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 From where did the music come, according to the narrator?: my neighbour’s house – 1 mark
• 1.2 What colour are the gardens described by the narrator?: blue – 1 mark
• 1.3 The narrator says men and girls came and went like what?: moths – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which two items are mentioned together with "the whisperings"?: champagne and stars – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 46 to 117 of the source:

46 forgotten that most of his female guests were too young to know one from another. By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, no thin five-piece affair,

51 but a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums. The last swimmers have come in from the

56 beach now and are dressing upstairs; the cars from New York are parked five deep in the drive, and already the halls and salons and verandas are gaudy with primary colours, and hair bobbed in

61 strange new ways, and shawls beyond the dreams of Castile. The bar is in full swing, and floating rounds of cocktails permeate the garden outside, until the air is alive with chatter and

66 laughter, and casual innuendo and introductions forgotten on the spot, and enthusiastic meetings between women who never knew each other’s names.

71 The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches a key higher. Laughter is easier minute by minute,

76 spilled with prodigality, tipped out at a cheerful word. The groups change more swiftly, swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form in the same breath; already there are wanderers,

81 confident girls who weave here and there among the stouter and more stable, become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre of a group, and then, excited with triumph,

86 glide on through the sea-change of faces and voices and colour under the constantly changing light. Suddenly one of these gypsies, in trembling opal, seizes a cocktail

91 out of the air, dumps it down for courage and, moving her hands like Frisco, dances out alone on the canvas platform. A momentary hush; the orchestra leader varies

96 his rhythm obligingly for her, and there is a burst of chatter as the erroneous news goes around that she is Gilda Gray’s understudy from the Follies. The party has begun.

101 I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house I was one of the few guests who had actually been invited. People were not invited—they went

106 there. They got into automobiles which bore them out to Long Island, and somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door. Once there they were introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby, and after that they

111 conducted themselves according to the rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park. Sometimes they came and went without having met Gatsby at all, came for the party with a

116 simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission.

How does the writer use language here to show the build-up and excitement of the evening? You could include the writer's choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how cumulative listing and polysyndeton in "oboes and trombones and saxophones and viols and cornets and piccolos, and low and high drums" swell the soundscape, while personification/metaphor—"the air is alive with chatter," "the opera of voices," and the synaesthetic "yellow cocktail music"—plus kinetic verbs ("weave," "glide," "seizes," "dumps"), the adverbial pivot "Suddenly," and the shift from flowing multi-clause sentences to the crisp declarative "The party has begun." accelerate pace and crystallise excitement, before carnival imagery ("rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park") conveys the intoxicating, anarchic atmosphere.

The writer builds a sense of mounting extravagance through polysyndetic listing and a musical semantic field. The orchestra is “no thin five-piece affair, but a whole pitful of oboes… piccolos… and low and high drums”: the repeated ands create a breathless abundance, while “pitful” evokes a theatre’s orchestra pit, signalling scale and aural richness. Even outside, hyperbole such as cars “parked five deep” amplifies the impression of excess and anticipation.

Moreover, vivid colour and personification make the atmosphere itself thrum with excitement. The rooms are “gaudy with primary colours” and draped in “shawls beyond the dreams of Castile,” an exotic allusion that suggests opulence. Drinks “permeate the garden,” and “the air is alive with chatter and laughter”: by animating the air, the writer makes the excitement feel contagious. Synaesthesia in “yellow cocktail music,” and the extended musical metaphor—“the opera of voices pitches a key higher”—convey a playful, fizzy brightness, as if sound and colour are blending into a heady cocktail.

Furthermore, kinetic verbs and cumulative syntax chart the quickening pace. Groups “swell… dissolve and form,” while “confident girls… weave” and “glide,” creating a fluid choreography. The “sea-change of faces and voices and colour” suggests a tidal surge under “constantly changing light,” and temporal adverbials—“now,” “already,” “minute by minute”—mark the steady build-up.

Finally, juxtaposition propels the scene to a climax: a “momentary hush” snaps into a “burst of chatter,” before the short, emphatic declarative “The party has begun.” Even the dash in “People were not invited—they went there” and the amusement-park conceit (“rules of behaviour… ticket of admission”) present the night as a rule-free spectacle, heightening the thrill of the evening’s onset.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds excitement through vivid listing and sound imagery, contrasting no thin five-piece affair with a scene personified as the air is alive with chatter and laughter, while dynamic verbs like swell, dissolve and glide show constant movement. Long, flowing multi-clause sentences mirror the growing buzz before the short declarative The party has begun. delivers a climactic release.

The writer builds the evening through listing and vivid sensory imagery. The catalogue 'a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones' with repeated 'and' (polysyndeton) suggests abundance, while 'cars ... parked five deep' emphasises scale. Adjectives like 'gaudy with primary colours' and 'shawls beyond the dreams of Castile' create dazzling, exotic visuals, exciting the reader.

Moreover, personification and metaphor heighten the mood. The air is 'alive with chatter and laughter', as if the party itself breathes; 'the opera of voices' and 'yellow cocktail music' blend sound and colour to show the mood rising, as it 'pitches a key higher'. Dynamic verbs—'swell', 'dissolve', and 'weave'—present constant movement, building pace. The simile 'like Frisco' makes the dance feel spontaneous and theatrical.

Furthermore, sentence forms reinforce the build-up. Long, multi-clausal lines joined by semicolons mirror breathless arrivals, then 'Suddenly' and the short declarative 'The party has begun.' mark the climax. The contrast between a 'momentary hush' and a 'burst of chatter' quickens the tempo, and the dash in 'People were not invited—they went there' conveys carefree excitement.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response might spot the listing and lively imagery, saying the long list in “a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones” shows there’s lots going on, the metaphor “yellow cocktail music” and personification “the air is alive with chatter and laughter” make the scene feel fun and busy. It may also notice dynamic verbs like “swell with new arrivals, dissolve and form”, the contrast of “A momentary hush”, and the short sentence “The party has begun.” to show the build-up and sudden excitement.

The writer uses a long list to show the build-up. The orchestra is “a whole pitful of oboes… cornets… piccolos, and low and high drums,” and the repeated “and” makes it feel endless and loud. This creates excitement and a busy mood.

Furthermore, personification suggests the atmosphere is alive: “the air is alive with chatter and laughter” and the “opera of voices pitches a key higher.” This musical metaphor shows the energy rising.

Moreover, dynamic verbs like “change,” “swell,” “dissolve,” and “glide” make the crowds seem constantly moving. Colour imagery such as “gaudy with primary colours” and “yellow cocktail music” adds brightness and thrill.

Additionally, sentence forms add to the climax. “Suddenly” and the short line “The party has begun” follow “a momentary hush” and a “burst of chatter,” so the contrast builds tension and then releases it, showing the evening’s excitement.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses a long list and repeated “and” like “a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones” and lively phrases such as “the air is alive with chatter and laughter” to show the party getting busy and exciting. Short, definite touches like “Suddenly” and the short sentence “The party has begun.” make the build-up clear.

The writer uses lists to build up excitement, like “a whole pitful of oboes and trombones and saxophones”, which shows there are lots of sounds and it feels busy. The adjectives “gaudy” and “primary colours” make the night bright and exciting. Furthermore, personification in “the air is alive with chatter” makes the party seem lively. Moreover, the metaphor “opera of voices” suggests loud happy noise. Additionally, the long sentences with many commas show the build-up, while the short sentence “The party has begun.” is dramatic and shows the excitement starting. Therefore, the language shows the build-up and excitement.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Polysyndetic listing of instruments builds scale and aural crescendo, overwhelming the reader with abundance (oboes and trombones and)
• Vivid colour and fashion imagery conjures spectacle and modern novelty, heightening visual excitement (gaudy with primary colours)
• Personification of the atmosphere suggests intoxication spreading and social buzz filling space (air is alive)
• Synaesthesia fuses senses so sound feels tangible and glamorous, intensifying sensory stimulation (yellow cocktail music)
• Incremental time markers accelerate the mood, showing laughter and ease mounting as the evening develops (minute by minute)
• Dynamic verbs and fluid metaphors make the crowd feel restless and energetic, constantly re-forming (dissolve and form)
• Contrast in sound—brief silence before renewed noise—creates a mini-climax that spikes excitement (burst of chatter)
• Celebrity rumour and cultural allusion inject glamour and collective thrill into the scene (Gilda Gray’s understudy)
• A short, emphatic simple sentence marks the tipping point of festivities, confirming the build-up has peaked (The party has begun.)
• Simile likening behaviour to a fairground captures exuberant, rule-breaking freedom and chaotic fun (an amusement park)

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 novel.

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

You could write about:

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

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace a structural crescendo, showing how iterative time markers ("On weekends", "Every Friday", "Every Monday") and cumulative, polysyndetic listing ("and the champagne and the stars") quicken the pace toward immediate, time-anchored spectacle ("By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived"), as swelling syntax mirrors the rising noise ("the opera of voices pitches a key higher"), before a zoom-in and tonal jolt at "Suddenly" and the solo dancer culminate in the declarative pivot "The party has begun." It would also note the perspective shift to reflection ("I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby’s house", "People were not invited—they went"), which reframes the scene to heighten excitement by exposing its impersonal scale and momentum.

One way in which the writer structures excitement is through an accumulative, time-sequenced build-up that accelerates pace. He begins with habitual “summer nights”, then patterns the week—“On weekends… And on Mondays… Every Friday… every Monday”—so the cataloguing and polysyndeton create a rhythmic crescendo. The time-frame then narrows: “By seven o’clock… now… already”, and the aspect shifts into the immediate (present perfect/progressive), collapsing distance. The swelling list of instruments and arrivals intensifies scale and anticipation.

In addition, the writer manipulates focus to heighten excitement, moving from panoramic bustle to a razor-sharp narrative zoom. Groups that “swell… dissolve and form” contract as “one of these gypsies… dances out” alone. The adverb “Suddenly” marks a structural pivot, while the clipped “A momentary hush” interrupts the surge before the orchestra “varies” and chatter explodes—calibrated shifts in pace that mimic a crowd’s intake and release. The short declarative, “The party has begun,” acts as a volta and climax, crystallising the build-up into an electrifying arrival.

A further structural strategy sustains excitement through delayed revelation and a retrospective shift. After the climax, the narratorial aside—“I believe… I was one of the few… invited”—alters narrative distance from spectacle to commentary. Crucially, the host is withheld: many “came and went without having met Gatsby.” The generalised “they” and “amusement park” rules universalise the chaos, so curiosity about Gatsby is extended beyond the scene, propelling the reader onward.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The text builds excitement through a chronological build and accumulating detail, moving from broad summer impressions (There was music, men and girls came and went) to time cues (On weekends, Every Friday, By seven o’clock) and rushing lists (oboes and trombones and saxophones, The groups change more swiftly) that quicken pace and swell the crowd. A structural pivot with Suddenly, a momentary hush, then a burst of chatter creates a mini-climax capped by The party has begun, before a perspective shift (I believe, People were not invited—they went) reframes the frenzy and explains its chaotic appeal.

One way the writer structures the opening to build excitement is through clear temporal markers and cumulative listing. The narrative moves chronologically from “summer nights” to “high tide in the afternoon,” “On weekends,” and “Every Friday… every Monday,” creating a cyclical pattern of preparation and aftermath. This sequencing, alongside catalogues of detail (“gins and liquors… piccolos… low and high drums”), steadily layers excess and anticipation. The shift to “By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived” and “minute by minute” signals acceleration, so the reader feels a mounting, almost inevitable, climax.

In addition, the writer manipulates pace and focus to create a crescendo. The focus shifts from the expansive “blue gardens” to crowds—“cars… five deep”—then narrows to individuals, “confident girls,” before a final zoom on one dancer. Polysyndeton (“and… and… and…”) produces a breathless rhythm, while the sudden change of pace—“Suddenly… A momentary hush”—contrasts silence with a burst of chatter, making “The party has begun” a structural climax.

A further structural choice is the delayed narrative intrusion, shifting perspective at the end. “I believe that on the first night I went…” reframes the spectacle, adding exclusivity and rule-breaking—“People were not invited—they went.” This retrospective framing sustains excitement by presenting the party as spontaneous, uncontrollable, and thrilling, like an “amusement park.”

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would note excitement building through time markers and listing, moving from routine ('On weekends', 'Every Friday') to the busy evening ('By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived', 'The lights grow brighter') with lots of 'and' to show more happening. It would also spot the sudden change ('Suddenly') and the line 'The party has begun' as the peak before a calmer shift to being 'invited'.

One way the writer structures the text to create excitement is by building it from the beginning to the middle. At the start, we get general details, but then a list of time markers ("On weekends... On Mondays... Every Friday...") and lots of activities pile up, increasing pace and energy.

In addition, the writer shifts tense and focus to make it immediate. The present-tense lines ("By seven o'clock the orchestra has arrived", "The lights grow brighter") put us in the moment. The repeated ands and long sentences make the scene feel fast and lively, which excites the reader.

A further structural feature is a sudden change then a climax. The adverb "Suddenly" and the short sentence "The party has begun." act as a turning point. Finally the focus shifts to the narrator ("I believe... I was one of the few"), which keeps interest and shows the parties are unusual.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Excitement builds as the text moves from a calm start (There was music) to a crowded evening where By seven o’clock the orchestra has arrived, cars are five deep, and laughter rises, using Suddenly and the short line The party has begun to speed things up. It then shifts to the narrator (I believe...) to explain that people were not invited—they went there, showing how popular the party is.

One way the writer creates excitement is by building from the beginning to the main party. It starts with music, then adds boats, cars and servants, so the scene gets busier and faster.

In addition, time markers and sentence length add pace. “By seven o’clock” and “Suddenly” move the action on, and the short sentence “The party has begun.” makes a clear, exciting turning point.

A further feature is a change in focus at the end. The narrator says “I believe...” about invitations. This perspective shift after the party keeps interest.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Panoramic temporal frame → signals ongoing revelry and primes anticipation → (through the summer nights)
• Cyclical weekly pattern (weekends/Mondays/Fridays) → rhythmic build-up that suggests relentless preparations and payoff → (Every Friday)
• Accumulative lists with polysyndeton → breathless pace and swelling scale of sound → (and trombones and saxophones)
• Chronological shift from afternoon to night → clear rising trajectory towards a peak of activity → (The lights grow brighter)
• Shift from observed past to present-tense immediacy → increased proximity makes the scene feel live and urgent → (now the orchestra is playing)
• Rapid reconfiguration of groups → restlessness and kinetic energy keep excitement high → (dissolve and form)
• Structural zoom from panoramic setting to vivid sensory details → intensifies immersion and exhilaration → (glistening hors-d’oeuvre)
• Sudden focal pivot to a solo performer → brief lull then surge amplifies the crowd’s thrill → (Suddenly)
• Declarative marker after crescendo → signals lift-off, implying even more to come → (The party has begun)
• Closing reflective generalisation about attendance → frames the chaos as spontaneous, sustaining the aura of inexhaustible fun → (People were not invited)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 71 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the guests act like they are at an amusement park, the party sounds chaotic and impersonal. The writer suggests that despite all the money spent, there are no real social connections being made.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the guests' behaviour at Gatsby's party
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the party's impersonality
• 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, evaluating how the writer presents impersonal spectacle through the extended metaphor of the rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park, the depersonalised, mechanised influx (automobiles which bore them out to Long Island) and lack of meaningful host-guest bonds (People were not invited—they went there, many came and went without having met Gatsby at all). It would also probe the ironic tone of simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission, suggesting credulous consumerism rather than genuine social connection.

I largely agree with the statement: the writer fashions Gatsby’s party as a glittering carnival whose noise and movement mask a striking impersonality, so that spectacle replaces genuine connection. From the outset, the language orchestrates chaos. The cosmic personification “the earth lurches away from the sun” and the synaesthetic, colour-charged “yellow cocktail music” fuse brightness, sound and alcohol into a heady blur; the musical metaphor “the opera of voices pitches a key higher” suggests an escalating cacophony rather than intimate talk. Even laughter is objectified and wasteful, “spilled with prodigality,” a noun connoting lavish excess that aligns with money poured out but not meaningfully invested in people.

Structurally, the paragraph’s cumulative syntax and present participles deepen the sense of flux: “groups change… swell… dissolve and form in the same breath.” The fluid verbs and the maritime metaphor “sea-change of faces and voices and colour,” reinforced by polysyndeton (“faces and voices and colour”), render individuals indistinct, a tide of interchangeable parts washed by “constantly changing light.” Brief, competitive centre-stage moments—“confident girls… become for a sharp, joyous moment the centre”—are explicitly transient; they “glide on,” like riders moving between attractions, which supports the amusement-park comparison and undercuts the possibility of lasting bonds.

The cameo of the dancer intensifies this impersonality through performance. One “gypsy, in trembling opal,” is jewel-like and exoticised, more spectacle than person. She “seizes a cocktail… dumps it down for courage,” implying that alcohol is the social lubricant that enables display. A “momentary hush” is instantly shattered by a “burst of chatter” as the “erroneous news” spreads that she is “Gilda Gray’s understudy,” a rumor that satirises a crowd more eager for celebrity gossip than authentic acquaintance. Even the orchestra leader “varies his rhythm obligingly,” the adverb casting him as a service provider in a transactional entertainment economy—evidence of moneyed infrastructure producing thrill, not fellowship.

Crucially, the narrative voice pivots to retrospective critique: “I was one of the few… invited.” The antithesis and emphatic dash in “People were not invited—they went there” expose a breakdown of host–guest reciprocity. Mechanised, passive movement—“automobiles… bore them… somehow they ended up”—makes guests cargo, not companions. Vague pronouns (“introduced by somebody who knew Gatsby”) signal tenuous links, while the extended metaphor clinches the evaluation: they behaved by “the rules… of an amusement park.” The irony that many “came and went without… met[ting] Gatsby at all” confirms the absence of connection; the metaphor “simplicity of heart… its own ticket of admission” deftly extends the fairground lexis, hinting at naive hedonism but still casting entry as a transaction.

Overall, I strongly agree: despite conspicuous expense—lights, orchestra, endless cocktails—the writer presents a choreographed, rumour-driven spectacle where interactions are ephemeral, performative and impersonal, and real relationships scarcely exist.

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, explaining that Fitzgerald conveys chaos and impersonality through the amusement-park comparison—'rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park'—and an impersonal flow where 'People were not invited—they went there' and 'somehow they ended up at Gatsby’s door.' It would show that real connections are thin because guests 'came and went without having met Gatsby at all', with 'simplicity of heart that was its own ticket of admission' stressing spectacle over relationship.

I largely agree with the statement. In this section, Fitzgerald presents the guests as thrill-seekers who “conducted themselves according to the rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park,” so the party feels noisy, transient and impersonal despite its obvious expense.

From the start, sound and colour imagery create sensory overload. The orchestra plays “yellow cocktail music” and the “opera of voices pitches a key higher”: these metaphors and synaesthetic details suggest spectacle rather than intimacy. Personification in “Laughter is easier… spilled with prodigality” implies an excess that is careless and showy; the adjective “easier” hints that emotion is performed, not felt.

Movement dominates the description. The asyndetic listing of dynamic verbs — groups “swell… dissolve and form” — and the noun “wanderers” create a semantic field of flux. People become “for a sharp, joyous moment the centre” and then “glide on,” so any connection is momentary. The metaphor “sea-change of faces and voices and colour” reduces individuals to a tide of “faces,” emphasising anonymity under “constantly changing light,” like a fairground.

The episode of the “gypsy… in trembling opal” intensifies the sense of performance. Hyperbole in “seizes a cocktail out of the air” and the colloquial “dumps it down for courage” show a staged bravado. Although there is a “momentary hush” and the orchestra leader “varies his rhythm obligingly,” this brief unity is undercut by “erroneous news” about celebrity — gossip replaces genuine connection.

A structural shift occurs when the narrator reflects: “I… was one of the few… invited.” The generalised pronoun “they,” the passive “were introduced,” and the dash in “People were not invited—they went there” distance the guests from Gatsby. Crucially, many “came and went without having met Gatsby at all,” proving that money buys spectacle, not relationships. Even “simplicity of heart” feels naïve rather than meaningful.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer’s language of excess, motion and performance creates a chaotic, impersonal carnival where real social bonds fail to form.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree that the party is chaotic and impersonal, citing simple phrases like "People were not invited—they went there", "rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park", and "came and went without having met Gatsby at all" to show guests treat the event like entertainment rather than relationships. It would briefly note that "ticket of admission" implies valuing access over connection, showing some understanding of the writer’s viewpoint.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section, the crowd behaves like they are in an amusement park, and the mood feels busy and impersonal. The writer shows that, even with the bright lights and music and all the expense, people are not making real connections.

At the start, the writer builds the chaos through vivid imagery and sound. The “lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun” personifies the setting, and the “yellow cocktail music” and “opera of voices” are metaphors that make the noise feel overwhelming. Laughter is “spilled with prodigality,” which suggests wasteful excess. The groups “change… swell… dissolve and form,” using dynamic verbs to show restless movement. Phrases like “sea-change of faces and voices and colour” make everyone blur together, so it feels exciting but also cold and impersonal.

The behaviour also seems like an amusement park: people are there for thrills, not friendships. We hear “erroneous news” spread about a dancer, and she “moves her hands like Frisco,” so the scene becomes a performance, not a conversation. One girl is called “one of these gypsies,” which shows she is a type, not a person. Structurally, the narrator then steps back to explain that “people were not invited—they went there” and often “came and went without having met Gatsby at all.” The metaphor of a “ticket of admission” sums up how entry replaces real connection.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer uses excess and movement to show a glamorous but empty party, where money can’t buy real bonds.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree that the party is chaotic and impersonal, noting guests follow the rules of behaviour associated with an amusement park and that People were not invited—they went there. It might also mention they came and went without having met Gatsby at all as basic evidence that no real connections are made.

I mostly agree because the guests act like they are at an amusement park and the party feels noisy and not personal.

At the start, the lights and music build: “lights grow brighter” and “yellow cocktail music”. The “opera of voices” and laughter “spilled with prodigality” make it sound busy. The writer uses imagery and verbs like “swell…dissolve and form” to show groups changing quickly, suggesting no real friendships.

When the girl dances “like Frisco”, there is a “burst of chatter” and “erroneous news” spreads, which feels like gossip rather than connection. The guests are called “wanderers”, which sounds impersonal.

The narrator says people were “not invited—they went there” and followed “rules…of an amusement park”. This shows they want thrills. Some “came and went without having met Gatsby at all”, so despite the money on lights and orchestra, they don’t connect with the host or each other.

Overall, I agree the party is chaotic and impersonal, shown by loud images and the amusement park idea.

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:

• Mechanical imagery makes hospitality feel industrial, reinforcing impersonality and excess (pressed two hundred times).
• Hyperbolic waste implies chaotic extravagance where consumption eclipses connection (pyramid of pulpless halves).
• Military lexis frames the event as organised deployment, not friendship, amplifying the impersonal tone (a corps of caterers).
• Auditory performance metaphor suggests collective euphoria that feels staged rather than sincere (opera of voices).
• Gaudy colour imagery emphasises surface spectacle over depth, evoking theme-park artificiality (gaudy with primary colours).
• Explicitly shallow interactions show transient contact that leaves no bonds (introductions forgotten on the spot).
• Rapid structural churn in groupings conveys restlessness that prevents meaningful connection (dissolve and form).
• Rumour and mistaken identity prioritise spectacle over personhood, underlining anonymity (erroneous news goes around).
• Direct comparison to theme-park behaviour presents guests as thrill-seekers, not friends (an amusement park).
• Social conventions subverted—uninvited attendees who never meet the host—confirm a lack of personal ties (without having met Gatsby).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A local museum is staging an exhibition called ‘Unsolved’ and invites creative writing from students to display.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

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

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about something strange found in an old box of photographs.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

The platform sleeps beneath the city, a long, held breath in the earth’s throat. Light is not light; it is a nicotine-stained smear—one stubborn strip flickering: on, off, on—limning tiles the colour of old bone. The air has a taste, metallic and mineral, laced with the sour ghost of brake-dust. Silence here is not absence; it is crowded with small persistence: a distant drip, the insect hum of electricity, the soft settling of grit.

Nothing moves.

Along the wall, glazed tiles—once cream, now crazed like old porcelain—hold the residue of decades. Posters lie in palimpsest layers; half-remembered slogans slough in curled corners, revealing older, brittle promises beneath. A woman’s smile survives in a ragged triangle; her eyes have been peeled away by boredom or damp. Someone scrawled a name there, urgent once; now it thins, fades, yields. The enamel sign, that handsome monolith of instruction, still declares a station that no longer answers to itself—two letters scoured to silver by invisible hands.

Underfoot, the yellow line has become a scabbed frontier—habited by dust; heeded by nobody. The platform edge crumbles delicately where shoes no longer hesitate. Beyond, the rails: twin ribbons of blackened iron, pitted with rust and old grease, lie in their bed of stone like veins remembering a pulse. The tunnel mouth yawns as a round, bruised absence, its brick throat soot-licked, its dark convincingly infinite. It waits—patient, listening. There is a breath that travels the length of the line, a low, periodic sigh; the old wind still rehearses an arrival it no longer believes in.

Furniture remains as if the last passengers evaporated mid-sentence. A bench—steel-boned, paint blistered—presents its cold back to no one. A cracked clock perpetually insists on 03:17; its second hand quivers with intent, never quite brave enough to step. In the glass of a dead lightbox, a moth lies folded like a paper secret. A child’s red glove, turned inside out, curls into itself on the gritty concrete, thumb pointing nowhere. Even the litter has settled into a kind of order: ticket stubs greying toward anonymity; a coffee cup furred with mildew; a newspaper headline about an emergency that has long since been superseded.

Meanwhile, far above, shoes hurry, buses cough, the noon brightens; down here the city becomes geology. Damp breathes through the mortar with cathedral patience. The smell is layered—ferrous, bituminous, a damp that slicks inside the throat—yet not unclean, not quite; more like a cellar that remembers apples. Somewhere in the darkness, a rat slips—sleek as spilt ink—along the ballast, whiskers interrogating the air, paws soundless, eyes two lacquered pinheads collecting a fraction of light. A torn poster flutters, briefly animate, when a draft discovers it. Then stillness reasserts itself, firm, dutiful.

It is a theatre after the applause, a stage awaiting lines, the orchestra packed away but leaving the hum. The platform hoards echoes: goodbyes gnawed to syllables, greetings that arrive late, laughter that has reduced to breath. If you stand in that old hush and listen—properly listen—you can almost discern the ritual: doors warning, feet surging, the litany of names rolling like prayer. Mind the— Then the phrase frays, caught in the throat of the tunnel.

So it waits, unspooling time into dust, dignified in its dereliction; a hidden room in the city’s memory where nothing happens and everything persists.

Option B:

Attics are where time goes to curl up and sleep; dust made of skin, paper, and forgotten summers floats in shafts of light like idle snow. The floorboards murmured as I slid the shoebox towards me — brown card, lid buckled, twine cutting a shallow groove like a memory that would not heal. When I tugged it free, the air changed: camphor, cold starch, and something citrus, as if a crate of oranges had been hidden here and remembered their own brightness. I told myself I was only tidying — a chore, not an excavation — yet my fingers moved with the care of a museum curator, as though anything too sudden might desiccate a century.

Inside: photographs, dozens, maybe hundreds; small scalloped rectangles with silvering edges, formal portraits and rain-blurred streets. I fanned them — photograph after photograph — and they whispered in a papery sibilance. Faces gazed out in the stiff grammar of the past: collars starched to obedience; smiles rationed; hands clasped as if permission were required. Even so, a few were candid — a bicycle mid-lurch, my grandmother dusted with flour — and there, the back garden: the washing line bowed under shirts, the lilac shockingly young, the bricks unsoftened by moss.

Then I saw it. A small print, thumb-scarred, dated in neat ink: 12 October 1939. A boy stood in front of the fountain on the green, hair astray; a crescent of pale skin arched through his left eyebrow. My eyebrow. The tilt of the head — mine. The watch at his wrist: the watch I wore now, its scuffed crystal a constellation of scratches learned by heart. How could a photograph be so anachronistic? I laughed — a shallow thing — and held it closer. The fountain wavered with chemical grain; the boy’s eyes did not. Behind him, the church clock proclaimed 4:17, and the watch on my wrist, unnoticed, now said precisely that.

At first I rummaged for the trick I had missed: a reflection, a misprint, some elaborate family joke. However, the reverse offered another disturbance — my mother’s handwriting, unmistakable even pared to its essence: Theo, keep looking. There are more. There always are. The letters sloped the way hers always had; the ink had bled slightly into the fibres as if the paper had drawn breath. My heartbeat stuttered (absurdly loud). Was I misremembering the origin of the watch? Yet it had been my eighteenth-birthday heirloom, passed palm to palm with the instruction to wind it every Sunday.

Consequently, I spread more on the boards. In each, a shadow of the same boy hovered at an edge; in the last, when I looked up, the attic window in the photo was my own and the glass wore my thumbprint.

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

Option A:

The platform sleeps beneath a lid of concrete, an abandoned ribcage where the city once breathed. The air carries an iron tang and a cold that sticks to the tongue; the darkness isn’t pure, layered—soot upon shadow upon the fine drift of dust that settles on everything. A single fluorescent strip hums faintly, tries, fails, flickers back into a tired glow, as if embarrassed to be awake.

Tiles curve away from the walls like book pages left in rain; some still hold their glaze, most are crazed with hairline maps. Old posters cling in curling corners, bright promises leached into sepia: a holiday that will never sail, a drink that has lost its fizz. Between them, flaking paint exposes older colours, a palimpsest of instructions and arrows that point nowhere now. The bench—wood shaved smooth by a thousand waiting strangers—wears a bruise of oil. It looks ready, and redundant.

Listen: the station makes its own clock. Water drops count time into the gutter; a reluctant drip, then another, then two together. Far down the tunnel something small scuttles and stops. When it moves, grit whispers. Once, maybe, an announcement rolled along these tiles and told people to mind a gap; now the only voice is the hiss of that light and the quiet, steady breath of subterranean draught.

The tracks lie in their trench like twin veins, dulled to a pewter sheen; they vanish into a mouth of black that opens without end. The yellow safety line has faded to the colour of forgotten chalk. On the far side, a shutter is locked and mottled with verdigris, its padlock blooming with it, a small green flower of neglect. A spider has stitched a neat corner between a sign and the ceiling; tiny threads tremble at every breath of nothing. Nothing arrives. Nothing leaves.

Yet the geometry remains, reassuring and strict: rectangles of tile, ribs of conduit, a numbered pillar standing to attention. The city pounds above—buses, voices, arguments—but down here the sound is thinned to a rumour. Time hangs; it drips, then settles, then hardens into dust. If a train came, it would shear the quiet to ribbons and throw up a weather of papers; it would wake the platform like a hand to a shoulder. It doesn’t. The platform keeps its posture, dignified, patient, almost proud, as if waiting were a kind of work it knows how to do.

Option B:

Dust. It rose in lazy helixes from the attic boards, turning in a thin shaft of amber light like slow snow. The house seemed to breathe with me; rafters creaked; the smell of old paper and resinous wood thickened the air until it tasted faintly sweet. I balanced on the joists and tugged a box forward—sagging, soft at the corners, looped with frayed twine and the curled label, Photographs, in my grandmother’s tidy, bossy script. Below, the hum of the boiler was a tame thunder, a reminder of warmth and ordinary life.

The twine gave with a sigh; the lid slumped back. Inside: a palimpsest of faces and light—black-and-white studio poses with their stern dignity; sun-bleached squares; glossy holiday smiles you could almost hear. The edges were scalloped and soft; the surfaces held a faint silver bloom. I slid the first few free. Here was my mother at seventeen, jaw set, hair a wave the colour of tea. Here was a baby with a knitted bonnet whose name nobody remembers (we always said it as a joke). I breathed in the brackish, chemical ghost of the darkroom and for a moment it felt like time had a scent.

Beneath the obvious memories was something else: a white, thick-bordered instant photograph with a bruise of shadow across one corner. It was warmer than the rest, almost imperceptibly—ridiculous, I know; paper doesn’t keep warmth, not like that. The image was the attic. This attic. The same beam with its nail scar; the same window punched by ivy; light slanting from right to left, as it was now. My throat tightened—as if the room had turned its head.

A girl stood under the ridge beam. She wore my old red coat (the missing button, the puckered seam) and her face was turned three-quarters, as if listening. Above her left eyebrow, a pale crescent scar lifted the skin—my scar, the one from the swing seat when I was eight. I touched my brow without meaning to. In the picture her right hand held a small square object; her left hand reached toward something out of frame. The composition was ordinary; the wrongness was not.

On the back, in blue ink, a date: 16 October 1996. Before I was born. Beneath it, a note in handwriting that looked unnervingly like mine—tidy, slightly tilted, impatient at the edges: Keep this upstairs. Do not show Mum.

Do photographs take our likeness, or do they return it in another form? The questions skittered, unhelpfully cerebral, while my fingers trembled and the beam pressed into my knees. I wanted to laugh (it had to be a joke; a trick; a cousin’s prank) and I wanted to call down the hatch. Instead I lifted the photograph again; the light in it seemed to have deepened—no, not seemed; of course that’s impossible. Downstairs, the kettle clicked off. The skin between my shoulder blades prickled; I told myself it was the draught. In the attic, a soft current stroked my neck, the way a whisper does when you think you are alone. I looked up. The girl in the picture did, too. Or perhaps it was only the dust moving.

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

Option A:

A thin blade of light slices the dust; it drifts like tired snow. The platform stretches into a hush. Tiles the colour of old milk flake from the walls, revealing grime; the station has almost forgotten its own name, letters peeled to a whisper. The air is cold and metallic, a mix of damp concrete, oil and loft-dry paper. Rails lie in their trench like sleeping snakes, furred with rust, the ballast freckled. At each end, the tunnel mouths yawn and swallow the dark.

Here, abandoned furniture collects patience: a wooden bench with a slat missing; a cracked enamel map; a clock marooned at 13:07; a tannoy like a mute mouth. Posters curl from their frames; a laughing couple grin from another decade, faces webbed with mould. Grit waits underfoot, though nobody walks. An emergency phone hangs askew, its cord loose, its red dulled. Beyond the yellowed line, enamel arrows point to exits that don’t open; the escalator at the far end shows a mouth of dull steel teeth behind a gate furred with dust.

Meanwhile, the tunnel holds a deeper black. A drip marks time—drip, drip—the only sound. Now and then a tremor travels along the rails; maybe a lorry above, or the city turning over. A rat skims the edge, ribbon of shadow; it pauses, whiskers writing air, then dissolves. A wind, made by nothing, coils from the tunnel and lifts the corners of the posters like a careful breath. For a second you think an announcement stirs, then the vault swallows it. No footsteps now, no announcements, no hurry; only the low hum of nothing. Cold finds wrists and ankles and works upward, and it stays.

Once, crowds pushed and breathed here; they bargained with time and believed the train would save them a minute. Now the platform holds itself still. Dust motes orbit in the same pale shaft of light. Somewhere a door bangs, or maybe memory does, and the silence tightens. For a heartbeat you picture a single figure descending—coat, case, the quick snap of a ticket—but even that thought feels too loud. The station listens—stubborn, small—its tiles crazed like old skin. Above, carriages rush and declare themselves; down here, the rails keep their counsel. The blade of light narrows. It waits.

Option B:

Dust. The taste of time; paper and sun-faded edges, a pale ribbon of light across the floorboards. The house seemed to breathe as I knelt beneath the hatch, knees prickled by grit, hand closing around a shoe box tied with frayed blue string. Nan had written Photos on the lid in that careful, looping script that made every word look patient. I told myself I would only look for a minute—the bus would be here soon; I had other jobs.

Inside, the photographs were cool and silky, corners scalloped and curling. People stared up in frozen laughter, in uniforms, in dresses that smelt faintly perfumed. On the backs were dates and names: July '65, Seaside; Trevor's first day; Unknown.

I shuffled through decades like a card pack; the past dealing itself out. Men with neat moustaches; girls with ribbons. Some pictures had bled at the edges where damp had leaned in; they sighed apart.

Then I saw it.

At first, it looked like another dull kitchen shot. The square window. The streaked sink. The lemon-yellow mug with a crack like lightning running from the rim to the handle. Not similar—identical. It was our kitchen as it was this morning, with my coat slung over the chair, cuff muddy, zip snagged. In the dark window a figure hovered and, though the face was blurred, the tilt of the head was mine; that uneven shoulder was mine.

I turned it over: June 1982, our kitchen, Nan had written, adding a small crooked heart.

The attic lurched, a very small step, as if the house had shifted its weight. I wasn't born in 1982, and yet there I was. My mouth was dry. I wanted to laugh, to explain it away. A trick of angles? A coincidence? But the mug downstairs was still warm; the crack was new from yesterday when it slipped—I could feel the nick on my thumb.

Something slid deeper in the box, a whisper of paper, and another photo skittered out: the same kitchen; the same window; the figure closer to the glass, a hand lifted as if to knock.

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

Option A:

The platform sleeps under a ceiling of cracked concrete. A single fluorescent tube stutters, buzzing like an anxious insect, and then rests; darkness rolls back in. Dust hangs in the stale air, turning the beam into fog. The smell is metallic and damp, like coins held too long in a fist. Far along, the tunnel mouth gapes, a round, black throat that does not breathe.

On the wall, tiles are the colour of old bone, their glaze spidered with hairline cracks. The station name is spelled in porcelain, but two letters are missing, so it reads like a forgotten word. An advertisement from another decade curls at the edges; the smiling couple have faded to sepia ghosts. Glue has crusted to sugar-white ridges. Above it all, a clock holds its hands at twelve past four—steady, stubborn—while the second hand trembles and never moves.

The rails lie side by side like black ribbons, pitted and dull, sleeping. Gravel crunches under a slow drip from the ceiling; drip, drip, drip. A rat dashes from shadow to shadow and then pauses, whiskers testing the air. The white safety line is a ghost of itself, scuffed and patched with grime: keep back, it seems to say, keep back. An iron bench waits with flaking paint and splintered slats; no one sits; nothing arrives.

Sound behaves differently here. A cough would echo too loudly, and footsteps would be borrowed by the curved walls, passing them on and on. Once there were crowds, chatter, the warm push of bodies; now there is only the hush that follows applause. The platform feels like a stage that forgot its play. I listen, holding my breath, and almost hear the wind of a train that will not come.

Option B:

The attic smelled of old paper and rain—dry, a little sweet. Sunlight slid through the rafters and caught the dust, slow silver in the air. I knelt on the boards and drew an old box of photographs towards me. It scraped the floor and left a pale line.

The lid was tied with frayed string. I tugged; it sighed open. Inside: photographs with curled corners, some stuck together, faces half-vanished. The edges smelled of vinegar and soot; my fingers came away powdery. People smiled at beaches, on a brown sofa, under a crocheted blanket. On the back of some, dates in looping ink.

Halfway down, I noticed it. In a fairground picture—striped tents, a sugared apple—a boy in a red scarf stood by the frame. He was blurred, as if he had moved as the shutter clicked, but the scarf was bright, a ribbon of colour. In the next photo (a wet street, umbrellas), the same boy leaned by a lamppost. Not central. Not posing. Always there.

I told myself it was chance; strangers drift in and out of frames. Still, I turned them faster. Garden party, hallway mirror, a picnic with ants—there he was, the scarf like a flag. It did not fade. It did not age. On one picture the back said April 1974, yet the boy looked like someone I might have known last year, with the same wary eyes.

My throat tightened. I let the stack rest against my knee and listened to the house breathe, a slow creak. The last photograph on top was a portrait: a woman before heavy curtains, her ring bright as a coin. Over her shoulder, in the cabinet glass, a reflection leaned in. Red scarf. The face turned towards the camera now. A crescent scar at the eyebrow—the same as mine.

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

Option A:

Hidden under the city, a forgotten platform dozes in stale air. A strip of lights flickers; one bulb buzzes like a trapped fly. Posters peel at the corners, their faces washed pale. The track lies brown and dull, furred with dust and a film of oil. Water plips from somewhere in the black throat of the tunnel, counting slow seconds. It smells of wet stone and rust, and the cold climbs your sleeves and settles, polite but stubborn.

At first I hear nothing – then little sounds come forward. A rat skims the edge, whiskers testing. My step lands and the echo runs along the tiles, coming back thinner. The metal bench is bolted down, scratched with names and a crooked crown. A timetable hangs crooked too; it lists trains that will never arrive. The station sign is cracked. On the platform edge, the warning line flakes like old frost. Grit crunches under my shoe. There is a taste here: battery-sharp on the tongue.

Sometimes I imagine the platform waking. Doors opening, breath rising, coats brushing coats. The electric rush that used to roar—now it only shivers in the wires, or maybe that is just me. The tunnel mouth looks ready to swallow or to give back; it holds its breath. A paper cup rolls, circles, stops. Waiting, waiting. I don’t know who closed the gates, or why, but the place remembers. When I leave, the light behind me goes dull again, and the platform sinks into its patient dark.

Option B:

Afternoon. The attic smelt of old paper and lost summers. Light sliced through the hatch; dust drifted like lazy snow. I tugged a sagging box from behind a suitcase, the cardboard soft as bread, the lid tied with a tired ribbon.

Inside, photographs. Hundreds of them, stiff and curled at the corners as if trying to fold back into themselves. Faces stared from black-and-white and pale colour; weddings, beaches, birthdays. The smell—sweet and sour—rose up and filled my mouth.

At first I flicked, then I slowed. People I knew appeared and disappeared: Mum with huge hair; Grandad younger than me; a house that looked like ours but not. I turned one over and saw blue biro: 1979.

That's when I found it.

A photograph of our front room, the same patterned curtains, the same crooked clock. In the glass of the window was a reflection; a thin boy in a red scarf, head tilted, eyes down. My scarf. The one I'd slung round my neck that morning without thinking. The boy's coat had the same missing button, the same frayed cuff. My stomach did a small, sensible flip.

On the back, my name was written, clear as day, and the date again—1979. Before I was even born.

The attic seemed to lean closer. I didn't breathe for a second; then I turned the photo back over, slowly. Somewhere, a floorboard creaked.

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

Option A:

The platform is asleep under the city, a long concrete mouth that never speaks. The air tastes of damp metal and old dust; it hangs heavy, like a blanket someone forgot. Tiles along the wall are cracked and stained, their white turned grey. Posters peel like tired skin, smiling faces frozen in a time that went. The tracks sit low and black, a line that goes somewhere, but not from here.

At first I think I hear a train, but it is only water, drip, drip, drip, falling from a pipe and making rings in a dark puddle. A single fluorescent tube buzzes and flickers; its light stutters on the curve of the tunnel. The echo is slow and patient. A bench waits with a bent arm, paint flaking; a paper cup leans beneath it, soft and collapsed.

Further down, a warning sign hangs crooked: Mind the Gap. The words look shy, rubbed out by years, but they still whisper. Who waits here now? A lone rat shoots across the platform, its claws ticking on the grit. The whole place breathes in and out—faint, steady, like a sleeping animal. It is waiting for a train that will not come, not tonight, not ever.

Option B:

The attic smelled like old books and rain. Dust floated in the beam from the small window, like tiny snow landing on my hair. In the corner was a cardboard box with frayed string around it and a label: Photographs. I knelt down; the floor sighed.

When I lifted the lid, the paper smell rose up strongly, and the photos were packed in tight, shiny and also faded around the edges. Faces smiled from another time - paper flags and a cake. Ordinary. Then not.

At first I thought it was a trick of light. In the middle of a street party, next to a woman in a polka dot dress, a boy stared straight at the camera. He had my hair, my eyes, the little pale scar on my chin. The date written on the back said 1978. How could I be there before I was even born?

I checked another picture, and another; my pulse thudded. The same boy appeared at the edge, sometimes blurred, sometimes clear. The photo was glossy; my face stared back, the room seemed to tilt. It was wierd and kind of cold inside me. At the bottom, under a bent postcard, there was a red scarf I recognised.

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

Option A:

The platform is empty and quiet. The air is damp and cold and heavy under the low roof, it sits on your skin like a wet coat. A dead clock hangs and the light flicker like tired eyes. There is no people here, only dust and a smell like old metal.

Posters on the wall are peeling, colours gone, faces half missing, they smile in a strange way.

A long bench waits and no one sits.

The black tunnel is like a mouth, it is open and dark and it goes on, down the line, down the line, down the line. Water goes drip, drip, drip. My footsteps echo, echo. A small sign swings, tap tap, when a little wind comes from far away.

It feels like the place is sleeping. It waits for a train that never comes. I go, the light flickers behind me, then it is gone.

Option B:

Afternoon. The room was hot and still. I found an old box of photographs under a blanket in the loft. The lid was stuck, I pulled it, dust went up like flour and made me cough. There was lots of photos, people I dont even know.

I turned them over slow, one by one.

Then I saw it and my heart went like a drum. Our garden. The broken fence, the washing line. A girl in the middle with a red t shirt like mine. She had the same scar on her chin as me. I looked. I looked again.

It looked like me. It was me.

On the back someone wrote my name – in blue pen, the date said 1983. I wasn't born then, not even close, so how is that on there.

The house felt colder.

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

Option A:

Dark and cold, the underground platform sits under the city. The air is damp in the station and smells like old metal. A broken clock hangs and it dont tick, it just stares. A light flikers and hums, shadows move on the wall. Tiles are cracked, brown water runs in lines, grafitti on a door and a rat. I hear a drip drip drip and it echos. The rails look sharp but I still feel like a train might come. It is quiet, like a breath holding, then nothing happens. Posters peel with curls and dust sits on the bench.

Option B:

The box was old and brown and it smelt of dust in the attic. I pulled the lid and it creaked open. Inside there was photograps, lots and lots, with bent corners and faces. I held one up. The boys eyes was on me! It was me, I think. Same hair, same grin, the red coat I dont even own. On the back the date said 1982 which is before I was even born. It made my hands feel cold. Outside it rained and the kettle whistled down stairs. Mum shouted but I couldnt move, the eyes looked wet, like they might blink.