonsense”, shows a desire to escape his situation.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple words like proper human room and dull weather to show ordinary but gloomy surroundings, and the question What’s happened to me? shows he is confused. The short sentence It wasn’t a dream. and the sound in Drops of rain could be heard hitting the pane make him seem shocked and sad.

The writer uses adjectives and noun phrases to show Gregor’s surroundings and state of mind. The room is described as a “proper human room” and “a little too small”, which makes it seem normal but cramped. Additionally, the “nice, gilded frame” and the lady’s “fur hat and fur boa” suggest a tidy, ordinary space. Furthermore, the rhetorical question “What’s happened to me?” and “It wasn’t a dream” show confusion. Moreover, the verb “waved about helplessly” and the “dull weather” with “Drops of rain” make him sad, so he wants to “sleep a little bit longer”.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Comparative description and adverb emphasise bodily disproportion and loss of agency, conveying immediate helplessness: "waved about helplessly"
• Direct thought as a rhetorical question exposes shock and self-disorientation: "What’s happened to me?"
• A short, definitive sentence asserts stark reality, abruptly puncturing reassurance: "It wasn’t a dream."
• Evaluative adjectives and concession make the setting ordinary yet cramped, hinting constraint: "proper human room"
• Spatial, domestic imagery stresses enclosure and routine, boxing him within "four familiar walls"
• A parenthetical aside supplies mundane context, grounding the scene in everyday work: "travelling salesman"
• Decorative detail and evaluative lexis suggest aspirational taste and careful order: "nice, gilded frame"
• Luxurious, repeated fur imagery and the forward gesture create an alluring focal point beyond the room: "heavy fur muff"
• Pathetic fallacy and auditory imagery set a muted, depressive mood that seeps into him: "Drops of rain could be heard"
• Colloquial, evasive inner voice shows avoidance and a desire to retreat from reality: "forget all this nonsense"

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how bewilderment 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 analyse how the text opens in medias res with "transformed ... into a horrible vermin" to destabilise, then juxtaposes the surreal with banal cataloguing ("proper human room", "textile samples", "a nice, gilded frame") and digressive free indirect thought "what a strenuous career", while iterative, futile actions "However hard he threw himself ... always rolled back" and "tried it a hundred times" and a late temporal jolt "God in Heaven!" and "half past six" shift focus from body to room to time, delaying explanation so bewilderment steadily intensifies.

One way the writer structures the opening to create bewilderment is by beginning in medias res with an impossibility, then juxtaposing it with domestic normality. Gregor is “transformed … into a horrible vermin”, then the focus widens to his “proper human room” with “familiar walls”, “textile samples” and a “lady”. This swing from fantastic to banal disorients the reader; the interrogative “What’s happened to me?” and the flat “It wasn’t a dream” foreground confusion while any causal exposition is withheld.

In addition, the writer controls pace through zooming and repetition to prolong uncertainty. The catalogue of body parts—“brown belly … stiff sections”, “many legs … waved about helplessly”—slows the moment, and delay sets in as Gregor repeatedly tries to turn: “He must have tried it a hundred times.” A digressive focus on his work (“Travelling day in and day out … It can all go to Hell!”) defers action. This oscillation between grotesque physicality and the everyday is structurally dissonant, intensifying bewilderment as meaning refuses to settle.

A further structural feature is the tightening of temporal references, which turns confusion into urgency. The vague “One morning” contracts to “half past six” and “quarter to seven”, and the delayed alarm-clock question—“Had the alarm clock not rung?”—suddenly reorients the stakes. Throughout, sustained internal focalisation (free indirect discourse) fuses narration with Gregor’s thought—“God in Heaven!”—so the reader is confined within his perplexed consciousness. With no external perspective or causal backstory, the structure traps us in bewilderment as the clock ticks.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would identify that the writer structures a growing bewilderment by opening with the shock of Gregor being “transformed in his bed into a horrible vermin”, then zooming in on unsettling details—his “armour-like back”, “many legs” that “waved about helplessly”—before contrasting them with the normality of a “proper human room” and “A collection of textile samples.” It would also explain how the shift into rambling thoughts and time pressure—“It wasn’t a dream”, “He must have tried it a hundred times”, “half past six” to “quarter to seven”—slows the action and shows his confused priorities, intensifying the sense of bewilderment.

One way the writer structures the text to create bewilderment is by foregrounding an impossible event at the opening, then juxtaposing it with ordinary detail. 'He found himself transformed ... into a horrible vermin' shocks, yet the narrative slows to zoom in on his 'brown belly' and 'many legs', before shifting to a 'proper human room' with a 'gilded frame'. The contrast between extraordinary body and familiar setting unsettles us and withholds explanation.

In addition, the focus shifts from external description to Gregor’s interior thoughts through free indirect discourse and rhetorical questions. He asks 'What’s happened to me?' and insists 'It wasn’t a dream', but the structure digresses into habitual actions—'he must have tried it a hundred times'—and a list of work complaints. This shift and the repetitive failed attempts slow the pace and delay resolution, intensifying confusion.

A further structural feature is the growing use of temporal markers that escalate urgency without clarity. The clock moves from 'half past six' to 'quarter to seven', and the focus switches from his body to missing the train. The close perspective keeps us in his bewildered logic, and the extract ends on a cliff-hanger—'What should he do now?'—so the reader stays disoriented.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer opens with a sudden shock ("horrible vermin") and Gregor’s confused question ("What’s happened to me?") to create instant bewilderment. The focus then shifts to ordinary details ("proper human room", "familiar walls"), uses repetition ("He must have tried it a hundred times") and time pressure ("half past six", "God in Heaven!") so the mood moves from confusion to worry and panic, making his bewilderment build.

One way in which the writer structures the opening to create bewilderment is by beginning straight away with the change: “transformed... into a horrible vermin.” The focus is on his body (“many legs... waved about helplessly”), and the sudden question “What’s happened to me?” makes Gregor and the reader confused.

In addition, the focus then shifts to ordinary details of the room and job (“familiar walls”, “textile samples”, the picture). This contrast between a normal setting and his new body makes the situation feel stranger and unsettles the reader.

A further structural feature is that the perspective stays with Gregor’s thoughts, and the writer uses time. We move through his failed attempts to turn, then his work worries, and finally to the clock: “half past six… quarter to seven.” This change in focus and the ticking time changes the pace and mood, so bewilderment builds from shock into rising anxiety.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the beginning, the writer suddenly shows he is transformed into a horrible vermin, which is shocking, then moves to normal details like a proper human room and familiar walls, so it feels confusing. Later the focus shifts to time and routine with the alarm clock, half past six, and my train leaves at five, showing the bewilderment getting worse.

One way the writer creates bewilderment is by starting with him turning into a “horrible vermin”. This beginning throws the reader in and makes us feel confused like Gregor.

In addition, the focus moves from his body to the normal room and rain, then back to his legs and pain. This change makes the confusion grow as normal details clash with the strange.

A further feature is questions and time words, like “What’s happened to me?” and “half past six”. The questions show his muddled mind, and the clock moves the story on, adding to the bewilderment.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Abrupt in medias res transformation creates immediate disorientation; the lack of cause heightens bewilderment (horrible vermin).
• Close-up physical detailing stalls the plot as we inventory his altered body, making readers linger in uncertainty (many legs).
• A sharp shift to ordinary surroundings and routines juxtaposes the bizarre with the banal, deepening disorientation (proper human room).
• Outward glance to the gloomy world shifts focus and mood, normalising the scene in a way that feels off-kilter (dull weather).
• Repetitive, failed attempts to change position create a cycle of frustration that structurally enacts confusion (a hundred times).
• A digressive work monologue interrupts the crisis, delaying action and showing denial that compounds the bewilderment (what a strenuous career).
• A brief return to bodily sensation adds fresh alarm before withdrawing again into thought, keeping the focus unsettled (cold shudder).
• A sudden time-check pivots the scene from brooding to urgency, escalating the bewilderment into panic (God in Heaven!).
• Unresolved questions punctuate and close the extract, leaving confusion active rather than answered (What should he do now?).

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, it is strange that Gregor’s first thoughts are about his terrible job instead of his new insect body. The writer suggests that Gregor was already trapped and unhappy in his life before his physical change.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Gregor's thoughts and his reaction
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray his unhappiness
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

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

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree, arguing that the writer foregrounds Gregor’s pre-existing entrapment by ironising his priorities: despite the grotesque 'floundering legs', the free indirect discourse dwells on work-driven misery in exclamatives like 'what a strenuous career it is that I’ve chosen!' and 'It can all go to Hell!', hierarchical imagery of the boss 'talking down at your subordinates', and time-pressured obligations ('I’ve got to get up', 'my train leaves at five', the 'alarm clock', 'another five or six years'). It might also note a faint counterpoint in 'That’s when I’ll make the big change.', but judge this hope as undercut by his immediate return to routine, reinforcing the view that he was already psychologically imprisoned before his metamorphosis.

I largely agree that it is strikingly strange that Gregor worries about his job before confronting his new body, and that this strangeness is crafted to reveal he was already psychologically trapped and unhappy. From the outset, the writer’s use of free indirect discourse keeps us inside Gregor’s harried consciousness, while the pathetic fallacy of the “dull weather” and the rain “hitting the pane” establishes a muted, depressive tone and a sense of separation: the “pane” becomes a barrier framing his isolation.

Gregor’s immediate response is not curiosity about his “floundering legs” but a compulsion to resume habitual comfort: he is “used to sleeping on his right,” so he “threw himself” over “a hundred times.” The kinesthetic verbs “threw” and “rolled,” alongside the blunt, repetitive adjectives “mild, dull pain,” foreground routine over revelation, as if his ingrained patterns are stronger than metamorphosis itself. He even “shut his eyes” to avoid looking, a detail that suggests denial. This prioritising of habit indicates an entrapment that predates the physical change.

When his thoughts switch to work, the narrative shifts into a breathless tirade whose polysyndeton—“Travelling day in and day out… worries about making train connections, bad and irregular food, contact with different people…”—enacts the relentlessness he describes. The semantic field of travel and time (“train connections,” “day in and day out”) underscores alienation: he can “never get to know anyone,” a line that crystallises his loneliness. The exclamatory “It can all go to Hell!” punctures any pretence of contentment, while hyperbolic listing makes his job sound not just arduous but dehumanising, so that the monstrous body feels like an externalisation of an existing condition.

Even the grotesque discovery of “little white spots” producing a “cold shudder” is structurally undercut by bathos: he “slid back into his former position,” a phrase that functions symbolically as a relapse into old anxieties. Modality and hypotheticals—“I ought… I’d have given in my notice… maybe that would be the best thing”—reveal powerlessness. His sense of duty to “pay off my parents’ debt” for “five or six years” delays the “big change,” an irony sharpened by the fact that a literal change has just occurred. Finally, the time motif returns: the “alarm clock” with its “furniture-rattling noise,” the “hands… quietly moving,” and the frantic train at “five” all reinforce how his life is tyrannised by timetables.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. Through juxtaposition, ironic bathos, and sustained focalisation, the writer shows that Gregor’s work-ridden mindset—habituated, anxious, and duty-bound—has already imprisoned him; the metamorphosis merely makes visible a long-standing unhappiness.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree, noting that even after glimpsing his “floundering legs” and “little white spots,” Gregor fixates on work and duty—calling it “what a strenuous career it is that I’ve chosen!”, railing at “the curse of travelling,” complaining “Getting up early all the time … it makes you stupid,” and feeling bound to “pay off my parents’ debt”—showing pre-existing entrapment and unhappiness. It would also comment on methods: internal monologue and exclamations like “It can all go to Hell!”, oppressive routine/time pressure in “my train leaves at five” and the “alarm clock,” and the bleak setting of “dull weather” and “Drops of rain,” to support the writer’s viewpoint.

I largely agree that it is strange that Gregor focuses on his job rather than his insect body, and this strangeness reveals he was already trapped and unhappy. At the start, pathetic fallacy sets his low mood: the “dull weather” and rain that “made him feel quite sad”. He cannot lie “on his right” and tries “a hundred times”; the hyperbole and “mild, dull pain” are quickly sidelined. He shuts his eyes not to see the “floundering legs”, then pivots into a work rant. This structural shift foregrounds his mental prison over the physical one.

The writer uses internal monologue and asyndetic listing to convey drudgery: “travelling day in and day out… worries about making train connections, bad and irregular food, contact with different people”. The cumulative list and the exclamative “It can all go to Hell!” create a bitter tone. A semantic field of travel and time dominates, showing his identity is ruled by schedules. When he notices the “little white spots” and feels a “cold shudder”, he “slid back into his former position” in body and thought, returning to work complaints.

Power and obligation deepen the sense of entrapment. The boss “talking down at your subordinates” and being “hard of hearing” make the hierarchy feel absurd yet immovable. Modality and conditionals (“If I didn’t have my parents… maybe that would be the best thing”) show fantasies blocked by “my parents’ debt”. The time frame “another five or six years” reads like a sentence. Ironically he vows “That’s when I’ll make the big change”, yet undercuts it with “First… my train leaves at five”, reinforcing routine over reality.

Finally, the clock time “half past six” and the rhetorical question “What should he do now?” heighten panic. Overall, I largely agree: the writer shows Gregor already dehumanised and trapped.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 answer would mostly agree, pointing to simple quotes like "what a strenuous career it is", the "curse of travelling", "Getting up early all the time", and "parents’ debt" to show Gregor’s focus on work ("my train leaves at five") over his new body. It might also briefly note "little white spots" and a "cold shudder", but the writer’s negative tone and list of complaints support the view that he was already unhappy and trapped.

I mostly agree with the statement. It does feel strange that Gregor thinks first about his awful job, but this also shows he was already trapped and unhappy before his body changed.

At the start of this section, the “dull weather” and the rain “hitting the pane” make him “feel quite sad.” This pathetic fallacy creates a gloomy mood around him. Even when he notices his body, he tries to avoid it: he “shut his eyes so that he wouldn’t have to look at the floundering legs” and keeps attempting to roll onto his right side out of habit. The hyperbole “a hundred times” suggests stress, but also his routine thinking.

The writer then uses a long list to show how much he hates his work: “travelling day in and day out… bad and irregular food… never get to know anyone.” The exclamations “It can all go to Hell!” and later “God in Heaven!” show strong frustration. He also feels powerless under his boss “talking down at your subordinates,” and he admits he can’t leave because of his “parents’ debt.” Planning to wait “another five or six years” for “the big change” is ironic, as he has already changed physically, which supports the idea he was mentally trapped before.

However, he does react to his new body with fear, seeing “little white spots” and drawing back with a “cold shudder.” Structurally, the focus swings back to work and time pressure: “my train leaves at five,” ending with the rhetorical question, “What should he do now?”

Overall, I mostly agree: it is strange, but it shows his unhappiness and the routine that already imprisoned him.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree: Gregor complains about work ("what a strenuous career", "It can all go to Hell!") and worries about "my train leaves at five" and the "parents’ debt" more than his new body. He even shuts his eyes to the "floundering legs", so he already seems unhappy and trapped by his job.

I mostly agree with the statement. It is strange that after waking as an insect, Gregor thinks first about his job. This suggests he was already unhappy.

At the start he notices the “dull weather” and the “drops of rain... hitting the pane”, which “made him feel quite sad”. The adjective “dull” and the rain sound make a gloomy mood. He even “shut his eyes” to avoid looking at his “floundering legs”, so he tries to ignore the body.

Then he complains about work: “Oh, God... what a strenuous career”. The exclamation and the list—“travelling”, “bad and irregular food”, “never get to know anyone”—show he hates his life. “It can all go to Hell!” shows anger.

He would quit if not for his “parents” and their “debt”, and “another five or six years” sounds like a prison, so he feels trapped by duty.

Even now he worries “my train leaves at five” and cries “God in Heaven!”, and the rhetorical question “What should he do now?” shows panic. Overall, I agree he was already trapped and unhappy.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward. Note: Reference to methods and explicit “I agree/I disagree” may be implicit and still credited according to quality.

AO4 content may include the evaluation of ideas and methods such as:

• Immediate focus on work over bodily crisis → prioritising job supports the claim he was already consumed by it → what a strenuous career it is
• Averting his gaze from his altered body → avoidance contrasts with detailed fretting about work, intensifying the strangeness → floundering legs
• Cumulative listing of job burdens → conveys deep dissatisfaction and exasperation at his work life → It can all go to Hell!
• Aphoristic complaint about routine → suggests long-standing weariness with the job’s demands → makes you stupid
• Comparison with others and fear of punishment → highlights oppressive workplace and his powerlessness within it → kicked out on the spot
• Debt and delayed autonomy → frames his life as a long sentence before freedom, evidencing prior entrapment → another five or six years
• Hierarchical imagery of the boss → communicates humiliation and resentment that feel long-standing → sitting up there at your desk
• Return from bodily alarm to timetable anxiety → shows ingrained prioritising of work obligations over self → my train leaves at five
• Ironic self-promise of future change → implies he longed for escape even before now, reinforcing prior unhappiness → big change
• Fantasised defiance towards the boss → flashes of suppressed anger underscore his dissatisfaction with the job → fall right off his desk

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At your youth club’s open evening this Friday, you will read a short creative piece to the audience.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe an indoor climbing wall from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about joining a new sports club.

(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 rises from the concrete floor like a mountain repurposed into geometry; a plane of plywood panels, honeycombed and bolted, pricked with a sugar-bright constellation of holds. Under the bladed fluorescence, colours shout: cerise, lime, tangerine, arctic blue, while a powdery haze of chalk softens the edges into a low, lunar mist. Ropes hang in disciplined skeins; auto-belay lines hum faintly, taut as violin strings. The wall does not merely stand; it leans, overhangs, cantilevers—something like a wave paused mid-break—daring the room to keep its balance.

The air carries the sour-sweet tang of rubber and magnesium; it tastes dry on the tongue. There is a quiet staccato to everything: shoes squeak, mats sigh, a karabiner clicks shut; a brush flicks chalk from a hold with a tiny, diligent rasp. Voices drift and recede—‘Climb when ready,’ ‘On belay,’ ‘Take’—little rituals of trust that blossom and close like small flowers. Above it all, a fan turns steadily, stirring glittering motes that never quite settle.

Close up, the holds declare their personalities. Jugs grin out with easy generosity; crimps—thin, mean—ask for deference; slopers lurk with lacquered menace, all promise and treachery to a sweating palm. Volumes, matt-black and pyramidal, interrupt the wall like strange tectonic plates; routes snake across them in colour-coded sentences, tape arrows punctuating the grammar. Grade tags—7a, V3, or just a modest green sticker—are tiny proclamations, invitations, warnings.

A girl in a sun-yellow vest steps to the starting holds and the room seems to draw a breath. She dusts her hands—the chalk blooms like breath on winter glass—and then she goes. Left hand to the pinch; feet smear high on grey; there is a pause that is not hesitation but calculation. Her body becomes an angle, then an arc, then a length of taut intention. Knees press, hips twist, shoulders whisper their complaint (a bright, brief burn); she moves anyway. A micro-edge receives a hopeful toe. For a heartbeat she hangs by a set of quiet decisions, and the wall, implacable, listens.

Meanwhile, in the cave of the overhang, two boys bounce on their toes, counting down before a dyno—three, two, one—and one flies, a bright exclamation across the negative space. He slaps, misses, laughs, drops; the mat catches him with a thud that is almost affectionate. Elsewhere, an older pair rehearses patience: a knot checked, a harness strap retightened, the old-fashioned reassurance of a palm pressed to rope. A route-setter, sleeves dusted white, squints up at his plastic constellation and turns a bolt a quarter more.

The wall records all this in a palimpsest of scuffs and crescents of chalk, pale fingerprints blooming where fear met hold and did not quite win. What persuades a hand to trust a sliver of plastic and a centimetre of rubber? Light skims the facets; shadows pool under the steepest roofs. It is gaudy as a packet of sweets and, somehow, reverent too—a small cathedral built to gravity, to falling and not falling. Up and up and up the colours lead, then fold back to earth; again and again, climb and rest, climb and rest, like breathing.

Option B:

The door exhaled chalk-scented air as I stepped in, and the wall reared up like a cliff someone had painted with sweets. Holds bloomed over plywood in improbable colours—citrus yellow, bruise-purple, defiant aquamarine—each one a beckoning verb. A belay plate kissed a carabiner: the small metronome of courage. Cathedral and playground at once; solemn and garish. My knees chose the carnival—fizzy, foolish, jittering.

A clipboard waited with my name already printed, black letters braver than my heartbeat. "First time?" the woman asked. I nodded; words jammed, then loosened. "First time here," I said. There had been other starts (netball, drama, a running club that lapped me until I became an apology), but none had stayed. Meanwhile, on the mats, climbers moved with easy choreography—hip to wall, toe to ledge—as if gravity had agreed to be reasonable. I signed and pretended my hands weren't shaking.

"Alex?" The coach materialised with the quiet assurance of someone who spends more time looking up than down. His palms were a map of healed rope burns; his smile made refusing seem ungracious. "We start with knots. Knots, then trust." He folded the figure-of-eight deliberately, his voice even, as though patience were part of the equipment. The rope slid warm through my fingers. Safety here wasn't magic; it was method: double back, check, call. I fumbled once—twice—then found the rhythm. "On belay?" he asked. "Belay on," I said, surprised by my steadiness.

Up close, the holds were less like sweets and more like geological puzzles; each offered something and withheld something else. Tape criss-crossed like a secret language, a palimpsest of ambitions where older routes ghosted beneath new neon. Not the height. Not the strangers. Not the possibility of failing; the possibility of being watched failing—that was the sharpest barb. Why had I come? Because I was tired of drafting a braver self and never sending it. Because my brother had said, carefully, "You might like it," and I wanted, absurdly, to prove him right. "Three points of contact," the coach said. Breathe.

I moved. Left foot to the green chip, right hand to the orange sloper; a smear, a stretch, a staccato of breath. The room narrowed to chalk and skin and the thud of my pulse. Halfway, my shoe squeaked and my knuckles grazed the plywood; pain flared, precise and unimportant. Below, voices braided into encouragement. "Nice, keep your hips in. You're solid." The rope tugged, steady. I misread a hold—went for a crimp that wasn't—and flailed; then my foot found a grudging notch and I laughed, a short, incredulous cough. At the top—only six metres, hardly Everest, and yet—there was a bell. I touched it; it chimed, clear and silly.

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

Option A:

Colour climbs the wall before anyone does. Panels of pale timber lean and bulge, bolted together like an origami cliff; their faces bloom with plastic holds—prisms, knobs, slopers, crimps—scattered in constellations that someone has drawn with tape and hope. Fluorescent oranges argue with sea-glass blues. It is absurd and serious at once, a landscape assembled from sweets and steel.

The room carries its own weather. Chalk hangs in the air like thin fog, softening the glare of industrial lights; it settles as frost across routes, dusting titles printed in neat numbers. There is a smell that is not quite outdoors: rubber and rope, cold metal and coffee from the café below. Commands ricochet against concrete block and padded floor: “Climbing!” “Take!”—each syllable clipped and bright. Pulleys murmur. Carabiners clap politely. Somewhere an auto-belay inhales and releases in patient intervals.

A boy in a borrowed harness tests the first purple rung, his face a ledger of calculations; beside him, an older woman pads up a slab, precise as a metronome. The overhang looms overhead—an orange belly that dares and denies. A lead climber edges into it, hips swaying, feet twisting to find friction; he clips, breathes, shakes out, then moves again, like a chess player committed to a beautiful, slightly foolish plan. Below, his belayer stands anchored by a quiet science, rope feeding through a device that grins with metal teeth.

Up close, the wall’s skin is scuffed and human. Chalked thumbprints crown the crux. Tape arrows point upwards with a kind of authority, as though the plastic knows the way. The grading tags—6a, 6c+, 7b—are both invitation and challenge; they are a language that promises fluency if you are stubborn. What is a climbing wall if not a polite lie about mountains, and about gravity? You reach for a hold warmed by someone else’s nerves; you inherit their uncertainty and then insist on your own.

Higher, time thins. Hands find ridges that should be impossible; fingers trust absurdly small edges; the route becomes a sentence you are finishing without breath. A skylight spills a square of winter onto the apex. The top clip blinks like a small prize. When it snaps shut, the room briefly slows—one heartbeat, a hush—and then the earth requests you back. Descent is a soft, elastic surrender; the pads rise to meet you; voices resume.

Back on the rubber floor, you dust your palms, tasting limestone that never saw a storm. The wall waits, patient and bright; its veins coil in loose hanks; its colours do not fade. Even as you leave, chalk still lifts, still shines in the light, as though the air is practising for the next ascent.

Option B:

Floodlights. Cold and unwavering; their hum stitched the evening while the track unspooled like a rust-red ribbon. Whistles flicked the air. Trainers squeaked; a stopwatch blinked with a tiny, insistent pulse. Everything seemed to move, even when no one did. I stood outside the fence and smelled rubber, damp earth, liniment. My breath ghosted in the September air.

I hitched my borrowed kit bag higher. Inside, new spikes knocked together like teeth in a glass; the sound made me feel fragile. My laces were as tight as I could make them. I told myself that belonging isn’t handed to you—it’s practised, lap after lap; a truth and a dare. Still, my stomach fizzed. What if I was too slow? Too late. Then the small gate yielded under my palm, and I stepped into the light.

Two hours earlier, the hallway had been a corridor of second guesses. Mum pressed a leaflet into my hand—'Club' bold and cheerful. 'You can’t keep running on your own,' she’d said, softly, as if she knew I wanted to. I packed carefully—vest, water bottle, plasters—then emptied the bag and packed again. In the bus window, I looked like a stranger practising courage.

'You’re new,' the coach said, not unkindly. He wore a cap and a windproof smile; his stopwatch already counted something I couldn’t see. 'I’m Dan. Warm-up starts on the whistle.' He didn’t ask for a speech, and relief loosened my shoulders. The group moved in loose knots—high knees, rotating arms, elastic ankles. A girl grinned as she bounced past. 'Stick with me,' she puffed. I copied, limbs stiff at first, then finding a metronome in my chest.

The track’s surface, gritty as orange peel, caught at my soles. On Dan’s whistle we flowed into strides, then drills; stretch and spring, swing and land. Numbers nested: sixty seconds, eight reps, lane four. My heartbeat drummed a code I hoped someone could read. The first proper run lined us up shoulder to shoulder. The floodlights seemed to lean in. 'On go,' Dan said, arm raised. A quiet fell—the kind you can step onto.

He dropped his hand. I went. Knees lifted, arms drove, breath braided into the motion. The lane stopped feeling like a rule; it was a road I’d finally found. I crossed an invisible line and didn’t stop straight away because the momentum asked me not to. When I did, I was smiling. I had begun.

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

Option A:

The wall rises out of the rubbery mat like a cliff made in a dream—gaudy, deliberate, alive. Holds bloom across it in loud colours: jugs, crimps, slopers, pinches. They glitter slightly where chalk has filmed them white, turning the bright blues to winter. At first my eye can’t find a route; there are arrows of tape pointing here and there, as if a cartographer lost patience and simply scattered directions. Overhead, long lamps hum. The air smells of chalk, warm nylon and that faint citrus of cleaner.

Below, ropes hang in disciplined lines, tethered to the ground by expectant belayers. Carabiners clink; harness buckles pinch; a taut word passes up and down the rope—“Ready?”—and the climber moves. His feet test the first steps with careful precision, a cat on a fence. Meanwhile a woman on the bouldering side flows from hold to hold, no rope at all, her hands tapping the wall’s textured skin; her shoulders are metronomes. “Breathe, breathe, breathe,” someone says, both to them and to themselves.

Sound here is constant yet soft: the staccato thud of landing on mats; the squeak of rubber on resin; the low murmur of advice that is always almost the same. Chalk dust rises in small weather systems and hangs in the strip-lit air. The panels are rough like sandpaper, edges softened by thousands of touches. Triangular volumes jut like cliffs inside a cliff, painted in sober, serious blacks. Near each start hold, a number and letter is scribbled in marker, a promise and a warning. Friction is king.

Above, where the lines flatten into space, the wall seems to lean over you and listen. Hands search for invisible edges that only become visible when you trust them. Gravity argues in a steady, patient voice; muscles answer in a language of tremble and grit. However, when a body finds its sequence—the hidden ladder locked inside colour—noise thins; time slows: reach and rest, reach and rest, reach— the bell at the top is quiet but complete. Sometimes they peel off instead; there’s no shame, only the soft bloom of chalk as they land.

Finally the door opens and a blade of outside air cuts across the mats. The smell of rain comes in, uncertain. Here, the wall waits, freckled with fingerprints, patterned like a map of impossible islands. I look up, the routes tilt, and the colours ask the same old, generous question.

Option B:

Thursday. The sports hall smelt of polish and nerves; light glared from the high strip bulbs, washing the floor with a pale shine. Balls thudded in a steady rhythm, a heartbeat I didn't yet belong to. Net shadows sagged on the walls. A whistle sliced the air like a silver fish.

I hovered at the double doors, a crumpled registration form softening in my fist. Under the club logo—Holloway Hawks—my name looked small, and my new trainers squeaked an overeager hello while a neat parade of labelled bottles made my chest lift, then drop.

Coach Patel saw me. “First night?” he asked, crossing the court in easy strides. His voice was brisk but not unkind. I nodded too fast. “I’m Maya,” I said, and my voice came out thinner than I’d planned. “You’ll be fine,” he replied, already turning; “warm-up starts now—join that line by the cones.” He said it like a fact.

I slid into the queue beside a girl with a plait that swung like a metronome. Everyone wore black shorts and bright vests, and all of them seemed to know where to put their hands and eyes. I copied a stretch; my hamstring complained. Running shuttles, the varnished floor grabbed at my soles and released them again—kiss and let go. By the second length my breath came in scratchy threads.

Then the ball was in my hands—sudden weight, orange and pebbled. “Lay-ups,” the coach called, and bodies flowed through the key. I stepped, sprung, aimed; the ball clipped the backboard and slid out, a sly escape. Heat climbed my face. “Unlucky,” someone murmured. I tried again; my steps tangled, my focus did too, the rim laughed. Between drills I learned names—Aaliyah, Tom, Brooke—and the more the ball left my palms, the more it returned; a quiet treaty formed between us. At the water break I pressed the bottle to my cheek and listened to the hall breathe. It still smelled of polish and nerves, but some of the nerves weren’t mine anymore. When Coach called for a first scrimmage, my hand rose before I could stop it.

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

Option A:

It rises before me, tall and deliberate, a quilt of colour pinned to rough concrete. Holds scatter like spilled sweets; some small and sly, some fat and kind. It is not one wall: a friendly slab, a steep belly, a cave that swallows noise. Ropes hang in neat pairs; they sway in the slow breath of the fans. Chalk hangs like pale mist and settles on lips; beneath, thick mats wait, blue and black.

A teenager ties in, buckle flat, grey harness snug at her waist. Her hands are ghosted white. Reach and pull, reach and pull: a private drum. The belayer watches; metal ticks as rope slips through a cold device. "Climb when ready." A yellow jug seems to grin; red crimps mutter a warning. Rubber squeaks on textured panels—a soft chirp—then she smears and trusts friction. She pauses; shakes out; scans the map of colour above. The blue hold glows under fluorescent tubes, just far enough to ask a question. She exhales, stretches, and the rope rises with her.

Around them the hall keeps its rhythm. Commands bounce—"Take!" "Slack!"—quick and clear. Air smells of rubber, chalk, and the faint tang of metal; it tastes dry, like paper. Dust dances in bright beams; tape arrows point the way, small flags on a plywood sea. Big volumes—hollow, geometric—jut like quiet icebergs; steel ribs cross the ceiling and the fans turn and turn. Near the top, her world narrows to fingertips. The rope tightens; the floor falls away into hush. She taps the anchor, a plain silver ring, and hangs a second, grinning. The wall waits, patient, daring the next person to begin.

Option B:

Evening. The sports hall held its breath; fluorescent lights hummed and the polished floor reflected a stretched version of me. Banners hung like tired flags—County Champions, 2019—and a whistle waited on the table, bright as a small blade. Riverside Netball Club. New for me. I stepped inside and the echo swallowed my footsteps.

At home I’d packed and repacked: trainers (wiped until they looked brave), water bottle, plasters, the sign-up form with a crease like an old worry. I practised passing against the wall until Mum shouted about the rattling frames. My stomach flipped like a coin. Would they already know each other? Would I be too slow?

“Hi,” the coach said, appearing with a clipboard and a careful smile. “You must be new. I’m Cara.” She ticked my name—slowly—and handed me a navy bib that smelt faintly of detergent and someone else’s perfume. The team watched in little glances, not unkind, just curious, like birds on a railing. “Warm-up jog. Four laps,” she called, and the whistle scissored through the air.

By lap two my breath found a rhythm; my legs felt heavier but also awake, as if they had been waiting. We circled cones, we passed and said names, and the ball made a clean thud in my hands. On my first shooting drill I sent it clattering off the rim and heat jumped into my cheeks. “Again,” Cara said, not soft but not cruel, and I nodded because there wasn’t anywhere to hide.

The second shot lifted cleaner, it kissed the net—just—and dropped. A small cheer rose, quick and ordinary, and something inside me unclenched. I wasn’t suddenly brilliant; I was simply here, under buzzing lights, held by lines and voices. Maybe, if I keep turning up, it will start to feel like mine.

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

Option A:

The wall rises like a patchwork cliff in a bright warehouse. Panels of fake rock tilt and bulge; lime, tangerine, ice-blue holds scatter like sweets. Ropes hang in lazy loops, sleeping snakes that twitch when someone clips in. Chalk floats in the air — a thin mist — and the lights hums on the beams.

At the base, the mats are thick and scuffed, soft under trainers but firm under fear. Carabiners click; harnesses tighten; a quiet voice says, “On belay?” Another answers. There’s a smell of rubber and metal and faint coffee from the cafe, strange but kind of comforting. Shoes pinch on purpose. A staff member points at a chart: green, red, purple lines like veins that climb and disappear.

Above, a climber moves slowly, deliberate, like a spider learning a new web. Fingers find dimples, knuckles white; toes edge on nothing. Up, up, pause. The wall seems to lean away from him. Tape arrows whisper go left, the grade number dares him. He slips, not falling, the rope catches with a small jerk — the whole system wakes, then settles.

Meanwhile a boulderer jumps to a bright dome and swings; the crash mat answers with a dull thud. Music is low, echoing, and ceiling fans shove warm air around. At the top there’s a bell to ring; it sounds ordinary when someone hits it, but everyone looks up. They hang for a second, neat and still, then drop into their belayer’s hands, laughing, chalk blooming, fading.

Option B:

Monday evening. The time of floodlights; squeaking trainers, the lemon of cleaning spray. A new season for other people; a new club for me. The door to Westside Falcons creaked and bounced off the stopper, like it didn’t want me in.

I hovered on the threshold, my bag digging into my shoulder. My trainers looked too white for the scuffed court; the court glared, unforgiving. A whistle blew, my stomach jumped. I breathed in, slow, like the videos said. The air tasted of rubber and dust. New coach, new kit. New me? My heart patted my ribs like a tennis ball; light, fast, annoying.

'You must be Maya,' a voice bounced over the echoing hall. A tall man in a navy tracksuit waved a clipboard: Coach Dan. He had a smile that tried, and a whistle that looked serious. 'Warm-up round the court,' he said. 'Join when you're ready.' People loped past in fluorescent bibs; their feet whispered, their laughter climbed.

I tucked loose hair behind my ear and stepped out. One step. Then another. The wooden floor hummed under my soles. I was stiff at first—arms like sticks, breath jerky—but the rhythm found me. There was a lot; I focused on the lines and the thud of the ball, on the net yawning. One rule: don’t trip. A girl with a red stripe on her sleeve tossed me a ball. It smacked my palms, warm and real. My fingers curled, I bounced it back, not perfect, not awful. Maybe this is how belonging starts.

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

Option A:

At first the wall looks like a giant puzzle pinned to the sky. Bright holds scatter across the grey surface in loud colours: lime green, tomato red, electric blue. Ropes hang like vines, neat yet threatening. It smells of chalk and rubber trainers; the air is dry. I look up, the surface climbs out of sight, up and up, and lights glare on the plastic.

Then a climber steps forward, clipping on a harness with a sharp click. His hands are dusty with chalk, like he has dipped them in snow. Fingers find the first hold; the grip is rough, shaped like a strange pebble. He moves slow, then quicker, testing, stretching. The belayer waits below—rope threaded, eyes up. The rope slides through the device and whispers; carabiners tap, a tiny bell in a high hall.

Finally, the height presses on him. His foot trembles, but he keeps going. The top seems far and close. How high is it really? The wall does not answer. At the last move he reaches—fingertips, then palm—and rings the little metal target. For a second he hangs there, proud. Coming down is smoother, like floating; the mat catches him softly and chalk drifts again and again.

Option B:

The sports hall smelt of rubber and polish; the strip lights hummed above me. Lines crossed the floor like busy roads. New shirt, new club, new me, I told myself, but my stomach twisted. First nights are the hardest, I think, even when you really want it.

I hugged my kit bag. The bottle clanked and the zip scratched my thumb. Breathe. In, out. Was I ready? A whistle bit the air and made me jump. 'You alright?' someone asked, a boy in a bright bib. I nodded, too fast. My voice hid for a second, then came back.

The coach was tall with easy eyes. 'Welcome—warm up laps,' he said, pointing. Feet started to thud, trainers squeaked like little birds. I ran after them; my heart hammered like a drum, and also something else, a flicker of excitment. When the hall doors glowed, I thought about home, but I kept going.

Then passing drills. The ball felt rough, solid, not scary. My first throw wobbled and drifted; the second one went true. Again, again, again. Names were shouted, including mine, kind of friendly. I smiled without meaning to. Maybe this club could be my place, not today, but soon.

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

Option A:

The wall is very tall, it touches the ceiling. Colour circles and shapes stick out, big and small, they look like sweets on a grey cake. The lights are bright and white; the air feels dry with chalk. I smell rubber and dust. The floor is soft black mats, they sigh when shoes land.

Climbers move up and up.

Some go slow, some go quick. Their shoes squeak on the holds. Ropes hang like long tails, clips go click, click. A man on the ground holds the rope and looks up, he says, you can do it, and the voice bounces in the room. There is people waiting, they rub chalk, their hands shake.

The wall is like a mountain inside, but it is safe and fake—still it makes my heart beat. The holds feel rough and smooth. Red, blue, green, yellow; little arrows show a path. I watch and count, one two three.

Option B:

Morning. New club. New bag. The sky was grey but bright. I tied my laces again. The bag was heavier than it looked, it bumped my leg and made a dull thud. My stomach was like a ball rolling around. I told myself it will be fine, but I wasnt sure.

The bus was late, I stood at the stop and counted cracks on the pavement. My hands felt cold.

The sports centre doors were big glass and they breathed out warm air. I could smell rubber and wet grass. People laughed in the corridor, shoes squeaked. My name was on a list, small.

I signed. The pen shook. The coach with a whistle said my name wrong and I said its okay. I was excited but also scared — like standing on a diving board. I aint been here before, I cant turn back now.

New club, new start.

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

Option A:

The wall is big and bright, it goes up and up. The holds is red and blue and green, like sweets on a giant board. Ropes hang down and swing a bit, the clips click. The air smell of chalk, dry dust on my hands and in my mouth. There is loud music and a fan that buzz, people say go on, go on. My shoes are tight and I think about falling and also about chips for tea. Lights shine on the plastic, it look shiny. I climb a little then stop, the ground seem far and my heart bang.

Option B:

I go to the new sports club. The hall is big and cold and my bag is to heavy. The floor smells like rubber and sweat, my shoes squeak like a mouse. The coach look at me, I look at the floor, I was suppose to smile but my mouth is dry. I think about last year when I fell in football and everyone laugh, I dont want that again. On the bus there was a dog and it barked at me for no reason. The coach blows a whistle. We run warm up and my legs are jelly and I drop my bottle.